The Dark Places

Filming was set to begin in a week, and I was buzzing. There was so much to do that I wasn't sleeping much, but I didn't care. I had already worked on a lousy sci-fi, a few TV pilots, and an animated number, but this was my first feature with a real Hollywood star--Lonna Reynolds. I still gave my head a tiny shake of wonder every time I heard her name. As Benny, the director, put it, she would make it more than a movie. She would make it a film. I had been counting down the days until she arrived in town and had cleared the day's schedule to be with her. According to her agent, she wanted to begin immediately preparing for the role. Tech had set up the machine, but I was to drive her myself.

I pulled up to the curb at the hotel's circle drive and there she was, waiting for me. Her hair, that cascade of brown ringlets known the world over, rippled down her back and waved slightly in the early morning air. Her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she greeted me with a breathy "Good morning, Jonathan," and her mouth opened into its signature warm, wide grin. I caught a flash of creamy white thigh as she climbed into the car and shut the door behind her. I could see why Mirror Magazine had voted her one of the nation's sexiest women five years in a row. No doubt, she would win again this year.

The highway unfurled like a black ribbon in front of us, and the spring sunshine spread through the car, warming our bare arms. I can't remember now what we talked about; I was too busy staring at the dusting of freckles at the base of Lonna's throat and then periodically dragging my eyes back to the road. I watched the scarlet slash of her lips form words and her head tilt ever so slightly to the side--that signature move immortalized in The Lady's Maid and in every film since.

We pulled into the parking lot of the hospital and I turned to look at her, ready to unhook my belt and go inside. She put the tips of her fingers on mine, sending waves of electricity up my arm. Her face had gone grave, and I noticed the faint lines at the corners of her mouth that had not been apparent when she was smiling. "I don't want to go in quite yet," she said. "I have something to tell you."

"Sure thing, Lonna," I answered, trying to keep it light and thinking only of the hand that still rested on mine. "The thing is though, that my boys have got the machine all set up and ready to go. They should be waiting for us. The woman too--they've got instructions to have her hooked up and ready for you."

"That's what I want to talk to you about," she said, her voice suddenly an octave lower. "I don't want that. That's not actually how I work. I don't know how much Marty told you, but I use another method."

I was confused but damned if I would show it. "Of course. Whatever you want. If you want to take it slow and hook up later, just get the lay of the land first, that's fine with me."

"No, you don't understand," she said, "but why would you? I don't want to hook up at all. In fact, I never have. I just want to do it naturally, the old-fashioned way."

"You mean," I said, realization dawning, "you just want to talk to her?"

"Exactly," she said with a sigh of relief. "Do you think you could arrange that?"

"Well, yeah, why not? I'll just ask the boys to leave the room. Does that work?"

"Yes," she grinned, the lines fading away once more. The she pulled my arm gently again, and I lost all concentration. "Oh," she added. "Could we keep this just between you and me? Not tell anyone else about it?"

"Of course," I answered in what I hoped was a gallant tone. "Why would anyone else need to know? It will be our secret."

We went inside the hospital, arm in arm, and approached the reception desk. An awe-struck red-haired nurse gave us the room number and then asked shyly for Lonna's autograph. She gave it with a little chuckle of pleasure before we moved on down the hall.

There were wires snaking all around the small, stuffy room, connected to a frail woman propped up with pillows on the bed. She looked about fifty and had the translucent, stretched skin of the very ill; I could see the blue veins near her angular cheekbones. Her body was slender and wiry, and she held herself stiff-backed with the grace that is particular to dancers and athletes. I wondered what she had done before she ended up here; I had forgotten to ask that. She smiled when she saw Lonna, who, unfazed by the wires and the woman's balding head, approached her with an outstretched hand.

I turned to the men in the room. "All right boys," I said, "Thanks for getting it all set up. I'll take it from here. You can come back later to pick up the equipment when we're done." Lonna shot me a quick smile and mouthed a Thank you to me.

