The Bottom Line

CW: The story includes elements of child harm and child death. A brief sentence alludes to predatory acts on a child but was kept as brief as possible.

           The first word that came out of your one-year-old mouth was ‘cut’, though it probably sounded more like ‘cuh’ to the production staff around you. Daddy liked to yell it to his small studio, and you echoed him as a black and white board was slammed together in front of a camera. Your daddy leaped from his chair when he noticed you parroting him, darting over to where you sat next to an array of soap bottles. You weren’t old enough to know where you were. You only knew that when you giggled at Daddy, he gave you a piece of chocolate. He raised you on his shoulders and barked orders to the other grownups. Your pudgy hands tugged at his long hair, demanding a reward. He offered up three pieces of the sweet treasure, and you were quick to shove them between your lips, babbling your daddy’s favorite word: cut, cut, cut.

           It wasn’t until you were three that you began to see your daddy cry. You played with Lincoln logs whenever you noticed tears slipping down his cheeks, hoping that by building a mansion of wood, he would play with you. Stacking the indented wood blocks always made you laugh. You thought that your screams of cheer when you finished your build would force a smile onto his bearded face. It didn’t. He spent his free time arguing with someone on the phone, someone you didn’t know. When he slumped onto the couch with a cold drink in his hand, you stumbled over to his leg and hugged it, hoping he would see your creation and praise you for the replica living room you created. He simply patted your head, said ‘Daddy’s tired’, and passed out before you could put your logs away.

           When you were five, you got your first taste of fame. Daddy was shooting another soap commercial when a big man in a bright green suit walked onto the set, demanding your father to leave. Daddy argued, but the green man’s crew had already bustled in and taken over the cameras. It had been a long day. You had repeated your lines a dozen times, none of the takes seeming to meet your daddy’s standards. You were tired, cold, and covered with soap suds. So, you screamed a slew of words your father had said to the person on the other end of the phone, words a five-year-old should have no knowledge of, words that were so loud they echoed through the warehouse. Both men’s crews went deadly quiet. Your daddy was pale as the foam on your hands, but before he could get out an apology, the man in green clapped his hands and pointed at you, a giant smile plastered on his greasy face.

           “That voice is exactly what my show needs. You’re hired, kid.”

           At age six, the man in green scheduled you for an interview. You were used to stages by then: the bright lights, the constant chatter, the people demanding either a pretty smile or a perfect tantrum. Instead of screaming and crying (acting, Daddy called it) on the set of a family sitcom, today you sat on a bright red couch. There were people in the audience who cooed and laughed when you said something only a child could get away with. The man in green sat next to you, putting an arm over your shoulder and praising your wit. You could see your Daddy smiling backstage, putting his thumbs up in a rare show of encouragement. He always would get happy when you got attention like this. Your fridge was covered with newspaper clippings starring your pouting photo and famous journalists’ quotes praising your skills as a child actor. Somedays a letter with your name on it would come in the mail. Whatever was inside made Daddy happy, because he’d run to the store and grab plenty of his cool drinks. At the end of this interview, he bought you a Lego set. He even built a house with you, complete with a model living room.

           You stopped eating when you turned seven. It was the man in green who sat you down and told you that his star couldn’t be heavier than 30 pounds. You had to be eternally young, eternally small, eternally adorable, and since your character had turned not seven but five this season, you had to look five. Daddy was in the room with you. He promised to keep you tiny for the season finale. You started to eat two meals a day, which quickly turned into one when you realized that eating too much made Daddy drink more. The man in green gave you small, white candies, but they tasted awful when you tried to chew them. They went down much easier when you took them with water.

           The man in green decided to sell you the following year. The show was done, the money counted, and you would not be joining him on his new projects. It was hard to say goodbye to the lady who played your mommy, but at least Daddy came with you. He took you to a new warehouse in a new town, and you met your new director, an old man who wore a button-down Hawaiian shirt and jean shorts. He wanted to make you the star of his show. Said that he would personally coach you himself. You don’t like the change, but your Daddy was practically bursting with happiness. You clung to his leg as the director talked to him about your private singing lessons.

           You were nine when you wanted out. The man in the button-down wouldn’t let you see your Daddy very often. He kept you in his trailer and taught you to sing, though you weren’t sure how hugging was related to ‘expanding your diaphragm’. You told your Daddy you didn’t like the man in the button-down. Told him that you wanted to act in something else. He got down on one knee and held you tight, promising to leave the next day. But then the mail with your name came in, and your Daddy told you that if you could make it through a few more episodes, he would be able to afford the mansion you used to make out of Lincoln logs.

           He earns a new title when you are ten: Dad. You do not talk to him much, as you spent more and more time with the man in the button-down. The new house made Dad happy, so you used your skills as an actor and put on a smile for him. People with cameras followed you everywhere. You wanted to go to a pizza parlor for your birthday, but Dad took you to a photo shoot with Mr. Button-down. You practiced your lines every night in your bedroom, saving your tears for bath time, when you could cover the noise with the sound of rushing water. You weren’t sure why you are crying. All you knew is that you didn’t want Dad to see.

           Your crying began to bleed into practice, and no matter how beautiful you sang, the director made your private lessons longer. Remembering that Dad always fixed things with a cold drink, you decided to try his beverage of choice when you turn eleven. It wasn’t for kids, and you didn’t care. The taste took some getting used to, but after you finished one can, it made you feel good. Good enough to stop crying. Dad kept so many stocked in the fridge that he didn’t notice when one or two went missing. You drank three before meeting the man in the button-down and two before you went to sleep at night. When you found the magic white pills in the orange bottles on Dad’s nightstand, you stole a few of those, too. It made you feel floaty and happy. You kept taking them until the orange bottle was empty.

           You weren’t quite twelve when you died. The obituary said you died in your sleep after accidentally taking your father's medication. Your death became a PSA for all parents to make sure their drugs were kept out of reach of curious children. The man in the button-down spoke at your funeral. He had tears in his eyes, recounting how innocent and pure you were. Your father held on to a single Lincoln log as your casket is lowered into the ground. He stayed by your side for a long time, even after the rest of the attendees wandered back to their cars. He managed to stumble back to his shiny new Honda, opening the trunk and pulling out a box before coming back to your plot. Slowly, he opened the lid and began to pull out one Lincoln log after another, placing them next to your headstone, only retreating to the car when the moon was high in the sky. He left behind the box, still half-full of logs, and the finished model of a living room.