by Calla Devlin
It took hours to get the right perspective, but when I did, even I couldn’t believe the effect. It had been a typical foggy summer morning, and I’d shot it in black and white. Now that I see the print, it truly looks like the picture of Lena is my own reflection.
I’d been so out of it this morning that I forgot to tell Megan I was here. So when she opens the door, she startles when she sees me. At least the lights are on.
“Another early morning, Charlotte?”
“Yeah, sorry. I should have asked.”
“No.” She shakes her head and smiles. “You never have to get permission to use the darkroom—as long as it’s free.”
Curiosity gets the better of her, and she unclips a print. “These are different. I’ve never seen you do a self-portrait.”
“I was just playing around. I didn’t mean to show them to anyone.”
“I’m glad you did,” she says. “Are you finished in here?”
“Yeah, for now. They need to dry.”
Megan returns the picture. “Come into the classroom. Coffee’s brewing.”
Newspapers rest atop each table. I wonder if we’re back to our usual seat assignments, no longer clustered together strategizing about digging up information on Dad and Ukraine. I hope not. I want to stay huddled together, with Megan taking charge of our investigative work. I want to start off the morning with the Editorial Roundtable reporting any new discoveries before going about our usual duties with the whole staff during first period. Editing copy. Designing the pages. Writing photo captions.
Megan fills two mugs, adds milk to both, and brings a few sugar packets to the table. She knows I take my coffee candy-sweet. A magazine, one of her favorites published by a nonprofit committed to in-depth reporting, rests on the table. I love their photo essays. It’s open to a page with a single shot of a man’s face, maybe his passport photo, accompanied by a letter:
Dear Mr. President,
William Baxter published with National Public Radio, the Boston Globe, Chicago Tribune, and Denver Post. He graduated from Columbia University’s journalism school with one goal in mind: show the world the devastating impact of war. When the conflict in Ukraine intensified in 2013, Will booked a flight to report the news.
The day before his twenty-seventh birthday, he traveled to Kharkiv to cover a bombing. We know he was taken hostage, and we believe—we must believe—he is still alive.
Mr. President, you have been a vocal proponent of a free press and how essential it is in times of war and strife. Reporters Without Borders just released their latest report, and more journalists were harmed and murdered last year than ever before.
I am writing to ask you to use your full power and diplomacy to bring William Baxter home.
Will traveled to Ukraine, as he had to Syria and Sudan, to show the world the reality, horror, and truth about war. The human cost. He risked his life to tell these stories. As a country, we owe it to him to do everything within our power to secure his return.
Sincerely,
Sign and share the petition at www.BringWillBaxterHome.org
“He was taken years ago,” I say. In that amount of time, I will have graduated from high school and be almost done with college—while Dad rots in some horrible dark room, covered in bruises and completely forgotten by everyone but me and Mom and Tatya Nadine and Uncle Miguel. My stomach clenches, and I push the coffee away.
“Reporters have been kept for years by governments like North Korea and Iran, but this is different. Your dad and Will Baxter were taken by rebels. There’s no one to negotiate with in that case. Rebels don’t have an ambassador, and the U.S. law is clear: It’s treason to try to negotiate with terrorists. So Will Baxter’s family is going public to put the pressure on the government.”
“And to try to keep him in the news before it’s a lost cause,” I say.
“Exactly.” Megan sips her coffee, leaving a smudge of red lipstick on the rim. “I wanted to show you this. A lot of people are going to tell you what to do, Charlotte. Do what feels right and honest. Just because someone has power doesn’t mean they’re correct.”
“You sound just like my dad,” I say. “He’s the only person I could really talk to in situations like this. You know, if I’m feeling overwhelmed. But he’s the reason I’m feeling this way and, obviously, he’s not here.”
Megan smiles, and I’m so grateful that Mr. McGuire retired and I hope he’s enjoying his days on the golf course. “You know where to find me,” she says. “And we’ll have Isaac research Will Baxter. He’s done with his water conservation story. He is accusing the swim team of creating drought conditions.”
“Of course he is,” I say.
