Brett reaches for the side table, finds the paper, and shakes it open. “The reviews came in on Double Barreled. Two lousy stars. And wait’ll you hear what that Jackbutt Abrams wrote about me.”

Jackbutt is Brett’s way of saying jackass. Brett rarely swears unless he’s had a few drinks and even then, he’s remorseful.

“He says I ‘substitute nervous tics for emotion,’ that I act with my eyebrows. Is that true, Jackie? God, I wish you could answer me. You would tell me the truth. Honey, do I act with my eyebrows?”

He sits up. “Come on, please say something. Do something! Wiggle a finger. Open your eyes! Show me a sign!”

It’s ironic. All through school, I envied girls who were quiet and mysterious. Boys always preferred girls who were enigmatic and still. Me, I was the pesty one with a big mouth. Not anymore. I have been rendered the perfect listener.

A doe-eyed, red-haired nurse wearing freshly applied lipgloss sidesteps through the door holding a Dixie cup of water. A juicy peach of a girl, she’s just bursting with sympathy, her freckles unimpeded by her Cover Girl makeup. The plastic tag over her left breast reads “Dani.” A happy face dots the i. Brett wipes his eyes and takes the cup, sipping as she squats before him and waits until he is finished. He hands back the paper cup, mouths a thank you, and puts his hands together in prayer position, the same gesture I watched him practice over and over for a scene in Eighth Dimension.

She looks at him pointedly and then stands and smooths the crouch creases from her uniform; one of those matching pants and top numbers that look like Sears catalog pajamas. Hers are orange and covered with pictures of dancing kitty cats wearing stethoscopes.

“I’m so sorry for what you’re going through, I…” Her voice trembles. “I just want you to know that we’re praying for you. And for Jackie, of course.”

“Thank you, Nurse.”

“Oh gosh. Please call me Dani.” Her voice brightens. “I’m here every day ‘cept weekends.”

“Okay Dani, much appreciated.”

“Anything you need. Anything. I mean that.” She attempts a look of professional seriousness to mask the smitten look in her eyes. Then she reaches over and gives my boyfriend a not-so-nursely squeeze on his arm. Without remembering to so much as glance at my vital signs, she practically skips out the door.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM

MORNING

DAY 15

My father is a nice guy, a darling, a mensch. Except in business. In business, Daddy is a killer, a piranha. Physically, he resembles every other Hollywood studio executive, a skinny nebbish with one overdeveloped forearm from a lifetime of tennis. Now he stands over me looking ancient. Anna, through the porthole, occasionally taps her fingernails on the glass to let him know she is there if he needs her.