THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 2011
(FIVE WEEKS EARLIER)
7:16 PM
I try to talk to my mom, I really do. Sometimes. Like a couple weeks ago, I got this idea, reading about the earliest days of photography, back when people tried using photography to help treat the mentally ill. I’m not sure how they thought it would help, but that’s why there are all these collections of photographs of patients at all these mental institutions in the U.S. and England from the 1800s, right?
Well, so my idea was that this handsome photographer is commissioned to take portraits, create this whole collection of pictures of the patients of an asylum. And while he’s there, he meets one of the patients, this young woman, and of course she’s beautiful and she comes from a good family, but she never talks, and it’s like she never sees him. She’s completely in her own world, and when he tries finding out why she’s there, no one can tell him for certain what happened to her or what the problem is.
So the photographer gets this idea that maybe he can treat her or heal whatever’s ailing her by taking her picture; maybe he can draw her out and give the girl her voice back through his photography, but it doesn’t work. Turns out, the Native Americans were right, that the camera does steal a piece of your soul, and he knows that myth, because he’s been to the West, and he’s taken pictures of different tribes; he’s been warned. But then he keeps taking her picture, trying to find her, reach her, trying to love her. But most of all, he’s trying to make her love him back. That was as much as I knew, but I started drawing the things I could think of. Like this scene in the hospital gardens, and then, later, this scene in a forest, where he takes her to photograph her.
But that’s all I know so far, really. I mean, I think maybe he finds out the real reason she’s there, and maybe, whatever the truth is, it’s much better and much worse than he ever could’ve imagined. Maybe the girl starts speaking; she tells him her deep, dark secret, and it turns out she’s really not crazy at all, and he wants to help her escape or to run away with her. I don’t know, maybe he thinks she’ll love him, that she could love him, and finds out that she can’t; she’ll never love him, and that’s why he keeps taking her pictures, knowing he’s capturing her soul, frame by frame.
I was thinking about calling the story “Ambrotype,” but I’m thinking I’ll just call it “Sepia,” because it’s easier. Still, I thought it could be a really beautiful period piece, but it could also be about modern photography and all the things we deal with today, becoming obsessed with people we don’t even know just because we have a picture of them on our desktop. I felt like it could actually work, and so I kept writing everything that came to mind. I was just trying to finish a first draft to give to Cam for Valentine’s, right? So one night, I took a break and I went into the kitchen to get something to drink, and my mom looked up at me, smiling, sitting at the kitchen table, and she reached out to grab my arm, just like she used to, and I don’t know why, but I told her my idea.
I took a glass out of the cupboard, and then she asked what I’d been up to, and I said, Hold on, I’ll show you, and ran to my room and got our sketchbook and took it back to the kitchen. Her car broke down and she had to put all our money into getting it fixed, and things had been so stressful, I just wanted it to be like it used to be, when I’d show her my drawings. I know it hurt her feelings that I share so much with Karen now, and not with her. And that’s partly because Karen studied art and film, you know, but I think I also share so much with Karen exactly because she’s not my mom. That’s the point, you know?
Anyhow, I told her the whole idea, and Mom goes, That’s an amazing idea, Thee. How’s it start? Like this, I said, sitting down and opening to the first drawing, turning the sketchbook so she could see. I said, It looks like lapse photography of storm clouds, right, but it’s actually steam, you see? I think it should start, like the credits start with one of the patients, sitting in a chair, sitting still, staring at the audience. Someone attractive, not one of those crazy women without teeth who looks like she’s from Appalachia. Because back then, you’d have to sit still for five, ten minutes, even, for daguerreotypes. Like they had neck braces and all this equipment to keep people from moving, because it was so expensive, and you’d have to sit perfectly still for such a long time.
Mom shook her head and said, Braces? Yes, I said, these huge braces, I said clasping my hand behind my neck, so happy to see she was totally into the idea. And at one point, Mom, I was thinking of circling the camera around, showing the metal braces from behind the sitting models, so you’d feel how uncomfortable it was, having your picture taken, like the things people were willing to do, but anyhow. Credits don’t take ten minutes, but like a good three or four minutes of this person staring at you, while names appear in old-fashioned handwriting, and then, at the end of the credits, the model finally blinks, and then a flash goes off, and then there’s a cloud of smoke. And then, I don’t know, maybe cut to another cloud of smoke, when a train stops at the station, and the photographer gets off, carrying all his equipment, all these leather bags and old tripods. Cam will know how to make it work, I said. I guess it’s not really very developed yet, but we’ll see, I said.
Mom smiled, not saying anything, and I had to smile, thinking how Cam always says, You’re color, kid, and I’m play by play. Like baseball announcers, you know? How one announcer handles the technical, and one does the song and dance, entertaining. And I liked being color, too. So how’s it end? Mom said, propping her chin with one hand. I could tell she was genuinely interested in the story; she wasn’t just being nice because she’s my mom. We were having such a good time, hanging out together, then who walks through the door? Hey, girls, Rain Man said, waltzing in, and I rolled my eyes—seriously, what timing. Hey, Mom said, smiling, and then he leaned over to kiss her, and I had to turn away, thinking, Never mind me and my gag reflex….
