Life Blood --IV---Page 12

Lou took the next few days off to spend by Sarah's side, but
nothing more happened. I repeatedly called him at the hospital to
check on her, though it was becoming clear her brush with
consciousness had only been an interlude. Finally, I decided to
show Carly's rushes to David (he loved them) and try to
concentrate on postproduction for the rest of the week and the
weekend, anything to make me not have to dwell on Sarah's
ghostlike, soundless cry of anguish.

Postproduction. When you're shooting a picture, you have to make all kinds of compromises; but in post, with luck and skill, you can transform that raw footage into art. You mix and cut the takes till the performances are taut; you loop in rerecorded dialogue
where necessary to get just the right reading of a line; the Foley
guys give you clear sound effects where the production sound is muddy; and you balance the hues of reds and blues, darks and
lights till you get just the right color tone.

All of the polishing that came with post still lay ahead. The
first step was to go through the rough cut and "spot" the film,
marking places where the sound effects or dialogue would need
to be replaced with rerecorded studio sound— which meant
several days, maybe weeks, of looping to edit out background
noise and make the dialogue sound rich and crisp. For some of it,
the actors would have to come back in and lip-synch themselves,
which they always hate.

It was daunting, to have to work back and forth between

production sound tracks and loop tracks, blending alternate takes.
You had to figure on only doing about ten minutes of film a day,
and then, after all that, you had to get the "opticals" right, the
fade-outs and dissolves and, finally, the credit sequences.
        Normally, once I started post, I would have exactly ten weeks
to accomplish all that before the executive producer, David, got
his hands on my picture. That was the prerogative that was part of
the standard director's contract. Now, though, I figured that was
out the window. With the money going fast, I had to produce a
rough cut and get the picture sold to cable in six weeks, period.
        But first things first. I deeply needed at least one more
interview—Carly's was too much of a happy one-note— which was

why I needed to shoot Paula Marks. It was now on for Thursday,
today.

The appointment had taken all weekend, including a Sunday
brunch, to set up, but by that time I was sure this second mother
would be perfect. She was a tall, willowy woman, forty-three, who
had let her hair start going to gray. Honesty, it was right there in
her pale brown eyes. She wrote children's books, had never
married—she now believed she never would—and had decided to
adopt a child because she had a lot of extra love she felt was
going to waste. Different from Carly Grove, maybe, but not in the
matter of strength, and fearless independence.

We arrived around ten A.M. to discover her apartment was in
one of those sprawling prewar West Side monoliths, thick plaster
walls and a rabbit's warren of halls and foyers, legacy of an age
before "lofts" and open spaces. Terribly cramped for shooting. But
Paula agreed to let the blue-jeaned crew move her old,
overstuffed couch out of the living room, along with the piles of
books that lined the walls.

Another issue was makeup. At first Paula insisted she didn't
want any. Never wore it, it was deceitful, and she didn't want to
appear on camera looking like Barbie. (Small chance of that, I
thought. A little war paint now and then might help your chances
of landing a father for this child.) Eventually Arlene persuaded her
that cameras lie and the only way to look like yourself is to
enhance those qualities that make you you. It was a thin
argument, but Arlene came from a long line of apparel proprietors
who could unload sunlamps in the Sahara.

Paula's adopted daughter Rachel, who was a year and a half
old, was running around the apartment, blond tresses flowing,
dragging a doll she had named Angie. Except the name came out
"Ann-gee." She was immediately adopted by the crew, and Erica,
the production manager, was soon teaching her how to play patty-
cake. Then Rachel wanted to demonstrate her new skills at eating
spaghetti. In five minutes she was covered head to toe in Ragu
tomato sauce.

When the Panaflex was finally rolling, the story Paula spun
out was almost identical to the one told by Carly Grove. She'd
spent hours with all the legal services recommended by NYSAC,
New York Singles Adopting Children, listening to them describe a
scenario of delays and paperwork and heartache. It could be
done, but it could take years. Look, she'd declared, I'll cash in my
IRA, do anything, just give me some hope. Okay, they'd replied,

tighten your belt, scare up sixty big ones, and go to see Children of Light. We hear stories. . .

Soon after she called them, the skies had opened. A New Age physician and teacher there, a man with striking eyes named Alex Goddard, had made it happen. Rachel was hers in just four
months, no paperwork.

Sure, she declared, Children of Light was expensive, but Alex
Goddard was a deeply spiritual man who really took the time to
get to know you, even practically begged you to come to his clinic-
commune and go through his course of mind-body fertility
treatment. But when she insisted she just wanted to adopt, he
obligingly found Rachel for her. How could she be anything but
grateful? She was so happy, she wanted everybody in the world
to know about him.

As she bubbled on, I found my attention wandering to Rachel,
who'd just escaped from the crew keeping her in the kitchen and
was running through the living room, singing a song from Sesame
Street. Something about the way she moved was very evocative.

Where've I seen her before? Then it dawned on me. Her walk made me think of Kevin. Actually, everything about her reminded me of Kevin. Were all kids starting to look the same? God, I
wanted them both.

Yeah, I thought, daydreaming of holding her, she's Kevin all

over again, clear as day. She's a dead ringer to be his older sister. It feels very strange.

Or maybe I was just seeing things. To some extent all babies looked alike, right? That is, until you have one of your own.
        I had to swallow hard, to try to collect my thoughts. Carly and
Paula scarcely even knew each other. If Rachel really was Kevin's sister, they'd never know anything about it.

Incredible . . . it was just too big a coincidence.

But still. . . and what about the film footage? Show close- ups
of the kids, and anybody not legally blind was going to see the
similarity. . .

Why would somebody give up two children for adoption? I

found myself wondering. Giving up one was tragic enough.

"Cut." I waved at everybody. "Take ten. We need to recharge here, take a break and stretch."

Paula was caught off guard, in the middle of a sentence, and she let her voice trail off, puzzled.

"Hey, I'm sorry Rachel came barging in," Paula finally said. "Guess she broke everybody's concentration, huh?"