Shutter

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  He peeks at his watch (a braided leather band, a bronze face; it must be new as well). “I can’t tonight.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Look, Day…” There’s yet another grin on his face, as if there’s anything even remotely grin-worthy going on. “You’re a smart girl, but this isn’t some Disney movie where the parents get back together in the end and everyone lives happily ever after.”

  “Then what’s with this whole scene: the candlelit dinner, the surprise visit, the nice words about Mom…” I set my phone to burst mode to take shots of him—in his new clothes and with his new hair—holding a pair of chopsticks the wrong way.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Capturing this moment.”

  “I won’t have you disrespecting me.”

  “And I won’t sit here while you patronize me. I deserve more than spring rolls and a wad of cash. Thank you for the food, but I’ve lost my appetite.” I go up to my room and shut the door.

  He doesn’t follow.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and wait for a knock on my door. When it doesn’t come, I take my cell phone out of my pocket and flip through the pictures of Dad, trying to make sense of what just happened.

  I focus in on one of them. The grin on his face looks forced. He’s leaning back, as if somewhat at ease, even though nothing about our conversation was easy.

  I go to my computer and upload the photo, setting it on the screen beside a handful of older photos—one from Christmas, several years back: Mom and Dad sitting on the sofa. Dad’s wearing a lumpy sweater. His hair is perfectly parted to the side. He looks so happy, leaning in toward Mom, his eyes focused on her smile.

  There’s also a picture from the camping trip we took the summer I turned thirteen: Mom and Dad snuggled by the fire, unaware that I was looking on from the tent. Dad’s got his lips pressed against Mom’s cheek. His eyes are closed. There’s a smile curled across Mom’s lips.

  I open yet another folder and move my cursor over a photo taken a couple of summers ago: Mom and Dad sitting at opposite ends of a porch swing, angled away from each other, faking awkward smiles for the camera. Beside it there’s a picture from this past July: Mom’s sitting by herself at the picnic table, staring off into space, while Dad stands idle only a couple of feet away.

  When did he stop trying to make things better?

  When did they both start forcing smiles?

  I move to stand in front of my mirror to take a picture of myself: this person who doesn’t see, this girl who’s been so naive.

  There’s a door slam downstairs. I go across the hall to look out the bathroom window—to watch Dad get into his car, start the engine, and pull away, driving right over my heart.

  I head downstairs. The food’s been cleaned up, but the bag from the shed remains tucked beneath my chair. Dad obviously didn’t see it; he must’ve been in a hurry. The reality of that helps dry my tears.

  Back up in my room, I pluck the note out of the bag and open up the folds.

  Thanks for the food (and the place to stay). As you probably guessed by now, I followed you home from the train depot. I can’t really make up a worthy excuse as to why—at least not one that won’t make me sound like a creep.

  I didn’t intend to stay, and I would’ve left by now, but I got sick while I was here. I was going to leave this morning, but your note stopped me.

  I’m curious why you want to talk about the case. If you change your mind, that’s fine. If not, you know where to find me—for the next few hours anyway.

  I read the letter one more time, feeling my skin chill.

  My phone chirps. It’s a text from Mom: Just another 20 min and I’m leaving—promise! Is Dad still there??? Xoxo!

  I flop back onto my bed and gaze up at the ceiling, unsure what to call this feeling. Insecurity? Anger? Frustration? Fear? All of those emotions roll up into a ball and wedge beneath my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

  My cell phone rings (“The Chicken Dance”). I check the screen. It’s Tori. “Hey,” I answer.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t want to bring it up at lunch—in case Jeannie really does like him; she can be such a mysterious mouse at times—and then you took off so fast after school today, I didn’t even get to ask…”

  “What?”

  “Max…after the meeting yesterday…dish.”

  “There’s not too much to dish about. He drove me home. I invited him inside for a glass of water, and then he left.”

  “Was there tongue?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Friends can play tongue tag, you know. No judgment.”

  “I refuse to have this conversation.”

  “You don’t find him even the slightest bit good-looking?”

  “Sure, he’s good-looking. But why do I need to have a boyfriend?”

  “Who said anything about boyfriend. How about a boytoy?”

  “There are way more important things in life than toys.”

  “Like what? Saving the world?” She yawns. “You can’t cuddle up with that at night, you know. Humans need love and companionship, in addition to a sense of personal fulfillment.”

  “Have you been reading your mother’s self-help books again?”

  “Do I sound wiser for it?”

  “No, you just sound more annoying.” I sit up and gaze out the window, startled to see Julian outside. There’s a water bottle in his hand. He’s going for the hose. “Can I call you later?”

  “Have I inspired you to give Max a booty call?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Call me later.”

  I hang up, pocket my phone, and grab my camera. I head into the living room, where the view into the backyard is best.