“One more thing, Charlotte. Those photos of yours, and the more recent portraits. They’re really good. You know how valuable you are to the paper, but I want you to think about other forms of photography. Less journalistic. I think that’s where your heart is. Less like your dad and more like you.”
She means to be encouraging. Complimentary. Kind. I should be gracious and grateful. I shouldn’t feel like I do, with my hands squeezed into fists and tears in my eyes. She’s right—that’s what I want. But with Dad gone, I can’t do anything besides photojournalism. I want to be like Dad. I need to be like him. He’s strong and smart and has a lightness that lifts up everyone around him. If I’m not like him, then I’m like Mom, fragile and afraid.
“Oh, Charlotte,” Megan gasps, seeing the look on my face. “I didn’t mean for you to think that you aren’t good at the paper. You’re very talented.” She touches my hand. “That’s my point. I want you to be open to all kinds of photography. Don’t limit yourself.”
I nod and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Okay.”
“I want to show the prints, the ones that are drying in the darkroom, to Mr. Donoghue.”
Mr. Donoghue resembles a sock puppet or Muppet, with oversized features and a smile that fills half his face. His students adore him.
“It’s just that I feel closer to my dad when I’m working on the paper. He’s the news, if that makes sense. When we talk about stories and edits and captions and everything, I can hear him say the words. And I need to spend these two hours a day here with you guys. I don’t want to give that up. Especially now.”
“I’m not suggesting you do. But you have something in your photos, the newer ones in particular. It’s special. It’s not like you have to choose one kind of photography. The whole point is to learn and explore and grow. That might be good for you right now.”
I’ve always wanted to travel, knowing from an early age, thanks to Mom’s immigration and Dad’s job, that there’s a huge world to explore. Now, though, I want everything so small that it will fit into one place, one house, even one room. I want containment and safety, with everyone I love together.
Outside of my family—in the apartment and bakery—this classroom and the darkroom are just that.
I wonder how Will Baxter’s family has survived the waiting and grief. Letters and phone calls and petitions can go only so far. The public needs to know what’s going on. Will disappeared in every way—abducted and then forgotten by everyone but those who know him. I refuse to let that happen to Dad.
Twenty-One
Will Baxter has been missing for years, and no one knows his name—until today, not even news nerds like us.
I trust Josh.
I trust Uncle Miguel.
Raj Singh is secretive and useless.
Mom keeps getting up in the middle of the night to call her cousin in Russia. She’s ignoring the FBI’s instructions, placing her faith in family.
Isaac is the one who’s been scouring the news looking for information on the rebels, discovering the news stories about the village bombings and a downed plane.
A video for a video.
Josh and I sit in the computer closet while Megan referees an argument between Isaac and Emma over which story should go on the next edition’s front page. A weekly occurrenc
e. Emma usually wins.
“Okay,” I say, looking at Josh, “let’s do it. But I want to figure out when to release it. And how. I want to talk to Uncle Miguel because the Tribune should have first dibs.”
“Really?” he asks. “ ’Cause I think it’s a brilliant idea, and I’m not just saying that because it’s mine.”
“It’s a good one,” I say.
“This is going to bring him home.” His face is full of hope. His mouth curves into a smile, and this time, I don’t hold back because we’re at school. I trace his lips with my finger, and for the briefest moment, when he kisses me, he makes me forget everything.
Twenty-Two
Uncle Miguel has started dropping by, sometimes in the afternoon, other times for dinner. He gives us updates. Usually there’s nothing new. Sometimes general news about the current state of things in Ukraine: cleaning up the villages, updated numbers of the missing, and then meetings with the publisher. He tells us everything.
But tonight at dinner, I’m the one with something to report.
I give them details about the now-almost-completely-forgotten Will Baxter and his years of confinement. We talk about our fear that the same thing will happen to Dad, who, while crafty and charming, can be surly and rebellious. Not a good combination when dealing with rebels. Hence the many bruises. He’s a man who will always fight back, especially if people are at risk of getting harmed. Dad is all about helping the underdog.
“I don’t want to sit around and wait for the FBI,” I say. “We still don’t know anything, and France got Pascal back. This is ridiculous.”
