“Not morbid, maybe. But you have to admit it’s unusual. I understand the concept of bucket lists. And I’ve read about people marrying on their deathbed. But what you’re doing, having a wedding celebration by yourself, doesn’t that just strike you as a little bit, well, sad?”
“Of course it’s sad. Believe me, I never planned on walking down the aisle alone, no one waiting at the end, and I’m aware that I probably sound like a total loser doing just that.”
“Then why?”
I sigh.
“Sorry.” He holds up his hands. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me or anyone. I’m not trying to upset you, just trying to understand. I find the whole idea a bit uncomfortable, if I’m honest.”
“Did you always dream of being a photographer?” I ask quietly.
He frowns at the change of subject but allows the indulgence. “Yes.”
“When did you know, exactly, that it’s what you wanted to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
He takes a deep breath in through his nose and then exhales slowly, his face watching mine. “From when I was a young boy. I don’t remember the exact age. My mother was an amateur photographer and she used to take me out with her on weekends. We’d explore the local forests and lakes.”
“She must be proud of you.”
“I’m sure she is. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
I look at the ground, willing tears to stay away. “I never had that moment, or epiphany. Growing up, I didn’t dream of being anything. While other girls aspired to be ballet dancers, or teachers, or Olympic equestrians, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. The only thing I ever knew with any certainty was that I wanted to get married. I’ve been dreaming of my wedding for as long as I can remember.”
His face softens. “I see.”
“And it’s hard not to wonder now, whether the reason I couldn’t see a career or future for myself was because maybe deep down, on some cellular level, I knew I had no future.”
He looks skeptical.
“I know. It sounds crazy. But believe me, when you’re told you’re dying, while you still feel and look healthy, it’s hard not to question your whole life. Examine it for clues, signs of what was to come. Anyway. When they told me the cancer was back and that it was terminal, I figured, why not? Why not have the only thing I’ve ever wanted?”
“I understand.” His face doesn’t quite reflect his words, though.
“No, I don’t think you do.” My voice grows heated. I’m not sure why it’s so important to me that he understands, but it is. “I’m not doing this to be self-indulgent, or because I want everyone to see me look pretty in a big white dress. I’m doing this because I can. Because it’s the one thing I’ve always wanted, and it’s the only thing left that I can have any control over.”
He gives a little nod. “Fair enough. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in your position. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, I’m glad you did.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then can I ask one more question? Or am I pushing my luck?”
“Of course you can.”
“Why get the magazine involved? Why not keep it as something private, between you and your family?”
“I didn’t get them involved. My friend Amanda, she plastered it all over social media.”
He winces. “Ah, yes, social media. The blessing and curse of our times.”
“Her heart was in the right place. She just wanted to help out, financially. But for some reason the story just took off, and then the magazine got in touch, wanting to write about it. I did say no, initially. But then I was reminded by some very wise women that it could be a powerful platform to help raise awareness.”
“That’s admirable.”
“Not really. I’m nervous about putting myself out there, I’m not going to lie. But if it stops even one person from going through the same thing it’ll be worth it. I wasn’t taken seriously at first, when I went to see a doctor. And I didn’t push the issue because I figured they knew what they were doing.”
“We place a lot of trust in the medical profession. Sometimes misguidedly.” His voice sounds bitter.
“Exactly. So I figure that if by telling my story I can help other women, especially younger ones, be better advocates for their own health, why not. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For misjudging you. Your intentions.”
I shrug. “That’s OK. You’re probably not the only one.”
“No, it’s not OK. I feel terrible.”
“Don’t.” I smile. “I’m not bothered.”
“That’s because you appear to be one of those people who look for the positive in any situation.”
“Well it’s not much fun dwelling on the negative, is it?”
“No. It’s not.” He looks at me with better understanding. “Thank you, for answering my questions honestly.”
“You did the same for me; it was the least I could do.”
He smiles again, and it is more open and genuine. “Let’s get these photos, shall we?”
I screw up my nose. “If we have to. I’m not very good at posing, sorry. Always have to fight the urge to pull a face.”
He laughs. “Relax. I know what I’m doing. You’ll be a natural by the time I’m finished with you.”
Chapter Eighteen
He is a wonder to watch as he works. The way he scans an area for optimum lighting angles and the aesthetics of the background. He seems to know instinctively what will work and what won’t, and I meekly move as he tells me, sometimes imperceptibly, until he is satisfied. At first I am self-conscious and stiff, but his voice as he gives directions is calming and soon I relax, determined to enjoy the experience.
“Tilt your chin up a little,” he says from behind the lens. “And angle your head to the right. Perfect.”
