Chapter 47 Ryan

CHAPTER 47 RYAN

February 2007

Los Angeles–Charleston

Janie collected me the next morning for the trip to Charleston. A pile of bones inside a hooded sweatshirt would be the best way to describe me. I was unwieldy, unsteady. Janie gathered me up and half carried me to her car like I was an injured athlete being helped off the field. And that’s how I felt: like I’d been maimed playing the game of life.

I spent the next however many hours staring silently out windows. First the one in her car, then on a plane. Janie tried to talk to me, softly plying me with questions, even offering me a small pack of cookies that she said could be our little secret. Turning those away was its own kind of torture, but I needed her to understand how vicious my strain of lovesickness was.

Charleston was beautiful, it pained me to acknowledge. I peeked out from beneath my hooded sweatshirt at the gas lamps and Spanish moss and dusty pastels. The city was exactly as I’d hoped, which made Cass not being there with me even more brutal. I so badly wanted to share this perfect place with her. That first night we had a welcome dinner in the back room of some dark steakhouse. My detached mood fit perfectly. Sitting around a table not eating and feigning interest in others is an art form that movie folks have perfected. Janie carried the conversational weight. I sat next to her looking no more despondent than the other actors. The next night began three months of overnight filming, so we were all in mourning.

When we got back to the house, which was tucked away in the French Quarter and had this picturesque courtyard, Janie asked me to sit with her for a minute. I lowered myself into one of the four wrought iron chairs encircling a concrete firepit. Bistro lights hung over the space. She figured out how to turn them on, then sat across from me.

“Can you lower that hood now?” she asked.

Dramatically, I said, “No… I cannot.”

In response she tilted her head, fixed me with a stare, said, “Exactly what will happen if you lower the hood?”

“I’ll have to feel things,” I said. I knew she thought I was being silly, and maybe I was, but the hood was protecting me. If I lowered it, I’d immediately sense the broader world around me. My thoughts would fly outward like sonar, hoping to locate Cass in the vastness. The purpose of keeping my hoodie up seemed obvious.

“But isn’t your job to feel things?” Janie was tinkering with the knob on the firepit, which I wasn’t happy to see. How long did she think we were staying out here? Turning on the lights was already more ambiance than we needed for what was going to be a brief interaction on my way to bed.

“No, it’s my job to make other people feel things,” I said, pleased with myself at this turn of phrase. Though I knew it was bullshit. Even back then I understood the audience never felt an emotion unless I was wracked with it first.

“Okay,” she said. I could sense she wasn’t a fan of this version of me. The feeling of not being liked made me squirm. I rearranged myself in the chair once, then again. Janie watched me, said nothing. Finally, I yanked down the hood and said, “Happy now?” And the feeling of the hood being off was exactly as bad as I’d imagined. The world, its sounds and atmosphere, was no longer muffled. Reality came into crisp focus. It was a reckoning. I brought my hands to my face and sobbed. Janie moved to the chair next to me, edged it closer until the arms were touching, then rubbed my back.

“What do you want to do about it?” she asked gently. I didn’t respond. Knowing what to do was her job. Mine was to take my shiny, lovely self wherever she told me to. What I needed was for her to tell me how to fix this. I waited for her to recognize that. She kept rubbing my back even after I stopped crying, then said, “What if…” and paused. I sat up, revealing my blotchy face. She leaned forward and tried to wipe a tear from my cheek. (When people wonder what managing actors is like, do they imagine dealing with bodily functions? Because that’s really 90 percent of the job.)

I lovingly batted away her hand, which she landed softly on my knee to keep us connected. She was a full-service manager and I’ll love her for my whole life, but right then I only cared about Cass, Cass, Cass . “What if what?” I said, prompting her.

“What if what, what?” she said. Upon hearing this foolishness, I rolled my eyes and gave her the small laugh I knew she was hoping for. “There she is!” Janie leaned back and clasped her hands together. She raised them overhead like a conquering hero.

