It Was Me All Along: A Memoir (21 page)

I took a job waitressing at an Outback Steakhouse when I could no longer cope with the constant rejection I experienced everywhere else. For half a year, I put on a mustard-yellow shirt that sat like a box on my still-foreign body, affixed various pins for the required amount of “flair,” and made three dollars an hour plus tips. I pretended I was on an episode of
Punk’d
anytime a customer gave me grief.
This has to be a prank
, I said to myself, smiling.

Passing the months without Daniel slowly became easier, more normal. I hung out with friends I hadn’t seen in a while. I busied myself with hobbies and activities I hadn’t pursued while we were together—crafty things like scrapbooking and greeting-card making. I went to the movies, alone. The hardest part wasn’t finding new activities; it was filling the emotional void that existed without him. Daniel had been my best friend, confidant, therapist, and adviser, and now that he was gone, I felt as if I had none of those things. I was stripped. I couldn’t be weak, even if I felt it. I couldn’t be needy, even if I wanted to be. Having to face the world without him, I was forced to muster more strength from within. And in time, I did.

In February, a film crew took up residence in Medfield. A real, live Hollywood film crew—helmed by none other than Martin Scorsese—chose my sleepy little town to film a movie.

I’d heard, weeks before, that they’d picked the Medfield State Hospital, a sprawling mental institution that had been shut down for nearly a decade, as the set for
Shutter Island
, a film based on the thriller book by Dennis Lehane, author of other
novels-turned-movies, including
Mystic River
and
Gone, Baby, Gone
. The building sat eerily up on Hospital Hill, removed from town and just aged enough to feel cold and creepy. It was the kind of place you were sure held disturbing secrets and an interesting history, somewhere you’d never want to find yourself alone in the dark. Mostly we townspeople used the land around it for soccer games and sledding, and, as such, we weren’t displaced. We were hardly jostled.

I was ecstatic. Having loved movies my whole life through, and having studied film in Amherst and Rome, this was just too good to be true. Not only was it Martin Scorsese, my favorite director, but it was Leonardo DiCaprio, my favorite human being, as well. Fate seemed at play.

Weeks earlier, I’d gone to a casting call to be an extra on the film but was never contacted. A few of the film’s production offices—the art and construction departments—were set up directly across the street from my house in an unused office building. One afternoon I mustered enough courage to walk over and try to give someone my résumé and the brief cover letter I’d written, one unlike any I’d penned in the hopes of landing a job. I’d become disheartened by the pretension of the traditional cover letter. The navel gazing, the polite sucking-up—neither had worked in the months before when I wrote and rewrote to what seemed like every available job in New England. Knowing that I really had no qualifications for this position, I got creative. I explained that while I didn’t have any previous experience working in film, I knew the area around the set well and could be useful in many ways as a local. You need to know where to buy something? I’m your girl. You need delicious lunch spots? I’m your girl. You need directions? I’m your girl.
Or I will google it and pretend to have known it all along
.

I expressed my love of film, the fact that I’d studied it in college and abroad, but I really just aimed to let whoever would read the letter know how much I wanted to help in any way. I highlighted what I could truly offer to do for them: any old thing. The whole letter read as, “Hey, I’m really good at shoveling if we get a snowstorm!”

I handed my nearly pathetic résumé and that letter to a nice woman, who said she’d pass it on to the art department coordinator. Three weeks passed without a word, and I had started to come to terms with the fact that this film wasn’t in the cards for me.

Then I got a phone call. I was mid-drive home from running errands on a Monday, already dreading my shift at Outback that evening, when the art department coordinator rang me. She said that one of her assistants had to have emergency surgery, so they were looking for someone to fill in until Friday. Could I come in for a quick interview? I raced home, tore through my clothes to find the perfect thing to wear, and sped over to the office.

“Lori Lopes,” she introduced herself, outstretching her hand. With a head of thick, shiny raven hair, she was a beautiful doppelgänger for Mary-Louise Parker. She smiled sweetly.

I like her
. I could tell instantly.

