Page 80 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
“Cut.” Christopher barks.
I realize at that moment that I’m working on auto-pilot, kind of like when you drive a familiar route and don’t remember it when you get home. I have no memory of the lines I just recited, up until thatdisastrous ending. Chris’s face is unreadable. The lighting guys, grips, and camera people avert their gazes, acting busy.
“Sorry,” I tell Chris and the crew, stretching my neck and pushing Sunny out of my mind yet again. “I’ve got this.”
Chris hesitates and I see his jaw flex even from where I’m standing. He nods silently. We reset and wait.
“Go,” he says.
I wish Micah would wipe the impatient sneer off his face. That’s not helping anyone.
I block out my co-star and focus, repeating the lines I reviewed over and over this morning. The tension in the air abates as I become my character, the script flowing naturally out of my mouth like they’re my own. This is it. This is the magic—when my words and body dovetail seamlessly with the character I’m playing. I sense Christopher’s shoulders relaxing in my periphery.
“I have a fleet of ships at my disposal.”Hallelujah. I fist pump internally.
“Dad!” a little girl’s voice shrieks through the narrow walkway.
Immy?
“Cut,” Christopher snaps.
Imogen races past the crew in her jelly shoes and nightgown. Her cheeks are pink and streaked with tears and her hair is still in yesterday’s ponytail. I look around for Sunny, then remember that she’s not with my daughter today. What was the name of the new temporary nanny? Melissa? Melanie. Where is Melanie? Why is my daughter here alone?
“I can’t get Hairy!” Immy tugs my hand with all of her body weight. My eyes shoot to Oliver. He’s on his phone, nodding tensely at me, and hopefully tracking down the nanny.
“What are you doing here, Im?” I whisper in a rush. “I’m working. Where’s Melanie?”
“A lady was sleeping on the couch and I was by myself.” She sniffles. “But she ran away!”
“The nanny ran away?”Unbelievable.
“No! Dad! Hairy ran away when I took her out to go potty!”
Oh geez. “Ollie. I need you to help Im find Hairy.”
“No, Dad! You have to help!” She hiccups through her tears. She’s trembling. “I think Hairy—”
“Someone get the kid out of here,” Micah snarls from his folding chair, barely looking up from his phone.
Christopher’s stern gaze locks on my face. Dozens of eyes are on me, waiting for me to make a decision so they can get on with their jobs. Immy tugs on my hand with a whimper that undoes me.
There are times when you know a seemingly minor decision is going to change the rest of your life. This is one of those moments. It’s my two roads diverging in a yellow wood. In one direction is this version of my career. All-consuming, butt on fire, nonstop—with all of the money, status, accolades, and satisfaction that go along with that. Indiana Jones is on that path. On the other road is my daughter. Simplicity, peace, and balance. Weekends at my parent’s house. Lazy Sunday mornings. Sunny’s face flashes through my mind. I hope she’s on that road. When I look down at Immy, one fat tear falls from her eyelash and plops onto her dusty jelly shoe. And that’s all it takes—that one teardrop.
There’s no question.
I hoist Imogen up and she wraps her scrawny legs around my waist. “Let's go find Hairy,” I whisper in her ear. “I’ll be right back, Chris.”
And I will. I’m making my daughter my first priority, but I’m also fully aware of my obligations and how unprofessional I’m being. This just means every one of my co-workers is going to hate me. I’ll let them. My daughter is all that matters at the moment.
I jog in the direction of our new suite carrying Immy. “Where was the last place you saw Hairy?”
“She ran away by the cars.” She sniffles in my ear. “I hope Hairy isn’t lost. She’s my only friend. We have to find her.”
The words are a punch to my gut. A mutt dog can’t be all this girl has. Sure, her mom is terrible. She’s like Bizzarro Santa Claus. She visits annually bearing gifts, disappearing just as quickly as she appears, and leaving a giant mess in her wake. And of course, I love Imogen, but I’m sick when I consider where she has fallen on my list of priorities. She deserves more. She deserves a parent who provides stability, consistency, and opportunities to form friends who aren’t canines. I’m going to be that person for her.
We reach the parking area and there’s no sign of Hairy. I listen for her howly bark and heavy paws, but only hear birds chirping sweetly, like they have no idea this week has been total chaos. I spot the back door of the main resort building. It’s propped open.
Oh no.
