Cut Scenes and Impossible Things

By Tracy Daley

Nothing is impossible is Bri Harrison's life motto. Her hard work and dedication have finally paid off when she is chosen as a final candidate for an intership at the Sundance Film Festival. But when a filming project goes wrong and Bri captures the zip-lining accident that makes Mom lose twenty years of her memory, Bri will have to face the impossible with a mom that doesn't remember her.

 

She wants to create the prefect final entry video while trying to help, but Mom wants to go home to Wales where her childhood memories are intact. With both of them feeling broken, Bri agrees to go with Mom and try and heal both of their pain. Bri is determined to find a way to submit her film project, even with spotty internet, and get Mom's memories to come back, even when a cute Welsh boy asks her to accept things the way they are.

 

Bri had never given up before, but her determination sends her once-close relationship with Mom up in smoke and strains her budding romance. Despite wanting to beat the odds, Bri has to decide if she should keep fighting for the past or walk into an uncertain future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Daley
• Release date: Sep 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9781960617125

Tracy Daley

Tracy Daley has helped refine and edit dozens of books throughout her career. She has held many positions in publishing including editor, publicity specialist, and acquisitions editor. She lives with her husband and three kids in Taylorsville, Utah, but escapes to the mountains as often as possible.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Life isn’t a movie with happy endings and satisfying closure, but with all the odds I’ve overcome with Mom and Dad, I believe in the impossible. Not endings where some God-like or invisible force wipes away my problems. No, we’ve overcome impossible things through hard work, positivity, and a will of steel. Those are the kind of films I want to make. Ones with grit and reality and humanity caught on camera and edited to harness emotions.

Today I am one step closer to that dream.

I carry my camera bag through the park while trees sway above me. The branches filter the sun into twinkling rays piercing the gaps between the leaves like the camera flashes on the red carpet of a movie premiere. Ahead, the trees open up around a lake reflecting the light right back at the sky.

My breath catches as a figure cuts through the blue background, riding the zip line that gives this park its name—the highest, longest zip line over water in the DC area. The height is dizzying even from the ground. A zipping sound crescendos and echoes across the water as the rider gets closer to the tower on this side of the lake.

I look for my friends Elijah and Qadriyah and see them on the shore.

Qadriyah has her shoes off as she balances on two half-submerged boulders. Elijah stays on high ground, shoes on, doing his face exercises he always does before we record a video. I rush up to them, excited to tell them my news.

Bri, we’ve been waiting for you. Elijah bounces with his familiar take-on-the-world energy. We did it! We hit a thousand subscribers and have been approved for the channel to be monetized.

That’s great! I almost reflect his excitement, but I’ve always been more of a realist, taking the good and the bad news with the same amount of distance. I have some good news, too.

Qadriyah steps back onto the grass and takes my hand. Her hijab is an eggshell blue and the ripples in the fabric match the surface of the water. Her callused grip is strong from playing tennis. What’s your news?

I try to stay calm, but the smile stretches my face. I can’t help it. I’ve been selected as a final applicant for the Sundance Film Festival internship. I’m in the top twenty-five!

That’s fantastic! She gives me a hug.

Amazing! Elijah puffs up his chest like a proud peacock. You’re the best applicant by far. You’ll take the top spot for sure.

Thanks. I still have to do a final interview and final film project. They want us to film and edit a three-minute short in seven days to see what we can do under pressure. That will be tough.

Have you started planning?

They don’t give us the subject until we’ve completed the interview. They are serious about trying to get it done under pressure, even though that’s not how the industry always works.

Qadriyah squeezes my arm. You’ve got this.

We need to get started. Leave it to Elijah to get back on track. He has a mind for success, and nothing can distract him from his channel for long. And to celebrate both our good news, we’re going to film this episode… live. I’ve already announced it. This is going to be epic.

I try not to groan. I don’t mind live videos, but I don’t get a chance to edit. Instead, I have to rely on my filming skills, which are as still as good as my editing skills, but no amount of skill can take the place of a good filter. I could use the video for my portfolio for the internship application. I can show that I have steady hands. They never shake once the camera turns on.

Is your mom almost here? Elijah asks.

Mom agreed to be in one of our episodes for my sixteenth birthday. I haven’t exactly told her what she’ll be doing yet.

LivItUp was Elijah’s idea, creating videos that inspire people to live life the way he does, by trying new things, living through experiences. Qadriyah is the logical, realistic, responds-to-hate-comments leader of the group. It was her idea to set up a Fund-a-Need account associated with our channel for underprivileged kids who need an extra boost. We haven’t had a lot of donations, but it’s something we’re all hoping for.

She’ll do it for me, I say. Despite Mom’s fear of heights, she’s always made a big deal about my birthday, about surviving some difficulties as a baby. One of those challenges was an extremely severe cleft palate. It took ten surgeries to fully correct. I still have a small white scar from my lip to the bottom of my nose.