“Stop, you’re so ridiculous,” I said, pawing at her arms to get them lowered. She instantly complied. She wasn’t much of a showman. I had one of her hands in both of mine and I squeezed hard, looked her dead in the eye, and asked, “Seriously, Janie, what do I do?”

“What if you write her a note, tell her how you feel?”

What I’d been hoping for was the sudden introduction of a time-travel device. Or Cass hiding in the extra bedroom as the final reveal in an elaborate ruse. My sweet spot was a full redemption arc in about two hours.

Janie, though, looked hopeful. Like maybe this note-writing could be just the thing. “RyRy,” she was saying, “you should just put it all down, how you feel, and I’ll do everything I can to get it to her. I promise.”

I let go of her hand and awkwardly slid down in my chair until I looked like a stoner melting into the couch. I tilted my head back and stared into the night sky. “A note,” I said. I was hoping Janie would recognize how inadequate her suggestion was. Two measly syllables. When she didn’t respond, I let my head roll toward her, saw that she was also staring at the sky.

“Find anything good up there?” I asked, and for a few seconds it felt like she was onto something. Some brilliant cosmic message was downloading into her consciousness. But then she just slowly shook her head without looking over.

We sat like this for a while, then finally I said, “Okay—a note.” And I went inside, ripped half a page from a script, and found a pen in Janie’s purse. I wrote frantically, unselfconsciously. Then I folded it in half and went back outside. She still had her head tilted back. When she sensed me, she sat up straight and accepted the note with proper reverence: two open palms.

After she looked down, she said, “This looks like a charades clue.” When I glanced at her hands, I had to admit she was right.

Even when my alarm clock went off at 2 a.m., I was grateful for The Very Last shoot. Not only did it keep my brain occupied, but it made me feel close to Cass. Once I was settled in my trailer, my routine, Janie flew to New York to hand-deliver my note. I’m not sure how long I thought such an errand would take, but she was back unexpectedly soon. I was in the courtyard drinking a terrible cup of black coffee made from a can of Folgers roasted before I was born. It was not the best part of waking up. I grimaced with each sip.

A clatter came from the gate, then Janie was walking toward me. At first, I couldn’t read her body language. I realized I’d been holding out hope that she’d bring Cass back with her, but she was alone. When she saw me, she twisted her lips into a bad shape and readjusted the bag on her shoulder. Fuck . I pulled the hood up on my sweatshirt and tied the drawstrings as tight as possible so that I looked like Kenny from South Park .

Janie’s hand was on my head. Then she was kneeling in front of me, gently undoing the knot I’d made and tugging the hood back down. I let her. The bag dropped from her shoulder. She looked like she was about to propose to me. I was worried about her knee on the damp ground, but then she started talking and the words were adding up to something not good, so I shifted from actively listening to passively hearing, which is a good little trick I’ve used a thousand times since.

The quick synopsis: Cass is gone, and she doesn’t want to be found . Janie reached into her coat pocket and produced the note I had written. She pressed it into my hands. I looked down and said, “What am I going to do with this?”

“Keep it,” she said. “Maybe it can remind you what real love feels like? Maybe it’ll fuel a performance, win you that Oscar.”

(I ignored this last part.)

Did I want to be reminded of this feeling? Tears seem to have varying density. The ones currently forming were the robust kind. I unfolded the note and read it back:

Cass, this is real. We are real. I know because, somehow, you’re in all my memories—even the ones from before we met. When I think of my first high school dance, you’re next to me, grabbing my hand as “The Lady in Red” comes on so we can point at each other and dramatically swoon to it. Or that trip to Rome before my freshman year of college, when I got lost for an hour in those ancient streets, except now in my memory, I’m not worried anymore because we’re lost together and that feels better than being found alone. Apparently, Cass, my brain has built a life with you without me even knowing. I love you.

I folded the note and stuffed it in my pocket. How many times did I read it over the years? Enough that it now looks like what a prop department would call vintage. Like a scrap from some long-ago war.