I am leaning against the trunk of the willow tree. Its bark is scratchy against my back but it doesn’t hurt, and I quite enjoy sensations that remind me I’m alive. The shade from the hanging tendrils of branches is a welcome relief, especially when I am wearing a full-length gown that weighs more than its delicate appearance would suggest. A fly buzzes around my head and I try to blow it away without moving my head.
“Stay still.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Put your right foot slightly against the tree and bend your knee.”
“Why? You can’t see it under the dress.”
He clicks his tongue and says mock-sternly, “Are you seriously questioning me? The professional photographer?”
“Sorry.” I do as he asked.
“I should think so.” He takes a photo and checks the screen on the back of his camera. “Perfect.” Then he walks over and shows me the photos, flicking back and forward between the ones before he asked me to move and afterwards.
“Ah,” I say. “I see.”
The subtle move has emphasized the contouring of the dress, and I look more relaxed, like I am truly a bride simply hanging out in a paddock as opposed to someone modeling a dress.
“Trust the master now?” he teases.
“Oh, no, I never trust anyone who refers to themselves as ‘master.’ Far too Fifty Shades.”
“Fifty shades of what?”
“Seriously?”
He looks at me blankly.
“Maybe google it,” I say, flushing slightly at the thought of trying to explain the subject matter to him.
“OK.” He goes back to his position and starts taking more photos.
“So, have you done this before?” I ask.
“A photo shoot in a field?”
“Yes.”
“Not someone in bridal wear, no. But I did shoot a naked fireman with a leg up on a hay bale and a discreetly pl
aced pitchfork once. It was for a charity calendar.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t happen to still have copies of that photo, do you?”
His eyebrows arch over the camera.
“For my friend Amanda.” I add hastily. “They would make a good Christmas present.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, clearly amused.
“Thanks. And any, you know, outtakes as well. Just chuck them in. For Amanda.”
“Sure. For Amanda.”
“It’s true,” I laugh.
“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. OK.” He checks his camera to make sure he has the perfect shot. “I want to get one of you lying in those wildflowers over there. You don’t have allergies, do you?”
“Only to paclitaxel. And that’s more of a hypersensitivity.”
“Paclitaxel?”
“Chemotherapy drug.”
“Oh. Right.” He clears his throat and swallows noisily.
Immediately, I’m regretful. I’ve made him uncomfortable by bringing cancer into the conversation. And it was all my own fault, this time. “Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Bringing down the mood.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. It’s me who should be sorry. I just don’t know what to say, and it’s frustrating, because I should.” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly annoyed with himself.
“It’s OK.”
“It’s not.”
“It is, honestly. I’m used to it and I don’t blame people for avoiding the topic as much as I used to.”
His eyes study me and I shift nervously under the intensity I see in them.
“How do you do that?” he asks quietly.
“How do I do what?”
“Stay positive. Keep smiling. Joke around.”
“What’s the alternative? Being bitter won’t change anything. All that would do is make the time I have left miserable, and I don’t want that.”
“I don’t know if I could do it.”
“Sure you could. But I hope you never have to. Don’t get me wrong, I have my bad days. Days where I cry or throw stuff at walls and lash out at my loved ones because my rage at the unfairness of it is so fierce inside of me that I want to hurt someone just the way I am hurting. But I try not to do that, because it’s no one’s fault.”
“How do you even begin to accept it?”
“I don’t know. You just have to. I’ve soul-searched for a reason why this is happening to me. And I’ve drawn a blank. Because I did nothing wrong. It’s not luck of the draw, or the cards that I’ve been dealt. It’s just shit. But it is what it is, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
I’ve worked myself up while I’ve been speaking, and even though I don’t want them to, hot tears well up in my eyes and threaten to burst over. I blink furiously to dispel them and James takes two quick steps to stand in front of me. He is awkward, for the briefest of moments, as he hesitates.
“Um, should I…do you want me to…?”
Then his instincts take over and he reaches out to pull me into an embrace. It takes him by surprise just as much as it does me.
I sniff noisily into his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You didn’t, remember? I did.” He smells fresh and ever so slightly floral; and I imagine his laundry powder markets itself as sunshine in a box. But I can smell the essence of him too, and it’s comforting. He is warm and he is alive and the weight of his arms around my shoulders and neck is calming. I sink in further against him and enjoy the sense of shelter he provides. His chin rests on the top of my head and I feel his breath in my hair, warm. I feel like I could stay here all day, but then reality crashes back in.
“Shit.” I pull back.
“What’s wrong?”
“My makeup, have I ruined it?”
He smiles and uses one hand to tilt my head up toward him. Then he uses his thumb to rub gently underneath my eye. “No. You still look beautiful.”
I flush and look down, unable to remember the last time someone other than my mother called me that.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the cute ones.” He echoes my earlier words teasingly.
“You think I’m cute?”
“Stop fishing for more compliments.”