  Shielded by the curtain, I can see him clearly. Julian is crouched behind a stack of firewood, drinking from the hose, with his back toward me. His hair is chin-length and wavy, the color of chocolate kisses. His pants look even bigger now than just days ago. They hang low on his hips, exposing the small of his back. He angles toward me, slightly, and I zoom in with my camera lens, able to make out the sharpness of his cheekbones and the dimple in his chin. He uses the water to wash his face, to wet his hands, to run his fingers through his hair. The front of his T-shirt gets soaked. Water drips down the center of his chest, making a beeline toward his abdomen.

  He must be absolutely chilled. Meanwhile, my face flashes hot. I shouldn’t be doing this. This is an invasion of his privacy. Still, I take several snapshots, inspired to set them beside the photos from the train depot—to see if his shoulders look just as broad; to check if his skin resembles the color of apple butter, the way it does now.

  I go to zoom in a little closer.

  But then his eyes snap open.

  And he looks in my direction.

  I duck behind the window, feeling my heart pound.

  My phone chirps again. I pluck it out of my pocket. It’s another message from Mom: Im so sorry! Is Dad still there? We r so close to getting Pandora home!!! Just one more hour.

  Just one more hour.

  Just twenty more minutes.

  Just two more days and “I’ll be done with this case, this plight, this violation of justice.”

  But minutes turn into hours. And days turn into weeks. Meanwhile, we’re becoming more and more like tenants who inhabit the same space rather than mother and daughter.

  I peek back at Julian as he rolls up the hose, thinking how I’ve never been one to keep things from my parents. But nothing is the same now. This “separation” feels more like a wide, gaping hole.

  My stomach growls. I need to eat. There’s no sense wasting good Thai food. I’m sure Julian’s hungry too. I head into the kitchen to fix us both a plate.

  Plate of food in hand, I head out to the barn, my nerves absolutely shot. Standing at the door, I knock a couple of times, but it makes no sound.

  I try again, slightly loud
er.

  The door opens. Julian’s standing there. He towers over me by at least six inches. His golden-brown eyes focus hard on mine, stealing my thoughts, blanking my mind. And suddenly I have no words.

  I hand him the plate of food. There’s a confused expression knotted up on his face.

  “I thought you might be hungry.” I shove my hands into my pockets, one hand wrapping around the pepper spray, the other clutching my cell phone.

  He opens the door wider to let me in.

  I step inside, feeling the rush of my adrenaline. “So, I’ve been researching your case.”

  “Why?” He closes the door behind me.

  “Because you were here, loitering around my house and staying inside my barn.”

  “So how come you didn’t call the police?”

  “I did call them. And I’ll call them again if I have to.”

  He takes a step closer, as if to challenge me. “How come you’re not calling them right now?”

  “Because maybe I want to learn more about your case,” I say, trying my best to sound brave. “Maybe the details of your arrest don’t add up for me.”

  “How do I know you won’t turn me in—that whatever I say won’t be used against me?”

  “You don’t.” I swallow hard. “But if you aren’t guilty, or if the case is being mishandled, then I want to try to help.”

  His expression turns cold: a vacant, unblinking stare. “Need I remind you that I’ve been accused of an unspeakable crime?”

  “No reminders necessary. I’m aware of the allegations.”

  “You’re committing a crime too, you know—by helping me.”

  I can feel my face turn pink, and can feel the dark red hives around my neck. “Are you planning on turning me in?”

  “Your parents can’t possibly know I’m here. They’d ground you for good.”

  “You might be surprised about that one.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  Droplets of sweat form at my brow. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “I’m not looking for anything.”

  “Everybody’s always looking for something.” He takes another step closer.

  But I don’t budge an inch. “What are you still doing here? Why aren’t you at least a hundred miles away by now?”

  The question takes him off guard. I can tell by his body language. He looks downward. His posture angles away. “I already told you: I got sick.”

  “But still…That can’t be the only reason. Why aren’t you in Canada or something?”

  He turns to set the plate down. “I guess I was kind of hoping that in the time I’m laying low, new information would surface in my case, exonerating me.”

  I bite my lip, focusing hard on him now, trying to decide if he’s being honest. “Well, maybe, with your help, I’ll be able to find that new information.”

  “You don’t even know if I’m innocent.”

  “I’m going to assume you are—until I prove otherwise, that is.”

  He comes closer again, standing just inches from me now. “And then what?”

  “And then I’ll call the police back.” I pull my cell phone out of my pocket for no apparent reason. My hand shakes. My face burns. “We can start tomorrow. Are you in?”

  He looks away again. Meanwhile, my mouth turns dry and my heart won’t stop hammering.

  “Well?” I ask, trying to feign indifference.

  His breath has quickened; I can tell from the motion in his chest.

  “I’m in,” he says, finally.

  It isn’t until after eleven that my mother finally comes home.

  “Day?” she calls out.

  I hear the clank of her keys as she drops them on the table in the entryway. The floorboards creak as she makes her way up the stairs. I quickly minimize the screen on my computer—the list of questions I’m drafting for Julian—and go into my virtual gallery, making it look like I’m arranging photos.

  “Sweetie?” she says. There’s a light rap on my open door. “What’s this…working on a Friday night?”

  “Like mother, like daughter.”

  “Well, how about a peace offering?”

  I turn to look. She’s holding a box from Brewer’s Bakery.