Soon it was only the three of us, and I sat in a corner to give the women some space. I wasn't quite sure what Lonna meant to do and was curious to see how she would proceed now we were alone with the woman. She began more simply than I had imagined. Once introductions were over she said, "Now tell me about yourself. What is it that you do? Where did you grow up?" And so, the woman began talking. She had a quiet, soothing voice, and I was surprised at how calming it was to sit and just listen to her story. Though never asked about the cancer, she got to that eventually, explaining about the lump her husband had found one day, about the diagnosis, and about her long days in the hospital. Her voice stayed steady and composed as she spoke of it, and I wondered how much Lonna could be getting out of this. Surely, the machine would have been better.

Eventually the woman's back began to slump, and the gray circles under her eyes seemed darker than before. Lonna sensed it too and patted her hand. "That's enough for today, I think," she said. "We don't want to tire you. You've been so very helpful."

"Have I?" the woman asked softly. "Will this really help you with your movie?"

"Of course it will," Lonna answered. "I wouldn't have known where to begin without talking to you. You've given me so much to think about as I prepare for the role."

"We'll be back in a week or so," I interjected. "Lonna will need a little more information, I imagine. Right?" I looked at her. She hesitated, then nodded.

As we were standing up and saying our goodbyes the door opened, and a man in a white coat pushed through. He was tall and strikingly good-looking, with the freckled skin and blonde streaks of hair of one who has spent a good amount of time in the sun. "Good morning," he said warmly, stretching out his hand. "I'm Dr. Mattheson and have come to check on my patient, and meet the major celebrity, of course," he said, winking in Lonna's direction. To my surprise, she gave his hand one cold shake and stood silent as I chatted for a few minutes with him. Friendly and personable, he seemed to me exactly what a doctor should be, and I began toying with ways to make the doctor in the film more like him.

Lonna was quiet as we walked out to the car and pulled away from the hospital. Confused by her sudden change in mood, I drove silently back down the highway, sneaking looks at her along the way. When I parked at the hotel, I turned to her and said, jokingly, "A penny for your thoughts. Is everything ok?"

She smiled at me and shook her head a bit. "I'm sorry, Johnathan. I've got so much on my mind now. I've just been thinking about that poor woman, and about that doctor. I really don't like him."

"Never mind about him," I said, secretly a bit shocked. "He's not important." I took a chance and put my hand on her knee. "You just worry about resting up and getting ready for filming. We'll be starting soon and we want you in your best form. Just let me know if there's anything else I can do for you."

She looked at my hand and then into my eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. "Thank you. I'll do that." She climbed out of the car and shut the door with a bang. Leaning over the open window so that the tip of her black lace bra peeked out of her shirt, she grinned at me. "See you on set."

A week later, the cast and crew gathered at the sound stage for the first day of filming. There was the usual electric hum and crackling energy as shooting began. I knew that it wouldn't last, that the inevitable setbacks and squabbles would soon follow, but that only made me savor it more. I spent the day jumping from one person to another, heart racing, laughing, and grinning like a fool.

Those first few days we began with the easy scenes, the ones at the beginning of the film when Lonna's character, Jenny, is still well. Greg Brewster played Dave, her husband, and the Oster twins her daughter, Caroline. Helping to coach them through those initial scenes of familial happiness, I felt a twinge of something I couldn't quite place. They all seemed so warm together, joking and teasing almost like a real family. When Greg placed his arm around Lonna I had to turn away. She turned her face up towards his and laughed merrily, but her eyes gave nothing away. I wondered what she thought of him; it was impossible to tell.

Not knowing how else to spend time with her and distract her from Greg, I told Lonna that we needed to return to the hospital. We had to see the woman one more time to prep for the big scene. We went late one night, agreeing to keep the visit quiet so that the boys wouldn't know we weren't using the machine. Once again, the nurse on duty pointed us down the hall, and we knocked softly on the woman's door. When we pushed it open and stepped inside the room we both stood silent for a moment, looking at her. The woman's arms, now only flesh covering bone, lay listless on the covers on front of her. Her skin, ashen and gray, shone under the florescent lights as she wheezed and struggled with every breath. Her eyelids fluttered open, her eyes briefly empty pools of darkness. Then she seemed to recognize Lonna, and a slow smile spread across her face. "It's you," she said quietly. "You've come back."

"Yes I have," Lonna replied tenderly, taking the woman's hand in her own. "I wanted to see how you were doing. How have you been?"

