The quiet is suffocating and I finally clear my throat to speak.
“Canon, I—”
“Don’t, Neevah.” He peels the dress away from my shoulders, lifts me so I can kick it off completely. “No, you cannot finish filming. Yes, you’re going to the hospital. And no, you will not come back to this set until the doctor clears you to.”
He meets my eyes, the muscle in his jaw clenched. You could easily mistake his fierce scowl and tight lips for anger, but I see it for what it really is. For once, he’s not opaque. I see right through him.
I see his fear.
All my protests die on my lips and I nod, my heart clenching with the knowledge that he’s as scared as I am. He grabs the T-shirt and shorts I discarded this morning, puts them on me. He peels off his sweatshirt, which I’m sure I’ve stained, revealing a T-shirt beneath. He picks me up again.
“I can walk,” I mumble, though it may not be true. I can barely keep my eyes open, much less make my legs work. “This is hella dramatic.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but walks me off set to the parking lot. My feet never touch the ground, and I go from his arms to the back seat of his car. Takira runs up, her face streaked with worry.
“Oh, my God, Neevah,” she says. “I just heard what happened. Are you okay?”
“No, she’s not okay,” Canon answers, climbing into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. “I’m taking her to the emergency room.”
“Can I come?” she asks.
“If you can get in right now. I’m not waiting.”
She climbs into the passenger seat and Canon doesn’t even wait for her to close the door or fasten her seat belt, but lurches out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles straining against the tight skin. Takira gasps and clutches the dashboard as he runs one light and then another. I can’t muster the energy or stir my voice to caution Canon he should slow down. Judging by the implacable lines of his profile, he wouldn’t listen anyway. I glance through the rearview window, down the road to the set and envision our replica of the French Riviera.
When will I be back?
Will I be back?
I want to commit the sight of the big equipment trucks and the cameras and wardrobe tent—every detail—to vivid memory, except I’m so tired I barely know my name, and despite my efforts, I fall right to sleep.
55
Canon
I’m trying to be patient.
They took Neevah back an hour and a half ago, and no word. I’ve started pacing because apparently that’s supposed to help.
“Pacing won’t help,” Takira says, not lifting her eyes from the ESSENCE magazine she’s reading.
“I know that.”
Still pacing.
“Then stop.”
Shit.
“Is this what they do?” I demand of her . . . and the empty waiting room. “They just leave people out here wondering for hours if their loved ones are okay?”
The magazine lowers and her eyes set on me, sharp and alert. “Love?”
Shit again.
I haven’t even said that to Neevah. I’ll be damned if Takira hears it before she does.
“Loved ones.” I stop pacing. “Friends. Relatives. You know what I mean.”
“Oh, I do.” She gives me another one of those stupid secret grins. “I see you, Canon.”
“Speaking of relatives, should we call her mom? Or . . .”
Her sister?
I know things haven’t been great between Neevah and her family, but they would want to know this, right? But does Neevah want them involved?
“I think we wait on that.” Takira sets ESSENCE aside. “As strained as things have been with her sister, I don’t think we can assume anything.”
“She mentioned she and her mom had a good talk at Christmas.”
“Yeah, but it’s all been weird for so many years, I think we let Neevah decide when she brings them in.”
Takira’s phone rings, and she frowns down at the screen, rolling her eyes. “Somebody from set. I had to drop what I was doing to leave. Lemme get this. I’ll be right back.”
She answers and walks up the hall, disappearing around the corner.
A long sigh exits my body, and it feels like my first full breath I’ve expelled since I saw Neevah fall. My hands ache from being clenched so tightly. First around the wheel driving here. And ever since they took her away. But when I open my fists . . .
I hold my hands out, watching the fingers tremor, a reflection of the quake happening inside of me. I had to drive here. I could not let the ambulance take her. No one else knows because no one else was there the night they took my mother for the last time in a wail of sirens and a specter of flashing lights. Her palliative nurse had left for the evening. I was home for the weekend from school.