Ray goes, Hey, Theadorie, and I go, Hey, and he goes, Don’t let me interrupt, heading straight for the fridge. And I said, Easier said than done, Ray—I said it under my breath, but my mom cocked her head at me, even though I don’t think Raymond heard, because he’d already grabbed a beer and was fishing for a bottle opener in the silverware drawer. Mom kept looking at me, though, telling me to watch myself, because Ray’s been behaving lately.
I know she was trying to be nice, to show me she was proud or something, make peace, I don’t know. But then she goes, Thea, tell him about the script you’re writing, and I just looked at her, like, Why did you have to say that? That’s private: this is why I don’t tell you anything anymore, because for some reason, you think you have to tell Raymond, who never even gets it. I didn’t say anything, and she goes, It’s such a great idea for a movie, Thea, tell him.
It’s hard when you’re being flattered that way, but there’s a price, you know? So I sighed out loud, and I said, I have an idea about a photographer in the 1860s who falls in love with a beautiful girl in an insane asylum, who he’s commissioned to photograph, and then he steals her soul because she doesn’t love him back. Or maybe he breaks all the plates, killing her, but freeing her soul, I’m not sure yet, I said. And Ray goes, Wait, a little girl? furrowing his brow, before tilting his head way back, taking a drink. I said, A young woman, trying not to clench my jaw so tight I’d never be able to open it again.
Ray goes, This is a movie idea? opening the cupboard and taking out the can of nuts, and I go, Yes. It’s a movie script for a movie, Ray. By the way, did you wash your hands? I asked, watching him shove his hand in the tin of mixed nuts Mom keeps for him. And then my mom goes, Thea, don’t be rude, and I looked at her, like, I’m being rude?
Ray could care less. He takes a sip of beer and goes, Well, if you ask me, and I go, Actually, I wasn’t asking you, and Mom cocked her head, and Ray goes, I’m just saying, it’s a little twisted, is all. Really, who wants to watch a love story that takes place in a nuthouse? he said, grabbing another handful of salted nuts. I looked at him, and then I go, Wh
atever, slapping my sketchbook shut, and I got up to leave the room. Of course Mom called after me, telling me to come back, and I ignored her, slamming my door as quietly as I could get away with without being scolded about slamming my door. I’m sorry, but I was having a good talk with my mom for once, and then Raymond has to walk in, and it’s just like, Ugh. I can’t stand you.
Anyhow, I fell on top of my bed and opened up to the page again, the one with the picture of trees, the pictures of everything the girl sees in her silent world, all the beauty in her mind, no matter that everyone takes it for darkness. I mean, it’s called crazy love, after all, so what better place to set a love story than an insane asylum?
THURSDAY, APRIL 21, 2011
(SEVENTEEN DAYS LATER)
12:58 PM
Then I just started crying. I mean, not in the conference room with my mom and Foley—I didn’t have anything to say to either of them. No, I made it to the fountain in the hall, before I retched, and then I went back inside. I sat there, staring at the table, while Foley told my mom everything he’d just told me. When he finished, Mom said the same thing I did, that she didn’t believe Cam would ever do such a thing, but she turned white as a sheet—only time I’ve ever seen my mom that pale was when she got food poisoning, that time we were on vacation in Mexico. When sixth period bell rang, Mom stood up and said, Agent Foley, I’ll need to speak to my daughter about this, so Foley nodded his head, like he was overflowing with compassion, liar, and he gave her his card, and then we walked out of the office.
When we got to the hall, Mom offered to take me home, but I said no, because I didn’t want to talk—I couldn’t, and she was as shell-shocked as I was, so I knew she’d wait until she got back from work. She turned and walked out, and I went to my locker to grab my books, and last bell rang, and I was late already, but that’s when I went to the bathroom, and I went into one of the toilets, locked the door, and then I just started sobbing. When I couldn’t cry anymore, and I don’t even know why, but I called Knox. I just needed someone to talk to, and who can I talk to anymore? He picked up right away and asked what was wrong, and then I started blubbering all over again, so he couldn’t understand what I was saying when I told him someone put tapes of me and Cam having sex on the Internet. And Knox goes, Thea, where are you? I go, The girls bathroom, where do you think? Then he sighed and goes, I better come and get you, so I told him, I said, Knox, I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay? He goes, Good: me, neither.
When he picked me up, out front, I got in, and he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell if he was being for real or not, so I said, I feel like you aren’t saying something. And he said, I’m not. And I go, You saw the videos, didn’t you? He nodded yes, and I said, Speak up, then, and he goes, That afternoon, you two cut class and drove to your house? And I said, Yes, and he said, And then what? I was so annoyed. And we had sex, I said, okay? And he goes, I’m sorry, Thea, but I have to make sure I’m understanding you. You’re telling me that you and Cam did have sex that day? I said, Yes, we did, but it’s not us in the video, Knox. He goes, How can you be sure? And I go, Because we didn’t tape ourselves, that’s how! I yelled it at him, too, and he held up his hand, holding me back, and I sat back in my seat.