My dad is a Special Ops military commander who is on missions as often as he’s home, but again, the universe has come together for my special day, and he gets to come along.

I told Elijah and Qadriyah my mom would be in the video last week, but I haven’t gotten around to actually asking Mom about zip lining. I thought maybe Elijah would change his mind about the film location or the subject of the video. I figured it would be a waste of time to ask Mom to do something that she was afraid to do if we were just going to change plans anyway.

Elijah didn’t change his mind, and I didn’t have an easy out. So last night I talked Mom out of taking me to a screening at the Washington Film Institute and asked her to meet me at Rock Creek Regional Park instead.

Qadriyah stays professional as always. Where do we want to start?

Let’s set up the shot, Elijah says. I’ll introduce the episode but make a smooth transition to the zip line during the live portion.

Elijah has no concept of the word patience. He has this energy inside that fills him up and spills out of him. When he talks, it’s like he’s inviting me in, pulling me onto the ride of a lifetime. Surviving difficult things has always been a goal, but Elijah makes me think there might be more to life than just living.

Okay. I situate Elijah and Qadriyah in the shot, facing them toward the lake where the zip line runs across the sky over the water.

The zip line is over fifty feet in the air, a black string against the blue sky, stretching from the tower on one side of the reservoir, over the water, and through the branches of a huge tree before reaching the final platform.

I feel the buzz of excitement in my fingers. Every time I pick up my camera I can feel the power, the responsibility. The Sundance Film internship would give me a leg up in the cinematic world, a real opportunity to make a difference.

I center them in the shot, keeping the camera steady. I catch sight of a white scarf trailing in the corner of the view finder. Mom comes into view, holding my father’s arm.

She’s not exactly dressed for the occasion. Oops. My fault. She’s wearing a gray business suit with heeled black boots, the scarf highlighting her face. My father stands next to her in his black suit, white shirt, and suede tie. His dark sunglasses rest against the puckered scar on his right cheek.

Elijah and Qadriyah turn to look when my camera drifts off them.

She’s here, I say, my heart jumping. I’m sure she’ll be fine even with her fear of heights.

Dad pauses, taking in the scene like he’s checking the perimeter for threats. He couldn’t look more out of place. A large stiff statue of a man waiting for the world to explode around him who joined the secret service after his three tours in Afghanistan. He’s been away for more of my life than he’s been home, but he’s always been a hero in my eyes. He looks the part even though it’s a beautiful sunny day in a perfectly safe park.

Elijah leans closer to me. If he stops a mugging, make sure you get it on camera.

I laugh. Mom reaches us, my shot catching her and Qadriyah as they hug. Elijah turns his full smile on her. Mrs. Harrison. Just the person we wanted to see.

Call me Cordi. She pulls Elijah in for a hug, and, for an instant, he loses his constant take-on-the-world bounce. Sorry I’m late. What are we doing for the beautiful birthday girl?

Mom always makes me feel like the center of the world. But beautiful is not a word I would use to describe me. I like to be behind the camera, capturing the beauty that’s all around me.

We were wondering if you’d zip line with us. Elijah is never one to get distracted. We want to encourage people to try something new, even if they’re afraid. Show that it’s never too late.

Mom’s eyebrows go up in surprise. Are you calling me old? It’s a joke, but her fingers move to her scarf and play with the fringes on the end. A screaming man shoots across on the zip line above us. He’s not helping our cause.

Her fingers always find something to play with when she’s nervous. She’s the strongest person I know, finding ways to bring smiles to everyone around her. She’s terrified of heights, but she’s taught me to face so many of my fears that I don’t doubt for a minute that she can face one of her own.

Mom shakes her head. I’m sure there are plenty of older people doing things like that. You don’t need me.

Elijah pounces on those words like an offended movie director. Of course we need you. It’s always scary to do something new, but that’s the whole point of our channel. We want to inspire people to seize the opportunity when it’s right in front of them.

She looks at me with wide eyes and I think maybe she’s begging for a rescue. But I know just what to say. "Dim byd yn amhosib. Nothing is impossible. I know this is scary, but it’s an opportunity. A chance to do something you thought would be impossible for you." It’s Mom’s saying in Welsh. One of the few things she says that reminds her of her heritage. She came from Wales to the United States when she fell in love with Dad.

"Dim byd yn amhosib. she repeats, straightening her back like she’s ready to be strong for me. And you need this for the video? Need me?"

You can do it, I say. I’m surprised when the words stick in my throat. I understand her fear, I do, but she’s so strong. She’ll be fine. You’re so brave, you can do something hard. And… it’s for my birthday. You’ve made me do hard things and now I’m returning the favor. You always said you’d do anything for me.

