Chapter Text
There had been many life-changing moments in Jody’s life. From seeing The Sixth Sense at thirteen years old, to moving to the States at sixteen. The first time she held a real camera in her hands, the first time she stepped onto a movie set. Meeting her husband. Finishing the first draft of her first script, and reuniting with her now-husband. Each of those times there had been a shift in the air as atoms rearranged themselves around her.
This was not one of those times.
She sat inside a bakery-turned-restaurant chain, red scarf still wrapped around her neck even though the table was so far away from the door no cold air could reach her. Part of her was still baffled that she had a full scarf, hat, and winter coat in the middle of a New York September. Then again, a dying sun did have that effect on the weather.
She closed the blue manila folder and rested her hands on top of it. Three people gazed at her expectantly. Two journalists and a broke producer. “I don’t know,” Jody said. “This isn’t a lot to work off of.”
“We obviously have more,” said one of the journalists, Angelica. Her curly hair was pulled back by two claw clips, and it still wasn’t enough to keep it contained. “But that’s our pitch right there.”
“This is three pieces of paper with a list of names and an IMDB synopsis.” She leaned back and folded her arms. “Besides. I don’t direct documentaries.”
“What do you call what you filmed of Tom Ryder’s confession to murder?” the other journalist, Luka, asked.
“Clearing an innocent man’s name and trying to salvage my movie.” She slid the paper across the table. “It’s good. I don’t think I can do it.”
Angelica spoke up. “Do you need more information? We have more…”
She began to dig in her satchel but Jody held up a hand. “I’m flattered that you thought of me. But this aside,” she pointed to the folder, “I write my own scripts, and I don’t deal with nonfiction.”
“You would get to write the script,” said Omar, the producer.
Jody raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have a script?”
“We have sources and data,” Angelica said. “And we want to tell the true story of the project. All of the ins and outs, the things that are going to get missed in other tellings of this.”
“And what makes you think I would be good at this?”
“You’re not just an action-movie director,” Omar said. “You’re a brilliant storyteller, and that even shows through all of the messy CGI—”
“Excuse you?”
“—and you have an eye for the human stories and what connects to an audience.”
“That’s true,” Luka said. “MetalStorm is one of my favorite movies, and no one knows what Space Cowboy’s name is. That’s not why we approached you,” he said hastily. “I’m not going to ask you for an autograph or anything.”
Angelica pinched the bridge of her nose. “Luka. You promised you wouldn’t say anything.”
“What? I want her to know that my personal biases didn’t have any influence on why we reached out.”
Omar put a hand on Luka’s shoulder. “Don’t pay attention to him.”
Jody hid a smile behind her fist. She took a sip of her coffee. “All of that aside, there’s no point in making this. Amazon MGM is in talks to produce a biopic following each of the three astronauts.” She’d gotten that email and had promptly sent it to her trash.
This meeting, though, had been intriguing. But it was turning out just like all the other meetings with all the other producers. Though the two journalists were curious.
“Why are you two involved?” she asked Luka and Angelica. “Why do you want to tell this story?”
“It’s the only time the entire world has come together so completely,” Angelica said. “Alien life was discovered, an interstellar ship was built in space, they worked through a global pandemic, and every single nation on Earth contributed to it. It’s awe-inspiring.”
“But there are a lot of secrets,” Luka continued. “No one knows where Eva Stratt came from, and most of the people on the project were forced on in some way. There are a lot of secrets, and a lot of unanswered questions. It’s only through the process of piecing together the story that those answers can be found.”
Jody turned to Omar. “And you?”
He shrugged. “I want to get paid. Everyone wants a slice of this pie, which means there needs to be more pie to go around. It’s basic economics.”
Jody appreciated the honesty. But there was more he wasn’t telling.
“If everyone wants a slice of the proverbial pie,” she said, “what’s the point of making this? This will be a re-hashing of what’s been done before, and people only watch documentaries if there’s something shocking involved.” She tapped the blue manila folder. “This is pretty cut-and-dry.”
Omar leaned over to Angelica and Luka. “I told you we needed to give her more.”
“We have an outline—”
Omar shushed her. “We understand if you don’t want to take this on. This will be a big project and while Angelica and Luka are very good at their job, this is only the beginning. We need someone with the vision to tell a compelling story and the experience to pull this off. A big blockbuster director has both.”