He looked in the rearview, and then he goes, I’m sorry to have to say this, Thea, but look at the facts, and I go, He didn’t. Do it. Okay? It’s impossible, I said, and he said, Anything is possible, and I said, Not in this case. And he goes, How can you be so sure, Thea? I said, One, because I know Cam, and two, because it never happened. Knox goes, What do you mean it never happened? I said, You won’t believe me if I tell you, and he raised his brow, and he said, Try me. I go, Okay, then. The last video, that one that looks like us from that Saturday night, the one that looks like us having sex in the bathroom at that party? It never happened. I’m telling you that it can’t be us in that video, because it never happened—it was just something I thought, and then Knox’s head started shaking, and he pulled over. He stopped the car, and then he turned to look at me like, let’s get this straight. Knox goes, Thea, you’re telling me… you’re telling me you two didn’t have sex in the bathroom that night; you only thought about it? What, like a fantasy? You’re saying it’s a video of your fantasy? I looked over at him, and I go, Exactly.
THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 2011
(FIVE WEEKS EARLIER)
4:11 PM
Cam’s hands were all black from Magic Marker, helping me scrub the ink off my feet, before we got back in bed. I put my arm across his chest, and he was looking at one of my scars, and he didn’t say anything. He was just looking, turning my biceps to the light, and I told him, I said, Craziness is genetic, you know? I come from a long line of crazy people, and he goes, Hard to believe.
I go, I’m not kidding. One year, when I was about five or six, they had a family reunion on my dad’s side, and it was this big, big deal. Like even my mom came, and she never went to Nanna’s house. Anyhow, I just remember everyone whispering about one of my dad’s cousins who was there. I guess he got special permission to be there, because he’d had some sort of breakdown, and they had to commit him. I didn’t really understand that at the time, but I remember overhearing some of my relatives talking about how it all started. David, my cousin, when he was a teenager, I guess he had such bad insomnia that he could barely go to school, then he started seeing things. So one morning, he walked down to the breakfast table, and told his parents there were ghosts in their house, and then it got worse, the hallucinations, whatever, until he was diagnosed as schizophrenic.
He was about my dad’s age, and he was really handsome, too, David. I remember seeing him sitting in a chair, alone, at the back of the room, during the big party. I stopped to look at him, and I was young enough, it didn’t occur to me how rude I was being, staring. I couldn’t help it, though, because I thought, He doesn’t look any crazier than anybody else, and then, right on cue, David smiled and curled his finger for me to come over to him. So I walked over, and he goes, You’re Thea, aren’t you? I nodded yes, then he goes, Do you want to hear a secret? And I did—ohmygod, I wanted to hear a secret so badly, because I knew he must have some really good secrets, because crazy people always do, right? I nodded, so serious, and I said, Yes, and then he cupped his hand, leaning over to whisper in my ear, and he goes: There are angels all around you. Did you know that?
I remember opening my eyes wide, because I believed him, and I started looking all around for them. And the thing is, he’s all dressed up, and he was so handsome, but I knew he was living in some completely different reality from the rest of us—kids can tell, you know? Then he leaned toward me, and he said: Thea, I’ve been watching you all night, and the angels have been following you everywhere, he said, running his index and middle finger all over the room, and then, out of nowhere, my dad swooped in. Dad goes, Is Thea giving you any trouble? leaning over, smiling at me. And I could tell my dad was afraid, but I had so many questions I wanted to ask David, because I’d never met anyone who could see angels, I said, looking up. Then Cam tucked my hair behind my ear and I felt so close to him, like we shared our skin. I said, Maybe it’s silly, but I think we can become our own ghosts, when we stop living in the present, when we can’t let go of the past. I don’t know what that has to do with David, exactly, but I think he knew. Because I think all the angels and ghosts he saw, I think they told him things, secret things, and he got stuck in between now and then. I said, But see, that’s the difference between kids and adults. Because adults look at that, and they say, How could there be angels and ghosts? Kids look at that like, How could there not be angels and ghosts?
Cam hugged me, and I laid my head on his chest, while he stroked the inside of my bare arm with one hand. It was so calming in a way, but at the same time, I could feel his hand running over all my scars, reminding me how strange my skin must feel to the touch. Just then, he said, Shhh, like he could read my mind, and I couldn’t help grinning, hiding my face, because I think he d
id.
I don’t talk about the hospital much, not even with Cam, really, even though he knows the whole story, but I did then. I said, You know I thought about David a lot for those months when I was in the hospital, because I was where he was. I mean, we weren’t in the same hospital, but I felt like I was in the same position he must have been in for all those years. And because I hadn’t heard anyone mention him in so long, I had to wonder if he ever got better, or if he ever got out. Because I was so afraid I wouldn’t get better, that I’d never get out, I said, looking up, realizing I was talking about the hospital, not even thinking about it. Cam never talks about his dad, and I never talked about the hospital, but looking at him, I knew he would let me tell him as much as I wanted, or as little. I wanted him to know everything about me, but at that moment, all I could say was, Isn’t a ghost just someone trapped between two worlds? But Cam just smiled, looking at me for the longest time.
Ghost Time Page 10