How to End a Love Story(83)

Mom preens even as she protests the fuss and Dad spends most of his time wandering back and forth from catering to bring Helen snacks that she didn’t ask for.

“You’re a big deal here,” Mom says when they get ushered to the front of the lunch line. “So much special treatment.”

“They’re all just trying to impress you,” Helen mutters, a little embarrassed. “It’s really the crew that’s the big deal. I’ve never seen so many people work together so smoothly. It’s kind of amazing.”

She had found the concept of production and shooting to be intimidatingly foreign, a strange beast with strange terms she was still learning. And if working in a writers room with seven other writers was a strain on her introvert-leaning resources, surely a behemoth of a crew of hundreds of strangers with very specific jobs she couldn’t even begin to fathom would be even worse?

Yet Helen has found set life to be unexpectedly appealing.

It works like a cross between an army regiment and a fine Swiss watch, each person reporting to someone else, each person doing a job that keeps the heart of production ticking. She finds it’s easier to talk to people individually this way—chatting with Cherise, the second camera assistant, about the short film she’s shooting over the weekend as she cleans lens filters, or having Jeff, the gaffer, show her photos of the elaborate lawn display he’s putting together for St. Patrick’s Day. She likes getting to know people as they do the jobs that they’re so good at—she remembers something Suraya once said about comfort zones, and realizes that the set is a comfort zone for a lot of interesting, highly skilled artists and technicians, who fill the place with a thrilling buzz of activity between every cut and action.

She’s enjoyed finding her own place on set. Suraya sits next to the pilot director, occasionally whispering something in her ear before the director nods and shoots off to pass along notes to the actors. Department heads come up with questions for upcoming episodes and Suraya leaves the big wardrobe and set design questions to Helen, while she deals with calls from the studio and network and postproduction.

“I told you we’d make a good team,” Suraya says, and grins at Helen as they finish their dual creative sidebars at lunch.

Helen doesn’t actually remember Suraya ever saying they’d make a good team, verbatim, but she’s grateful nonetheless.

“She is a good boss,” Dad says after Suraya leaves their lunch table to confer with the director and line producer about something they’re shooting tomorrow. “She knows how to handle many things at once. You should learn from her.”

“I am,” Helen says.

Suraya dismisses Helen from set a few hours early (“Your parents are in town. You don’t wanna bore them with four more hours of this—go treat them to dinner!”) and Helen takes them to a trendy sushi spot in Studio City for dinner.

“What was your favorite part?” Helen asks as she pours them tea.

“Seeing your stories and words come to life,” Mom says. “It was very wonderful and amazing.”

“All those people, there to make your TV show,” Dad says.

“It’s not my TV show,” Helen protests. “I have a shared ‘created by’ credit, but Suraya’s the showrunner, and we have a whole team of writers, and—”

“Yes, but none of it would exist if you didn’t write your books,” Dad says. “We’re very proud of you.”

Helen thinks her heart might burst from the feeling of hearing him say it and excuses herself to the bathroom so they don’t see her inexplicably start crying. She’s quite sure she wouldn’t know what to do if she ever saw her father cry. The least she can do is return the favor.

She washes her face in the bathroom, touches up her makeup, and smiles at her reflection tentatively. It’s been a good day, spending time with my parents, letting them into my life. She spends so much of her time experiencing a low-grade resentment toward them, over a million little injustices from childhood that don’t really matter anymore, she’s forgotten this feeling—when she’s happy, and they’re happy, and they feel like what she thinks of when she thinks of a happy, loving family.

She returns to their table and Mom and Dad are fighting in low, hushed Cantonese.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Dad shakes his head at Mom, Mom says something in Cantonese, and Helen is able to pick out the phrase “Let me talk to her.”

“What is it?” Helen repeats, a sense of foreboding growing in the pit of her stomach.

“Why,” Mom says, her fingers white-knuckle gripping her own cell phone, “is there a writer with this . . . this name working for you?”

She turns the screen to Helen and it’s a prep-schedule email from the production office, plainly listing “Episode 102, Day 1 of Prep: Director: Kasey Langford / Writer: Grant Shepard.”

Helen stares blankly at the shape of Grant’s name on the screen. Why is his name on Mom’s phone?

“Your mom asked them to put us on the email list for everything,” Dad says slowly. “She was so worried we wouldn’t show up to the right place at the right time.”

Helen blinks at Mom’s cell phone.

Grant Shepard, it seems to repeat accusingly.

An old memory comes back online, of Mom sitting at the edge of Helen’s bed: “Grant Shepard, that’s the name of the boy who killed your sister. Do you know him?”