Nice pep talk. She takes a deep breath, her gaze landing on the zip line tower across the lake. Her fingers move faster, like she’s trying to unravel the whole scarf. I would. She says the words like she’s convincing herself. I would do anything for you.

I know. Thanks. My heart warms and I take a still shot of her smiling at me.

It takes them forty minutes to get through the line. Dad helps her gear up, not trusting the teenage staff. I start the live feed and Elijah does his opening to the video. I turn, catching Mom as she climbs the ladder across the lake, her white scarf trailing out behind her in surrender.

She bends her knees, preparing to jump. I hold my breath. She’s really doing it.

I check the camera angle, preparing to follow the angle of the zip line.

She jumps.

A strong gust of wind whips across the lake, sending the zip line bouncing. I adjust the shot again, holding it steady, following her slide across the sky.

She’s curled up tight, hanging on for dear life. I imagine her gasp of fright right before holding her breath. Then her head turns toward me. One hand uncurls, reaching out to the side like she might spread her arms and fly.

The shot is steady and clear. I turn the camera a little faster without causing a blur and get ahead of Mom. She slides into the shot. Another gust of wind. A cracking sound echoes across the lake. I stay focused, but something enters the corner of my vision. Moving. Falling. A broken tree branch.

Mom zips through the center of my camera view at the exact same moment as the blur of broken tree. They connect.

The huge branch hits her just before she arrives at the tower, sending her spinning out of control. She crashes hard into the side of the tower. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My hands are trained too well, keeping the image of my mom in the shot. She hangs limp as she slides back from the tower, the line bouncing her like a baby ready for sleep. Workers reach out to pull her in.

Stop. I almost have to say it out loud. Stop filming. This isn’t a movie. She isn’t a stunt actor. That is my mom. And this is real.

Nothing feels real, though. Everything is distant and far away. There are screams, but they sound like they are traveling through water. People on the path stop, pointing and covering their mouths. I move forward in a daze. A crowd is forming. I can’t get to her.

In my mind, I can see the last shot replaying, over and over. The cracking. The tree branch. My beautiful mother, my foundation, my strength, hanging in the air. A limp piece of laundry that I’ve hung out to dry.

CHAPTER 2

The next few days pass like a montage, flashes of scenes put together to tell the story. Nurses’ shoes squeaking on the hospital floor. Dad pacing the edges of the waiting room. Doctors with words that sink in as phrases, not cohesive sentences.

Good news: nothing is broken.

Bad news: bleeding on the brain.

Recommendation: surgery.

Prognosis: brain damage, feeding tube, memory loss.

A pen scratches across the paper as Dad signs permission for treatment.

Waiting.

An eternity of waiting even though it all happens in less than two days. Monday morning arrives with a ray of sunshine that breaks into the room and cuts through my eyelids. I wake slowly, not wanting to face the reality of another day in the hospital.

Dad sits in the chair next to the hospital bed, holding Mom’s hand, the sun from the window haloing both of them in light. His shoulders sag low, his suit—usually tight on his shoulders and perfectly pressed—hangs off him as if he has shrunk a tiny bit. We’ve taken turns grabbing food and using the bathroom, but neither of us wants to miss the moment she wakes up. We haven’t been home. Haven’t slept much. Communication has been so limited I feel like my tongue forgot how to form words.

Dad gets a call and his whole body seems to vibrate with the phone, a shudder running from his shoulders to his toes. He pulls it out, moving like he’s fighting against a heavy force. I understand. I feel it too.

He makes eye contact with me before leaving the room, tired, dark circles beneath his eyes, his five o’clock shadow. His look cuts through me like a plea. Both of us are adrift without her anchoring us. Dad steps outside and the room starts to shrink, becoming claustrophobic. The smell of Clorox and hand sanitizer clog my senses. I have to get a breath of air. I’ll be right back, Mom. I step through the door and look for Dad. He faces away from me, and he stands with his back straight, a soldier’s posture. One hand has broken formation and is gripping the edge of the counter at the empty nurse’s station.

I can’t leave today, sir. My wife is in the hospital. I need an extension.

Dad’s work has always been unpredictable and unquestionable. If they call; he goes. That’s what heroes do. Even when I had my surgeries, he couldn’t be there. This time it’s her in the hospital bed. I can’t imagine what it would do to my dad to leave her like this. Not knowing if she’ll wake up. Only me to be there for her. She’s the strong one. I’ve never had to be strong without her.

Yes, sir. I understand, sir. My dad’s response is so engrained, so automatic. Three days. Thank you, sir. He’s about to turn around, but I can’t face him, can’t put on the mask of pride, act like I’m grateful for his service when I’m crumpling inside.

Panic sends me across the hall and toward an exit sign.

In Case of Emergency, Take the Stairs.