  “I got us some red velvet cupcakes,” she says. “Your favorite.”

  I swivel back around to my screen. “Isn’t it you who always says it isn’t good to eat after seven?” Something about the body not having sufficient time for proper digestion.

  “Couldn’t we make an exception, just this once?”

  I move my cursor over a photo of a girl I saw at the park. I snuck the shot on a walk home with Jeannie a few weeks ago. I asked Jeannie to pose in front of the swirly slide. Little did she know that I was missing her entirely, zooming in on the girl just over her shoulder.

  In the photo, the girl is sitting on a bench with her boyfriend. He’s caught in a laugh with his mouth arched wide. She’s smiling too, but it’s clearly forced. Her eyes look teary and her posture’s pointed away from him. I drag the photo under a heading that says “Alone with Other People.”

  “I know you’re upset,” Mom begins. “I haven’t been available much.”

  But…

  “But you have to know,” she continues, “I’m doing some very important work.”

  “More important than being home with your family?”

  “Not more important, just different-important. Was Dad upset?”

  “I was upset. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “I’m sorry.” She sighs, coming farther into the room. She sits down on my bed. “I know this has been an adjustment for you too.”

  “It has,” I say, thinking how ever since her and Dad’s separation—leaving a wide, gaping hole in our musketeer trio—Mom and I have been on two entirely separate pages: she, distracted by work; me, in a trio of one (which makes absolutely no sense, which is why it doesn’t work).

  “I never got to ask: How did your Peace & Justice meeting go? It was yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “It didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

  “Did you have a nice turnout?”

  “Define nice.”

  “Ten? Fifteen people?”

  “Try three, including Jeannie and Tori.” I pivot in my seat to face her.

  “Sounds like you’ll just have to work harder.”

  “I already do work hard.”

  Mom snickers. “I once had to work eighteen-hour days for five weeks straight, and that still wasn’t ‘hard work’ enough.”

  “When will this household be your hard work?”

  “Excuse me?” Mom’s jaw stiffens. Her eyes narrow.

  “Sometimes I feel like I need to get locked up in jail if I want to see you ever.”

  “Don’t take your failed meeting out on me.” She gets up and leaves the room.

  But I’m not done fighting yet. I grab my folders full of Peace & Justice plans: my meeting’s agenda, the articles I found concerning various human rights movements (for fair trade, free love, environmental justice), the extra posters I made up, and the research I did on similar clubs at other schools. I barrel down the stairs and storm into the kitchen. Mom’s at the stove. I drop everything onto the table with a satisfying thud. “Do you still think I haven’t been working hard enough?”

  But Mom continues to stir her pot, refusing to turn around.

  “Tell me,” I shout, desperate for a reaction. “This is a month’s worth of research right here….”

  Mom shakes her head. Stir, stir, stir.

  “Nothing I do is ever good enough, is it?” I continue. “Is that why you barely come home? Why you hole yourself up in your office for hours on end? Why we never talk anymore?”

  Stir, stir.

  “Do I remind you too much of Dad?” I blurt, grasping at straws. “He was here today. Where were you? How come you’re not even trying to make this family work?”

  St
ill she doesn’t answer, which makes tears well up in my eyes. Why am I not even worthy of a fight?

  I reach into my pocket for my phone. I take a picture of her back as she stands at the stove, sampling whatever’s in the pot with her wooden spoon. I can see her reflection against the microwave door. Her face is neither sad nor angry. Her eyebrows furrow as she smacks her lips together and then adds more salt.

  Like I’m not even here.

  Like hot bubbling tears aren’t streaking down my face.

  I turn the camera lens on me and take a snapshot of myself, with my puffy eyes and my blotchy cheeks. I imagine the two photos in an album, side by side, under a heading that says “Dysfunction.”

  When Mom still doesn’t say anything, I gather up all of my Peace & Justice paraphernalia and go for the door, making a beeline for the trash cans, assuming she’ll try to stop me or change my mind.

  She doesn’t.

  Saturday, October 17

  Afternoon

  I waited until early morning before going out to see what Day had thrown into the trash.

  Poster boards stuck out from beneath a trash can lid. I grabbed one and held it up in the moonlight: the letters PB&J were huge across the front. The date was listed too. I’d been on the run for almost two weeks.

  I pulled a couple of folders out as well, picking through old banana peels and a bunch of other half-eaten crap too gross to salvage. A stream of papers blew out from one of the folders. I scooted down to pick them up, just as a light shined in my direction.

  I dropped everything. And looked up.

  It was Day. She aimed her flashlight straight into my eyes.

  I stood, holding my hands up like I was suddenly under arrest. “I heard you,” I attempted to explain. “That is, I saw you throwing this stuff away.”

  She was dressed in a robe and slippers, and some sort of long silky pants.

  “I’ll leave if you want,” I told her.

  She looked away instead of answering. Her hair blew back in the wind, away from her face, revealing skin that seemed to glisten. “I shouldn’t have dumped this stuff,” she said. “It was a bad decision in the heat of the moment.”