Lou took the next few days off to spend by Sarah's side, but nothing
more happened. I repeatedly called him at the hospital to check on her,
though it was becoming clear her brush with consciousness had only been
an interlude. Finally, I decided to show Carly's rushes to David (he
loved them) and try to concentrate on postproduction for the rest of
the week and the weekend, anything to make me not have to dwell on
Sarah's ghostlike, soundless cry of anguish.
Postproduction. When you're shooting a picture, you have to make all
kinds of compromises; but in post, with luck and skill, you can
transform that raw footage into art. You mix and cut the takes till the
performances are taut; you loop in rerecorded dialogue where necessary
to get just the right reading of a line; the Foley guys give you clear
sound effects where the production sound is muddy; and you balance the
hues of reds and blues, darks and lights till you get just the right
color tone.
All of the polishing that came with post still lay ahead. The first
step was to go through the rough cut and "spot" the film, marking
places where the sound effects or dialogue would need to be replaced
with rerecorded studio sound--which meant several days, maybe weeks, of
looping to edit out background noise and make the dialogue sound rich
and crisp. For some of it, the actors would have to come back in and
lip-synch themselves, which they always hate.
It was daunting, to have to work back and forth between production
sound tracks and loop tracks, blending alternate takes. You had to
figure on only doing about ten minutes of film a day, and then, after
all that, you had to get the "opticals" right, the fade-outs and
dissolves and, finally, the credit sequences.
Normally, once I started post, I would have exactly ten weeks to
accomplish all that before the executive producer, David, got his hands
on my picture. That was the prerogative that was part of the standard
director's contract. Now, though, I figured that was out the window.
With the money going fast, I had to produce a rough cut and get the
picture sold to cable in six weeks, period.
But first things first. I deeply needed at least one more
interview--Carly's was too much of a happy one-note--which was why I
needed to shoot Paula Marks. It was now on for Thursday, today.
The appointment had taken all weekend, including a Sunday brunch, to
set up, but by that time I was sure this second mother would be
perfect. She was a tall, willowy woman, forty-three, who had let her
hair start going to gray. Honesty, it was right there in her pale brown
eyes. She wrote children's books, had never married--she now believed
she never would--and had decided to adopt a child because she had a lot
of extra love she felt was going to waste. Different from Carly Grove,
maybe, but not in the matter of strength, and fearless independence.
We arrived around ten A.M. to discover her apartment was in one of
those sprawling prewar West Side monoliths, thick plaster walls and a
rabbit's warren of halls and foyers, legacy of an age before "lofts"
and open spaces. Terribly cramped for shooting. But Paula agreed to let
the blue-jeaned crew move her old, overstuffed couch out of the living
room, along with the piles of books that lined the walls.
Another issue was makeup. At first Paula insisted she didn't want any.
Never wore it, it was deceitful, and she didn't want to appear on
camera looking like Barbie. (Small chance of that, I thought. A little
war paint now and then might help your chances of landing a father for
this child.) Eventually Arlene persuaded her that cameras lie and the
only way to look like yourself is to enhance those qualities that make
you you. It was a thin argument, but Arlene came from a long line of
apparel proprietors who could unload sunlamps in the Sahara.
Paula's adopted daughter Rachel, who was a year and a half old, was
running around the apartment, blond tresses flowing, dragging a doll
she had named Angie. Except the name came out "Ann-gee." She was
immediately adopted by the crew, and Erica, the production manager, was
soon teaching her how to play patty-cake. Then Rachel wanted to
demonstrate her new skills at eating spaghetti. In five minutes she was
covered head to toe in Ragu tomato sauce.
When the Panaflex was finally rolling, the story Paula spun out was
almost identical to the one told by Carly Grove. She'd spent hours with
all the legal services recommended by NYSAC, New York Singles Adopting
Children, listening to them describe a scenario of delays and paperwork
and heartache. It could be done, but it could take years. Look, she'd
declared, I'll cash in my IRA, do anything, just give me some hope.
Okay, they'd replied, tighten your belt, scare up sixty big ones, and
go to see Children of Light. We hear stories. . . .
Soon after she called them, the skies had opened. A New Age physician
and teacher there, a man with striking eyes named Alex Goddard, had
made it happen. Rachel was hers in just four months, no paperwork.
Sure, she declared, Children of Light was expensive, but Alex Goddard
was a deeply spiritual man who really took the time to get to know you,
even practically begged you to come to his clinic-commune and go
through his course of mind-body fertility treatment. But when she
insisted she just wanted to adopt, he obligingly found Rachel for her.
How could she be anything but grateful? She was so happy, she wanted
everybody in the world to know about him.
As she bubbled on, I found my attention wandering to Rachel, who'd just
escaped from the crew keeping her in the kitchen and was running
through the living room, singing a song from Sesame Street. Something
about the way she moved was very evocative.
Where've I seen her before? Then it dawned on me. Her walk made me
think of Kevin. Actually, everything about her reminded me of Kevin.
Were all kids starting to look the same? God, I wanted them both.
Yeah, I thought, daydreaming of holding her, she's Kevin all over
again, clear as day. She's a dead ringer to be his older sister. It
feels very strange.
Or maybe I was just seeing things. To some extent all babies looked
alike, right? That is, until you have one of your own.
I had to swallow hard, to try to collect my thoughts. Carly and Paula
scarcely even knew each other. If Rachel really was Kevin's sister,
they'd never know anything about it.
Incredible . . . it was just too big a coincidence.
But still. . . and what about the film footage? Show close-ups of the
kids, and anybody not legally blind was going to see the similarity. .
. .
Why would somebody give up two children for adoption? I found myself
wondering. Giving up one was tragic enough.
"Cut." I waved at everybody. "Take ten. We need to recharge here, take
a break and stretch."
Paula was caught off guard, in the middle of a sentence, and she let
her voice trail off, puzzled.
"Hey, I'm sorry Rachel came barging in," Paula finally said. "Guess she
broke everybody's concentration, huh?"
"Yeah, well, sometimes we all need to lean back and take a fresh run at
things." I called to Rachel, who came trotting over, spaghetti sauce
still on her face, and picked her up. I felt at a loss about what to
do. Tell Paula her daughter had a younger brother in the Village, and
she might fall apart. "I was actually curious about something. Do you
know anything about Rachel's birth mother?"
"I don't want to know. It would disrupt my life. And my peace of mind."
Her eyes acquired a kind of sadness mingled with anxiety. "I'm
reconciled to the fact she probably got into some kind of trouble, may
not have exactly been Nobel Prize material, but I'm a big believer in
nurture over nature. That's why I write books for kids. So I think
Rachel's going to end up being a lot more like me than like her real
mother."
Brave words. But I'll bet you anything the story of Rachel's mother is
a lot more complicated than you imagine.
I glanced at my watch, the hour pushing four-thirty. Time to call it a
wrap. Besides, if we shot any more today, the crew would end up on
overtime, and David was getting increasingly nervous about my extra
costs.