For thirty minutes she walked me around the office, giving me the lay of the land and a clear picture of what they did in the art department. Essentially, she told me, I would be working as a production assistant and perhaps also helping out in the set decorating department, if need be. The art department was run in tandem by the production designer, Academy Award–winner Dante Ferretti, and the art director, four-time Academy Award–nominee Bob Guerra. The set decorating was handled exclusively by Academy Award winner Francesca Lo Schiavo, who also happened to be
Dante’s wife. These three worked with brilliant teams of artists and decorators to draft large-scale drawings of what they envisioned each scene of the film to look like—all in line with Dante’s overall artistic vision. They designed everything, creating every nook and cranny, every slight detail of the spaces that would later be built by the construction department.

I was terrified. I spent that Tuesday to the following Friday barely sleeping, working as hard and passionately as I ever had. To call it thrilling would be a crazed understatement. I was high for four days straight on paint fumes and Leonardo DiCaprio sightings. Hour by hour, the job changed. I drove from set to set, dropping off the set designs at various departments, running errands, anything that needed doing. I was eager; I was hungry for more.

Lori took notice. At certain moments in the day, as I was running to and fro around the office, smiling like a self-important fool excited just to be making coffee for a feature film crew, I’d catch her looking at me and smiling to say,
Thank you
. The whole department knew how much I loved what I was doing. And in turn, they liked me for it. New to their world, I was one of the few yet to be jaded by the harshness of the entertainment business. I was green and still idealistic about showbiz. Like a kid who still believes in Santa, they wanted to preserve my excitement. Each day, I arrived at the office a full hour before anyone else in the morning and stayed late to close it all down at night. I brought in coffee cake from my favorite bakery, Mom’s famous homemade lemon squares, and chocolate éclairs from the finest French pastry shop in Boston. Twelve-hour shifts flew by before I knew it, because I never sat down. The excitement, the nonstop nature of the business kept me so energetic, I buzzed. It wasn’t simply that I was starstruck; I was working on something I cared about deeply.

By three p.m. on Friday, I caught wind that Jo, who I’d been filling in for, would indeed be back come Monday. My heart sank, thinking that it was all about to be over. I pondered my return to Outback as I ran to the nearest bakery to buy John Michael, my handsome new friend and fellow art department assistant, a birthday cake, complete with candles and a card. Lori and I had hoped to surprise him before we all left for the weekend. She and I had gotten so close so quickly. I reveled in the last few hours that day. When John Michael had blown out the candles, Lori pulled me aside for a moment while the others stood around clapping.

When we’d walked a few feet away from the group, she hugged me. She pulled back to look me in the eyes and said, “Andrea, look. I just want to let you know that this week has been overwhelmingly wonderful with you here. I can’t tell you how much I’ve loved it. And, while you were gone this afternoon, we all talked here, and”—she gestured toward all those standing in the room—“we want you to stay for the whole run of the film.”

I was floored. There was nothing I wanted to hear more than “stay.”

Suddenly, the room was quiet. I turned to face the department and found them all standing there, smiling my way. A round of clapping to show their support, a boisterous set of cheers to congratulate me. When the applause softened, I made sure to thank each of them.

“This has been such a pleasure. I’m so very happy to stay,” I told the group, grinning.

When does this happen to people? To me?
I wondered. I turned my head skyward, not sure if I should thank whoever, whatever was up there blessing me.

“And, well, just so everyone knows …,” I began. The room
quieted. “If Leo and I should run away together because he’s finally come to his senses and decided he’s just not that into leggy blonde supermodels anymore, I just want you all to know … well, I just wouldn’t feel right leaving without telling you all … it’s been real.”

They laughed. I held my face straight and serious, half of me joking while the other half of me mused,
Hey, it could happen
.