“At least think about it,” Luka said.
“You have my number.”
Angelica slid the folder back. “Please.”
Jody took it.
“Don’t take too much time to think it over,” Omar said. “If you can’t do it, we need to start looking around at other people.”
“I’ll let you know,” Jody said.
The four of them stood. Jody shook hands with the four of them, thanking them for the coffee. With her coat zipped up and hat on, scarf tucked into the collar of her coat, Jody stepped outside and braced for the cold.
She kept the folder tucked under her arm as she joined the throng of people, all bundled up against the early-onset winter, and set off for her apartment. She turned the contents of the folder over inside her mind, poking and prodding and flipping the information around. Sifting through the pros and cons, the many different directions the story could go.
It wasn’t like any of this information was new. The pieces of paper in the folder was little more than a list of names—both of the main players of the project as well as the names of people the journalists had already talked to—and a statement that basically said, “I want to make a movie.” It wasn’t the worst pitch she’d ever seen, but it was far from the best.
Then there was a fact that this was a documentary. Jody didn’t gravitate towards nonfiction stories. Even the books she read fell solidly in the “antacy” part of romantacy. Her movies were no different. Yet at the same time, there was something about the thin blue folder that drew her in. There was clearly potential.
But what was the point? There was always a reason for any story existing. Sometimes the reason was making a big summer blockbuster. Others the reason was working through her own grief and heartbreak. With every project she worked on, every script she wrote she had to climb a mountain and stake her flag at the top saying, “This is my hill to die on.”
So what was the point of this?
Jody unlocked the door to her apartment building and climbed the steep stairs. Orange lights flickered and the smell of cigarette smoke permeated the walls. Jody wiped her feet on the straw welcome mat outside her door and unlocked it.
Her apartment was nice, by New York standards. Two bedrooms, a decent-sized kitchen, and a living room. There was even a loft above the kitchen.
Jody locked the door behind her. She hung her coat on pegs by the door, tucking her hat, gloves, and scarf into the arms. She kicked her boots off and flopped down on the couch. Her husband, Colt, lifted his arms so she could lay her head in his lap. Her feet hung off the armrest.
“What are you making this time?” she asked.
“It’s supposed to be a fox, but one of the ears got screwed up.” He held the half-finished stuffed animal in front of her face. On his last movie he’d picked up crocheting from one of the costumers and had been doing it ever since.
“I think it looks like a very nice fox, maybe it got into a gith and part of its ear got chomped off.”
He hummed, closing one eye and turned the fox to a different angle. The orange yarn twisted over his hand. “I’m not seeing it.”
“Trust the process.”
“If you insist. Hey, how’d your meeting go?”
Jody sighed. “They want me to direct a documentary.”
Colt frowned. “Interesting choice for a director.”
“I haven’t said yes yet. Or no.”
“Well, what’s it on?” He cast the yarn over the hook. It always made Jody smile seeing her husband with his large, calloused hands do something so soft.
She braced herself. “The Hail Mary.”
Colt froze mid-stitch.
“I don’t think they know of our connection,” she continued, “otherwise they wouldn’t have asked. Or maybe they would have, you know? And while I do think it could be interesting, I don’t know which direction to take it in and they didn’t give me much of anything and then… You know.”
Colt tried to speak, cleared his throat, then set his yarn off to the side. “And what did they tell you?”
“Not much.” She sat up, reaching for the blue folder she’d dropped on the coffee table. “This is all they gave me.”
Colt took it and began to read. He was a faster reader than Jody, and there wasn’t a lot of information to begin with. As he read this time, he lingered on the pages, tracing his finger over certain words and names. Jody turned around so that her knees folded against his leg.
He finally closed the folder and turned to her. “Do you think you could do a good job?”
Jody shrugged. “As good as I can.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “But at the end of the day, I feel like it’s your decision.”
“It’s really not.”
“Colt…”
“It’s not my film.” He ran his free hand through his hair. Outside, snowflakes began to lazily drift through the air, pushed around by wind currents and exhaust vents. “Hell, it’s not even my story.”