The woman was clearly dying. There was no other way I could put it to myself, and I saw that Lonna knew it too. I found myself too distracted by this to follow much of their conversation. With the exception of my Grandpa Burt, I had never known anyone who had died. I wondered what experience Lonna had with this, if there were other parts of her life and her past she could draw from, but mostly I just thought about the woman who, until now, had simply been someone that Meghan, our casting director, had described as a "good fit" for Lonna's prep work for the film. Soon this woman and all her memories, her thoughts and joys and struggles, the tears she had cried, and the moments she had lived, would no longer exist.

Lonna continued to pat the woman's hand, making casual conversation about the film and life on set. The woman nodded along, smiling at her words. When Lonna noticed the smile droop, she stood up slowly and said goodbye. Feeling awkward, I raised my hand in a salute and slid out the door after her.

We walked down the hallway together amidst the bright lights and the beeping of machines. As we neared the door, I saw Dr. Mattheson coming towards us, his arm around a stooped, older man. As the doctor guided his patient into an exam room, he caught sight of us and stopped.

"Well if it isn't the Hollywood superstars come to visit us again," he called out brightly with a grin. "I'm with a patient now or I would love to hear all about how the movie is going."

He continued to usher the man into the room with a firm arm. Before he disappeared with the doctor, the man turned to look at us. His eyes briefly met mine, and I saw in them such a deep and powerful dread that I had to look away. I turned to Lonna, curious if she had noticed too, but she was straight-backed and stiff, her eyes bright with unshed tears. I put my arm gently around her shoulder and walked her outside to the car.

On the ride home Lonna kept her hands tightly clasped in her lap and her jaw clenched while I hunched over the steering wheel, staring only at the road. When we pulled into the hotel she remained rigid in her seat and, without turning or looking at me, said, "Come in with me. I don't want to be alone." So, we walked together to her hotel room and she pulled me inside. Pushing me up against the door, she began to kiss me, hard, still never looking me in the eyes.

We made love that night, and I stayed with her until the first rays of light began peeking over the hillside. Then I stumbled into my pants and buttoned my shirt in the semi-darkness, looking at her curved back under the sheet. I stroked it gently and said, "Goodbye. I'll see you in a few hours on set." There was no reply from the curled figure in the bed so I tiptoed to the door and let myself out.

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. I couldn't shake the idea of the woman in the hospital. Sometimes I would walk the set late at night, flipping off the lights myself, just so I could have the time to think. Lonna and I also continued to see one another when we could, stealing moments together in her trailer or hotel room. It always followed the same pattern as the first time. She would pull me inside the door quickly and then set upon me hungrily before we would finish breathless and spent upon the bed. Then she would curl up and turn away, silently willing me to leave. As the days went on, I grew tired of this and tried to inject some warmth and gentleness into our time together. I would stroke her back and hip afterward, murmuring soft words into her neck. When that got no reaction, I even began to try to avoid our secret rendezvous, though, more often than not, I ended up breaking down and giving in to her.

One night, after a particularly long and exhausting day on set I felt that I had had enough. When Lonna pulled me aside and began walking me to her trailer, I came to a stop on the asphalt. In the middle of the parking lot, with the bright security lights shining into our eyes, I told her how I felt. I couldn't do it any longer like this. If this was to continue, we needed to talk, to get to know one another. I braced for the angry recriminations, but she just sighed a little and cocked her head on one side.

"What exactly is it that you want, then, Jonathan?" she asked softly. "What can I do for you that would make you feel better?"

I hesitated a moment. "Go out to dinner with me. Just let me buy you dinner first and talk to me a bit. Let me get to know you."

She laughed merrily and shrugged. "If that's all you want, then sure. Dinner it is."

We ate in a dingy diner a few miles from set--Lonna's choice. Over our milkshakes and fries, we talked about the filming, the other actors, and the upcoming big scene. The conversation drifted finally to the hospital and to Dr. Mattheson. I got up the nerve to ask her about her violent dislike of him.

Again, she tilted her head. "You know, I'm not really sure I can put my finger on it," she said finally. "I think it might have to do with my feelings about the machines. I find it disturbing how doctors use them on patients, whether they want it or not."