He laughs when I look outraged. “Come on. I need to get this last shot nailed and then get you back to your mother before she sends out a search party.”
“As much as I’d like to dismiss that as a joke, I wouldn’t actually put it past her.”
I follow him over to a patch of wildflowers at the other end of the field, near a fence that has a small river on the other side. If I wasn’t in a bridal dress I’d be tempted to go for a wade. In fact, if James wasn’t here, I’d be tempted to ditch the dress completely and have a swim. The water looks waist-deep where we are but I can see a bend further down where the river widens and the water darkens with depth. It looks cold, but that doesn’t scare me; I’ve had a thing for wild swimming ever since I was a child. My father will swim anywhere at any time, given enough water, and he’s passed that love on to me. I cast a longing look and debate whether it’s too deep for me to just hold the dress up, but then James interrupts my thoughts.
“OK, lie down right here, I think,” he says, gesturing among the long grass and flowers.
“Lie down?”
“Yes.”
“There?”
“Yes.”
“On the flowers?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No, no. No problem.”
“There’s a higher concentration of flowers in this spot. More colors.”
“Until I squash them,” I mumble, gingerly trying to lie among the long grass and flowers.
“I’m sure Ruth won’t mind a few losses, for the sake of art, after all. Close your eyes.”
I do as I’m told.
“Look pensive,” he instructs.
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Thoughtful.”
“Oh, OK. I can manage that.”
There’s silence for a minute or so, and I assume he is making the necessary camera adjustments. I figure there’s no time like the present to practice some mindfulness, so I relax on to the earth and focus on my senses, trying not to think about creepy-crawlies in my hair or finding their way into my ears. The grass is tickly against my bare skin, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. I can smell the wildflowers around me, some I recognize as poppies and cornflowers, but most are varieties of which I have no idea. There is such a large assortment that I realize Ruth must have planted them here deliberately.
I can hear the water in the river babbling softly, and birds in the willow tree and surrounding native bush as they warble and call to each other. It’s magical; it’s perfection. But of course I can only enjoy it for so long before negative thoughts creep back in. There is a whole world of nature I have yet to discover. Scandinavian forests. The Alaskan wilderness. Mexican beaches. I’ve seen them all in movies and magazines. I yearn to touch, smell, and explore them first hand.
“You OK?”
I open my eyes. James is silhouetted against the sun, looking down at me. He has his camera to his eye and I realize he has been taking photos while I was unaware.
“Yes.” I smile. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” He lowers the camera to cast a critical eye over me.
“There’s something missing.”
He reaches down to pluck a few flowers, which he clumsily arranges into a makeshift bouquet. “Here.” He thrusts them at me. “Hold those.”
I close my eyes and smell the flowers he passed me. Pollen goes straight up my nose and I start sneezing violently.
“Christ, you didn’t inhale a bee, did you?” he asks, concerned.
“If I did it’s now in my brain,” I laugh,
managing to bring myself back under control. “Good luck explaining that to my mother.”
“OK, close your eyes again and hold the flowers on your chest,” he says when I have calmed down.
I give him a pointed look but do as he says, and then lie there and listen to the gentle whirr of the camera as he takes photos.
“Doesn’t this look a bit weird?” I ask after a while.
“Shush, don’t talk.”
“But I feel like Ophelia,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
I hear him sigh. “Who?”
“Ophelia, you know, in that painting.”
“What painting?”
I open my eyes, sit up, and give the flowers a little shake. “The really famous one, by John Everett Millais. Come on, you’re an artist of sorts; how can you not know what I’m talking about?”
He lowers the camera and I watch his eyes widen in horror. “Oh, God. You’re right. Probably not the best pose, given the circumstances. I’m so sorry. I should have realized.” He squeezes his eyes shut, angry with himself.
“Hey, don’t stress. I’m not upset.”
“You should be.”
“Like I told you, life’s too short. But I will remind you of your earlier ‘master’ comment.”
“You’re right.” He gives me a hangdog expression. “I’ve lost all privileges to call myself that.”
“Temporarily suspended. Not lost.”
“You’re too kind. OK. Ditch the flowers,” he says. “Just do what feels natural.”
I pull one of the flowers from the bunch, a red poppy, and tuck it behind my ear. Then I throw the others to the wind and watch as they scatter like confetti. Lying back, I put both arms behind my head and rest on them. Then I look up at the clouds in the sky and I smile.
“That’s perfect,” he says softly, lifting the camera back to his face.
“What does that cloud look like to you?” I ask.
“Which one,” he answers, without looking away from his camera.
I lift one arm out and point. “That big one over there.”
He stops to give it a quick glance. “I don’t know. A giant marshmallow?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s original. Have another look.”
“We’re losing the best daylight here.”
“It’ll only take you a second. Go on, indulge me.”
Photos of You (ARC) Page 10