Jody searched Colt’s eyes. They were a summer blue, the same color as a swimming pool or a cloudless sky. He was never good at expressing himself. He held his deepest feelings deep inside, under his ribcage and tucked into the folds of his heart. But she could usually catch a glimpse through his eyes.
“Ryland is in there,” she said softly. As both the project’s second-in-command and astronaut.
Jody had only met him once, and she had been so distraught she hardly remembered their single interaction in a hospital waiting room.
“It’s not just about him.”
“Yes it is. Because I already know that if I take this project on, I’m going to use him as the film’s eyes. The audience will see the Hail Mary through his eyes because he’s the heart of the project. He was the first person to discover the astrophage, and he was the last to leave the planet. He is the story.” She let out a deep breath. “But he’s not mine.”
Once a year, on the anniversary of the Hail Mary launch, Colt and Jody went to the most secluded spot they could find. Armed with blankets, a truck, and a couple cases of beer, they would stare up at the stars and drink a toast.
Last year, when they were a couple drinks in, Jody asked: “Do you miss him?”
Drunk Colt was usually a sight to behold, and he couldn’t hold his liquor well. One drink and he was buzzed. Two drinks and he was dancing on top of tables. Three drinks and he was talking to unicorns. Four drinks and it was time to go home. So Jody was surprised when, after finishing his third drink, he was able to string together a coherent answer.
“I’ve missed him since the moment I was born, y’know?” His words were slurred and he was slumped over Jody’s shoulder, but at least he wasn’t singing. “Starting as the same cell and all. Zy-gote. Zygote. That’s a word he used a lot. Zyyy-gote.” He nuzzled in closer to Jody’s shoulder. “An hour is a long time to be without your other half.
“And we were never estranged. People get confused ‘bout that a lot. We just had differen’ lives.” He thumped his chest, right below his heart. “He’s right here. Even if he’s in a differen’ galaxy on a spaceship. He’s always right here.”
Colt had started singing after that, and it wasn’t long before he was out cold, snoring in the pile of blankets they’d brought from set. And as she did every year after her husband passed out, Jody spent the rest of the night stargazing, watching.
Someone had to.
Outside, the streetlights below sprung to life, washing the waning day in cold, blue light. Colt pulled Jody close and rested his forehead against hers. “Do you want to know what I think?” he asked softly.
“Always.”
“There are very few people I would trust with my brother. You are at the top of that list.”
“So you think I should.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you mean.”
The air around Jody began to hum with a familiar buzz that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and fingers itch
Colt kissed her forehead, then stood up. “You can do whatever you want, Jo. But you’ve already made up your mind. And if you want my blessing,” he smiled, the streetlights outside reflecting the water pooling at the bottom of his eyes, “you’ve always had it.”
Warmth filled Jody, growing inside her chest the longer she looked up at him. Then she pulled her phone out. Colt went to the kitchen and started pulling leftovers out of the fridge. She went through her recent calls and tapped on Omar’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
“This is Omar Bishara.”
“Hi Omar, it’s Jody.”
“Jody! Hi! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. What can I do for you?”
“I’ll do the project. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Full creative control. I get the final say on everything.”
Omar hissed through his teeth. “That’s a lot.”
“I’m practically a household name. Trust me: this is what you want.”
“You’ll stick close to the true story of the Hail Mary, right? This won’t turn into some action-packed, CGI monstrosity?”
Jody glowered, her glare directed at the potted succulents on the windowsill. “Sure. Fine. But I still want full creative control, especially on the story.”
There were a few moments where Omar didn’t say anything, but Jody could hear him pumping the air. He cleared his throat. “You would, of course, have to work closely with Luka and Angelica. They would be doing all of the interviews and gathering the information.”
“But I pick the lens.”
“You… Whatever. Yes, we’ll give you full creative control. I’ll have my buddy draft up a contract and send it over. He’s a lawyer, by the way. Not just some random dude off the street.”
“I figured,” Jody lied. “I eagerly await your email.”
“It’s my pleasure. Out of curiosity: what made you decide yes?”
Colt turned his head just enough for Jody to see the microwave light cast shadows across his face. Jody met her husband’s gaze, smiling softly. “Grace,” she said as the atoms started rearranging around her in a prismatic array of color.