He walks toward me, hands outstretched, dressed in red robes and wearing a crown of thorns. I am relieved to see his head and hands are not bleeding and he doesn’t even have scars. I can see all around him. He is the 4-D Jesus. Holy Christ, I whisper.

You were expecting Buddha, maybe? Our words blend as we talk with our minds. But I’m Jewish.

So, who isn’t? He laughs and the sound resonates all through me.

I’m not religious.

Neither am I, he says. If you like, you can call me Great Spirit.

That’s nice, I say.

Or you can call me Joe, he says.

Okay, Joe, I say.

He opens his arms and I walk into the folds of his red robe. It’s as if we’ve always known and deeply loved each other, like in dreams where I am best friends with the president or Mick Jagger—we understand each other as no one else can. And I am happier than I have ever imagined happiness to be.

I tell him my life story but it only takes a fraction of time because he already knows me, and then Joe looks over my shoulder to where Mother is walking toward us: Mother Earth, Mary, Theresa, they are all The One Mother, and Mother is saying it’s my turn now, and I am passed to Mother’s arms. Mother rocks me, and I cry from the time I am born to the time of my death and I say, Is this the end, Mother? Please don’t let me go, and Mother holds me in her arms.

Don’t you worry, Sugar Pop, she says, and I look up into the face of Marva, my grandmother, and I scream.

“Heart rate is rising.”

“Blood pressure?”

“Ninety over sixty.”

“And rising.”

“Clamp.”

“What?”

“Clamp!”

“Sorry.”

“Ninety over seventy.”

“Heart rated stable.”

“Okay. Let’s sew her up.”

“That was close.”

“I’ll tell the family.”

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. PARAMOUNT STUDIOS

SOUND STAGE

MORNING

1995

“A nonfat latte with a triple shot of espresso,” I barked.

Scotty lopped off toward the coffee cart. For reasons I attributed to his masochistic tendencies, he had remained in my employ after the soap debacle.

I hunted around for a patch of shade to stand in. The sun relentlessly beat down as I fought through a residual hangover. I pulled the beak of my baseball hat lower over my eyes and tried to soften the glare.

“Ms. Gold? Hi, I’m Janis. The second A.D.? Do you know where your trailer is?”

She wore a vintage Star Wars T-shirt, brown corduroys, and a headset. I knew her type: the kind of passive-aggressive, thin-skinned subservient, who brought out my abusive nature. I hugged my arms across my chest to prevent my black heart from escaping.

“Hi, Janis. Yes, Janis, I’ve got everything I need, thank you. Just waiting for coffee.”