"But that's how they diagnose things now," I said. "That's how they can tell where the pain is, how their patients are feeling, if anxiety and fear are interfering with the treatment. They even find it useful for people in comas or people who can't talk."

She looked a bit taken aback by my flood of words. "My brother is a doctor," I explained sheepishly. "He and I talk about this quite a bit. He's had to get a lot of special training, but it has helped him enormously. I'm even thinking about this for a film. He and I might write a script together. Something from the point of view of a young resident just discovering how it all works."

"I think that's a great idea. I admire your faith in it all. I'm afraid I just can't share your point of view about it. I've never believed in it and I never will."

"What do you mean you don't believe in it?"

"Oh never mind. It's just too hard to explain. I'm not sure that I even completely understand why myself."

"But," I pushed harder, "Haven't you even tried it? Maybe you don't even know what it's like. We could try it together, you know. We've got a machine on set. I know how to hook it up. We could do it, just you and me." I heard the desperation creeping into my voice and despised myself for it. "I'd love to know what you're thinking, what you're feeling."

She sighed. "Don't you know you're not the first to ask? It just wouldn't do any good though, would it? What does it matter what I'm thinking and feeling? What if it's not what you want? What if it's hurtful to you?"

"Lots of couples do it." I said. "It's a good way to get to know another person."

"Oh, Jonathan," she answered. "Do you ever really know another person?" She paused. "Anyway, I'm done talking about this. The answer is no." At that, she shut her lips tightly and crossed her arms over her chest. I gave up and signaled for our check. When we arrived back at the hotel she slammed the car door, and I didn't try to follow her. I watched from the parking lot as her lamp went on and then, a few minutes later, as the room slid into darkness for the night.

The next morning we greeted each other as if nothing had happened, and Benny announced that it was time to begin prep work for the big scene. There wasn't time to think about that night at the diner or about much of anything else because this was the most important moment in the film. The lighting, the set, the camera angles--it all had to be perfect. Benny and I kept tweaking the script, driving Lonna and Greg crazy, but the dialogue had to be flawless. It was Lonna's moment to shine, and she had to rehearse every moment she got.

When she appeared on set the day of filming there was a general gasp. Makeup had done a wonderful job, and she was utterly transformed. Her cheekbones looked hollow and sunken, her mouth drawn and thin, and she had dark circles that made her brown eyes seem almost black. The crew fell silent as she took her place on the hospital bed and began quietly running lines with Greg. I asked her if she was ready to begin, and she nodded.

It all went smoothly, only needing two takes to get it right. Lonna lay on the bed, gripping Greg's hand in hers, looking up at him with bright, watery eyes. She knew her lines perfectly and delivered them as intensely as if they were the last words she would ever speak. Despite the cameras' zooming lenses and the wires snaking across the set floor it was as if we were all in that hospital room with her, breathing one last breath together. I lost myself in that moment, forgetting completely where I was.

A harsh whisper in my ear brought me back to reality. Benny was hissing at me as I watched the scene unfold on the monitor. "She'll get an Oscar nomination for this, mark my words," he breathed at me. "She is absolutely magnificent. I knew it, I knew she would be. She is just perfect for this part."

I nodded dismissively, hoping he would quiet down and let me continue to watch.

"This is the highest quality acting there is," he continued. "It wouldn't have been possible even a few years ago--not without the machine. It has raised the level of art; it has completely changed the industry."

His voice began to grow shrill with intensity. This was a rant I had heard from him numerous times before. "Just you wait. This is only one part of the process. The next thing you know there will be a machine in every living room. The audience will hook up directly… feel the actor's emotions… revolutionary… will change everything we know…"

I began to tune him out and turned my attention back to Lonna. The scene had ended and she lay back in the bed, spent and solemn. A round of applause rose spontaneously from the crew, but still she did not smile. Greg helped her up and put an arm around her shoulders as she slowly trudged back to her trailer. I wanted to join in the excited chattering that had broken out all around but felt rooted to the spot. If I could only move, I would run after her; if I could only speak, I would tell her how much I had just fallen in love.