The weeks that followed flew by at an alarming speed. Each day was a heady mix of frenzy and fun. I made fast friends with nearly everyone who worked on- and off-set. Aside from traditional production assistant duties, I also jumped at two opportunities to temporarily assist Dante and Francesca, separately. Much of it involved my driving a minivan around tight Boston streets and liaising between production departments. But it also meant time spent very close to the director’s chair. It allowed me to watch scenes between Ben Kingsley and Mark Ruffalo, and my beloved Leonardo DiCaprio, and to jump at Marty Scorsese’s voice as he shouted, “Cut!” and “Action!” I worked hard to project an air of confidence, some semblance of a casual
Ahem, I’m supposed to be here
. Mostly I stared, transfixed at Leo. He seemed kind, playful, certainly as wonderfully skilled an actor as I’d always known him to be. Beyond his good looks, I respected his work, his choices.
This Boy’s Life, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, The Aviator, The Departed
—his filmography ran like credits through my mind. I didn’t only want to grab his face and kiss him, I wanted to tell him how deeply I admired him as an actor and artist. But, really, the kiss would have sufficed.

Eleven years earlier, in December 1997—just a month after we’d been told that Dad had died—
Titanic
hit theaters. That whole year prior, when Dad had gone missing, Mom and I busied
ourselves as best we could. We bided our time with movies and eating. Romantic comedies, dramas, thrillers, period pieces—it hardly mattered what we saw, only that we left our present minds for a few hours. We went to the theater nearly four times a week. When he died, it felt as if someone had pressed Pause on life. And yet, somehow, it resumed. Mom returned to work and I to school. The first month was a blur. Mom and I went to see Titanic a week after it hit theaters, knowing we’d like it. We’d always admired Leo, and Kate Winslet, well, she was perfection in our minds—a compelling actress, a porcelain doll with that unforgettable face. The two of them sharing the screen together was naturally wonderful. Plus, we’d heard all the buzz about the crazed swarms of moviegoers, the box office record breaking.

For the three hours of runtime, we sat in rapture. Leaving the theater and driving home, we barely talked. Already, I was fiending to rewatch it. The next day, we returned to the theater. And again the day after. For weeks on end, Mom and I went to see
Titanic
over and over. School nights at ten p.m., weekends twice in a row, whenever there was a showing. And the times when we were told that the movie was sold out, as it so often was, Mom got this look in her eyes. A desperate, wounded look. Her lips would part, and she’d stare at the box office attendant as if to plead,
Please, I need this
. Seeing the devastation in her eyes, without fail, they’d find her two open seats somewhere in the packed theater.

In all, I went to see
Titanic
twenty times, and Mom, twenty-two. Each time felt like the first. When it left theaters, Mom and I felt an odd sense of loss. I knew others who had seen it as many times, some more. There was a mania surrounding that movie. But us? I always wondered why we’d become so obsessed. Mom was a
grown woman, after all, and a world-weary one at that. She wasn’t the kind to fawn over a movie so severely. Everyone thought we were unhinged, crazy. “The ship sinks, for Christ’s sake! Like, okay, we get it.” I couldn’t, she couldn’t, articulate what brought us back to see it, time after time.
Why did we go all those tens of times when we barely had money to buy groceries?

Years later, Mom and I talked about our
Titanic
days. We smiled, sort of laughing at ourselves for being such intense fans. “Gosh, we were insane, weren’t we?” we commiserated. I looked at her, shaking her head at the memory.

“I really loved that, Mom.”

“Me, too. And, y’know, I get it now. The movie—it just let me cry.”

She looked out the window, taken by the thought. She went on, “When Dad died and we went to the theater, I think it was the only time I felt like I could sit in the dark and cry. For three hours, anyway.”

I fell silent, searching her face for more.
God, I love this woman
. I smiled at her through tears.

“Me, too, Mumma. Me, too.”

When I introduced myself to Leo at his champagne and oyster party, that conversation came rushing back. I thought of Mom.
She’d love to be here
.

That week, I had been tasked with assisting Francesca. Just looking at her gave a hint at her importance. Graceful, the epitome of class, she was petite and well put together—a blond beauty. Every day, she strolled into the office with clothes so crisp and well styled, you’d swear she had just plucked them from the window display at
Ralph Lauren. She and I got along famously. Known for being a bit particular, a bit fussy-meets-handful, she was softer, gentler with me. Our rapport was sweet in a way it wasn’t between her and the others, those who thought her to be a diva.