I practically dive through the doors to the stairwell and in my panic, I run up instead of down. I make it two floors before the pounding of my heart robs me of the ability to take another step. I take several deep breaths, willing my heart to slow down. I lean against the door labeled fifth floor. Through the rectangular window I see a sign, a plaque marking a room. Department of Spiritual Care. It sounds like something out of a fantasy book, but I’ve been in enough hospitals to recognize the description. The room for non-denominational religious retreats. We’re not religious, but it feels like the escape I need. I step out of the stairwell and open the door to the Department of Spiritual Care.

The room has large windows, a table and chairs and a couch on the side. A whiteboard takes up an entire wall. It’s covered with quotes, people wishing each other good luck, condolences, messages of hope, inspiration. One phrase written in bright blue stands out bigger than the others.

All things are possible. Luke 1:37

I imagine someone like me—someone facing impossible odds, unsure of the future, not understanding why this is happening—taking a marker and writing those words. I’m grateful the room isn’t occupied.

The last two days have had me stretched thin as a sagging wire. I’ve been sitting around waiting for something good to happen, but that’s not what Mom would do. A few years back, when I was getting ready for a final surgery, Mom joined a meditation group and talked to me about visualizing my future. When it was time for the surgery, we made a circle in my hospital room with a line of tape on the floor at the foot of my bed. We both sat inside it, imagining what the world would look like, sound like, feel like, in the future we were envisioning.

She always said we could bend the universe if we believed hard enough.

I don’t have any tape, so I use some of the folding chairs and move them into a rough circle, seats facing out. Then I sit in the middle, my legs crossed and eyes closed. I imagine a future, not far distant, where Mom sits up in her bed, her arms out to me. I imagine the smell of her skin, the feel of the head bandages against my forehead, the sound of her voice as she whispers, I love you. Yes. I can visualize a future with Mom.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but my buzzing phone brings me back down to reality. I stand up. My left leg tingles and I stomp my foot to get the blood flowing. I feel confident. Sure. Relaxed. Things will work out.

I pull my phone from my pocket. It’s Elijah. The confidence drains out of me. In the aftermath of the accident and driving to the hospital, I left my camera. My precious. The loss should be nothing compared to my worry about Mom, but for some reason it feels just as big.

Bigger. Or maybe I’m just overfilled, and the missing camera splashes all my feelings over the rim. I haven’t checked the channel to see if the live stream was still going. I don’t know what to say to Elijah. I can’t afford a new camera. I’ll have to film everything on my phone. I shiver as I think of the low quality of my hand-me-down phone.

Elijah Kingsley: I have a surprise to show you on our way to school. Be there in twenty.

I’ll have to tell him the bad news sooner or later. Face to face is better. My heart aches for my lost camera. The money I would need for a new one will need to go to medical bills first. I shouldn’t even be thinking that right now. First things first. Mom needs to wake up.

I close my eyes one more time. Things will work out. If I focus on the future I want, I can bend the universe. As I leave the room, I reach for a marker. My hands are steady as I write in a tiny corner of the white board, Dim byd yn amhosib. Nothing is impossible.

Mom would want me to face this with confidence, with belief in the outcome. The worse the odds were, the stronger she would believe in victory. When the path the universe set before her was scary, she would bend it, let light in when no one else could see it.

I ask the universe inside the sunny Department of Spiritual Care to let Mom wake up.

I take the elevator to the lobby. Elijah and Qadriyah come through the automatic sliding doors. Qadriyah rushes forward and gives me a full hug and her scent of ginger and vanilla fills my nose. I sag into her, the comfort as real as a warm blanket.

How is your mom?

She hasn’t woken up from the surgery yet, but they said it went well and they didn’t see any other complications. I want my words to sound strong. Instead, they come out like a forced script read by a bad actor.

She’ll come around, Qadriyah says. She’s the strongest lady I know.

Her voice is sincere but distracted. Qadriyah is never distracted. Elijah is being weird as well. His feet are planted flat, and his eyes keep wandering to a point above my head.

What’s going on? I ask. Is everything okay?

Well, you know how I had a tennis tournament this weekend? I barely made the bus Friday night after we got your mom to the hospital. And Elijah had a speech and debate fundraiser. It was a busy weekend, and we were both thinking about your mom and totally worried.

We texted you. Did you get our texts? Elijah asks.

Only the last one. I had seen the notifications but hadn’t been in the mood. All I wanted was to see Mom’s eyes open.

Qadriyah closes her eyes like she’s sending her own silent plea into the universe. She takes a deep breath.

We should have checked sooner, but we both forgot.

About what? But slowly my mind is coming around. Slowly I realize what they’re talking about. The video. The live stream. I’d just thought of it, too. But I didn’t think Elijah and Qadriyah would have let it go.

My heart falls like the first-person camera shot of someone passing out. The world tilts and I hold on to Qadriyah to make sure I don’t