It wasn't long after the big scene that filming wrapped for good. It all seems like a bit of a blur now. There was a last flurry of practical jokes, a smattering of goodbyes, and that strange feeling of letdown and languor that follows the very last scene. The cast party was set for that weekend, though, and I steeled myself to tell Lonna how I felt before we separated. I still had mountains of editing and promotional work to do, and she was bound for another film shoot in Morocco. I had little hope for a future with her but, still, I had to know, once and for all, how she felt about me.

Money was running low by that point, and the party's shrimp trays and beer kegs were not enough to keep spirits high for long that night. When Kenny the cameraman got out his guitar and began to sing Georgia on My Mind, I escaped to the balcony and leaned over the banister, staring out at the city's blinking lights below.

"You're tired of it too, I see," a voice drifted from a dark corner, and I jumped. "Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," Lonna said, stepping into a shaft of light from the window. She stubbed out the cigarette she had been smoking and put her head lightly on my shoulder. "Look, do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere together?"

I nodded. That was exactly what I wanted.

We stole away quietly and walked to my car in the parking lot below. When I took my keys out of my pocket Lonna reached for them and grinned. "You don't mind if I do the honors, do you? I know just where I'd like to go on our last night." I handed them to her and watched as she merged onto the highway and shot down it, laughing. It wasn't until she reached the exit that I knew where we were going.

I turned to her. "The hospital?" I said. "But why?"

She looked back at me, suddenly tight lipped and serious. "Because," she answered, "we need to say our goodbyes."

Once more, we checked in at the front desk and walked to the door down the long hallway. God knew what we would find inside; it had been weeks since we had last visited. We stopped just outside and Lonna dropped her voice. "I've changed my mind. I'd like to be alone with her, just the two of us. Would you mind waiting out here for me?"

Relieved, I nodded and watched her walk inside. I waited a few minutes but soon grew bored of aimlessly pacing in front of the door. Wandering down the hall, I noticed the door behind which Dr. Mattheson and his patient had disappeared the last time I was here. Putting my head against it, I couldn't hear anything so I pushed it open quietly. I'm not sure now why I did that. I might have had some vague notion of gathering ideas for my next film or perhaps I was just curious about the machine, wanting to see the tangle of cords and blinking lights once more.

As I peered inside, I saw that I was not alone. There were two figures, one prostrate on the bed, hooked to the machine, and one kneeling on the floor nearby, connected to the other man with a few wires. I recognized Dr. Mattheson's patient, as wan and frightened as the last time I had seen him. Hovering above him was the doctor's face, though it was twisted almost beyond recognition. His lips were bent in a smile of intense greed and his eyes merely half slits of pleasure. As I watched, he threw his head back and gave a low moan. On the bed, the patient began to shake, but still neither man spoke. The doctor clutched the bed sheet in his hand and continued his groaning. It was so animal, so primitive a sound that it froze me for a second. Then I quickly backed out into the hallway and let the door shut quietly behind me. I was sure that I had not been seen. Like the patient, I began to shake and shiver. Then I slid down to sit on the hard linoleum floor. Though I had refused to believe him, my brother had told me about pain addicts like this--doctors who fed off the agony of their patients, who grew to crave the nightmares of others.

I was still on the floor, staring off into space, when Lonna found me. Looking at her, I knew I would not tell her what I had just seen. There were untold stories in her eyes as well; I would never know how she and the woman had parted. We sat in the car for a few moments before I pulled her towards me for a kiss. She pushed me away, not roughly, but wearily, resignedly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "This is the end of us, and you and I both know it. The movie is over and there's no more that can happen. I'm so tired. I'm just so tired."

I knew it was no use to argue, but that never stops us, does it? "So you used me, is that it?" I asked shrilly. I'm only good for a few months and then it's on to the next man? I'm not asking for marriage or anything, only for a chance to see what happens. I only want to know you. Please let me know you," I continued to beg.

"The difference between you and me," she sighed, "is that I realize that's not possible. You will never know me just like I will never know you, and no machine will ever change that. You're like everyone else. You think the machine will save you, that it's a miracle, that it will fill the dark places with light. Well don't you think there is beauty in darkness and mystery and not knowing?"

I felt my cheeks go red as I stumbled to explain myself. "I don't know about beauty or mystery. All I know about is connection. We all want to feel connected to someone; we all want love, and what is wrong with that? That's what the machine allows to do, at least a little."

"Love," she snorted. "You don't want love. You just don't want to feel alone, but every human being is--in the end. We will all die alone, just like that woman in the hospital." She swept her hand in front of her, pointing at the city below the hillside. "All of us, every last one, and that thought terrifies you."

I felt the blood in my cheeks die away as I slumped back in my seat. It was pointless, this conversation, as was every conversation with her. As I backed the car up and headed it back towards the freeway, I turned to her. "Lonna," I said. "You are the most pessimistic person I have ever met."

"I know," she replied, before turning her back on me to look out the window. The rest of the ride we spent in silence. I didn't know it then, but that was to be the last time I would see her.

A year later The Patient was released, the cast had finished its cross-country tour, and I was desperately trying to rustle up a new project. Benny had invited me to a launch party at the Starlight Theatre and I went, figuring that a little schmoozing could never hurt. He greeted me at the door, grabbing my elbow and guiding me through the buzzing, crowded room. His words nearly tripping over one another, he began babbling to me about the reason for the festivities--the newest version of the machine. We reached the back of the room and stopped short before a swarming mass of people who were pointing and talking excitedly. I craned my neck and was disappointed to see a flat, rectangular screen with a single pair of headphones trailing out of it.

"Is that it?" I asked Benny. "It looks so… small."

"Exactly. Exactly the point, my friend," he shot back. "It's small, easy to use, and simple to manufacture. It's not how it looks but what it does that's groundbreaking. You plug into it and it takes you into the film, into the minds and reality of the characters. It's the most transformative version of the machine that exists to date."

I smiled and nodded back, trying to cover a slight feeling of unease. I could only imagine what Lonna would have to say about such a development. Thinking of her made my chest tighten slightly and I quickly tried to distract myself.

"Marvelous, Benny, just marvelous," I answered lightly. "All of this is so overwhelming, though, I think I might just need a drink." Excusing myself, I headed away from him and towards the bar. On my way, there I felt a hand tap me from behind on the shoulder and I turned around to face a slightly paunchy middle-aged man with a thick set of black-rimmed glasses.

"Oh, hello, Marty," I said. "I didn't know you would be here. How are things?"

"Things are not good. Not good at all," he answered gravely, pushing his glasses back up his sweaty nose. "As you can well imagine."

I braced myself and then dove in. "And how is Lonna doing?"

He pulled me aside out of the thick of the crowd and lowered his voice. "I'm not sure how she is doing now. I hear things, you know, but I no longer represent her. The firm had to drop her after … well … after the incident."

I swallowed hard. "It wasn't really her fault though, was it?" I asked. "It was that director leaking everything to the press."

"You know what they say: Hell hath no fury like a director scorned. I gather she broke things off rather abruptly with him and he couldn't take it. I can't really say that I blame him, actually."

As he said this, I noticed a strange light in his eyes so I hurried to answer. "But, even so, the press and the public have reacted much too harshly. All this hoopla just because she chooses to work without the machine? It hardly seems like anyone else's concern. She's still one of the best in the business."

"Was one of the best in the business," he corrected me. "It's my belief that she'll never work again after this."

"Poor Lonna," I said, shaking my head. "I wish I knew how she was doing. I wish I knew that she was all right."

"Well I did see her a few months back, just briefly," he admitted.

"And how did she seem?"

"Oh, you know Lonna," he said. "It's always so hard to tell. I could never read her. She would never let me." He broke off here and looked away quickly.

Seeing a tear glisten behind the rim of his glasses, I wondered uneasily what their relationship had really been. I had to sigh with the sadness of it all and knew I no longer wanted to be talking with this broken man in the middle of this teeming, throbbing, gibbering crowd of people. Patting him gently on the back I said, "I know what you mean, Marty. She was the same with me."

I turned away before he could continue and pushed my way back through the crowd. Without another glance at the people or the new machine, I left the party and slipped out into the night, to be alone in the darkness.

THE END

Bio: Dr. McMurray had her creative writing portfolio published by Scholastic Press in 1997 but, until recently, concentrated solely on academic writing and publication. She has her Ph.D. in French (minor in Film Studies) and currently works at a university writing center. In the last few years she has also returned to creative writing.

E-mail: Claire McMurray

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