“It is,” Uncle Miguel says. “We need to be careful, though. The FBI is working closely with the paper, but I don’t think we can lose this opportunity to keep Jeremiah in the news. He’ll fade quickly. The window is small. Question is, what do we do with it?”
Mom leans forward. “What if I talked? You could interview me.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It could be an exclusive with the Tribune. Dad’s on your staff after all. You should be able to run something, right?”
Uncle Miguel looks at the two of us. “It’s a good idea.” He sips his beer. “The thing is, I can’t run anything about Jeremiah without approval, and there’s no way the publisher will print something without the FBI knowing.”
My phone beeps. A text from Emma. “What if we didn’t run it in the Tribune?” I ask. “What if the school paper did it?”
Uncle Miguel smiles at me. “It won’t reach enough people.”
“Not on its own,” I say, looking at each of them. “But we could post it online and on social media. Then the Tribune could write a story about the post, right? You could even be the one to write it so it’s handled right.”
Uncle Miguel polishes off his beer and stares at the can, turning it in his hand like the list of ingredients contains vital information. “It’s not a bad idea, but let’s hold off. I want to see how things are at the paper. Let me float the exclusive interview idea.”
I can’t hide my exasperation. “We don’t have time. That’s the point! We can’t sit back and let what happened to Will Baxter happen to Dad.”
It takes everything—absolutely everything—to not tell them about the idea of doing the video. I want them to know that we can do this—all of us—if we work together. We each have things we can do: Mom and Tatya are in touch with family. Uncle Miguel knows absolutely everyone working in the media and can leverage the Tribune. The Editorial Roundtable will make the video. I just need to know if Uncle Miguel will run it.
Mom leans close to me, all gentle, and tells me it’s okay. “We’re not going to wait long. Just let Miguel talk to the people at the paper.”
“That’s right, Lottie,” he says. “I’m talking about hours, not days, okay?”
“You’ll let me know what they say?” I ask.
“Yep. As soon as I have the conversation. Maybe the publisher is still in the office. I’ll head in now—try to get us an answer tonight.”
When he stands, we join him, forming a makeshift circle. I think of football players huddled at the start of the game, feeding off one another’s energy and optimism and anxiety.
If we were other people, another family, we’d collapse into a group hug or high fives or some display of comradery or affection.
Uncle Miguel kisses my cheek. Soon after he leaves, Mom starts heading down to the bakery to finish cleaning up after the day’s work and prep for the morning.
I pick up my phone and text Josh, asking if he’s ready to do this thing. Making the video is the right choice. I ask if he can meet me at the café for coffee tomorrow morning. He doesn’t make me wait. Yes, he replies. He’ll be there at eight. My heart skips a little. It’s not only about the video; I want to be near him, just for a while, to make me feel better. To feel something besides this strung-out, rattling desperation that fills me all the time now.
Next, Emma and Isaac.
Blue Danube 8:00 a.m. tomorrow? Bringing Josh. Be nice.
They both text back immediately. They’re in, and promise to behave.
I’m not sure how my friends will be with Josh outside of school. Emma and Isaac probably aren’t surprised that I invited Josh, but maybe that he agreed to come. They’ll probably scowl. Isaac might be sarcastic. Emma will probably be painfully polite. I can’t worry about that right now. They’ll have to deal. For this, I’ll need all of them.
My phone beeps again with a text to me and Mom from Uncle Miguel.
No definitive answer from publisher yet. He’s calling a conference with the board and will let me know their decision sometime tomorrow.
No definitive answer. All the more reason to make the video.
* * *
In times of stress and trauma, people form bonds, some temporary, some permanent. Maybe this whole situation with Dad will finally bond Josh and Emma and Isaac. Granted, it’s my trauma, not theirs. But still.
On Saturday morning, I’m dressed and ready long before I need to head to the café, full of nervous energy. When it’s finally time, I pop into the bakery on my way out to tell Mom where I’m going. She and Tatya seem relieved that I’m spending time with friends this weekend instead of staying cooped up in the apartment.
When I get to the Blue Danube, I see Josh’s bike chained out front. He’s sitting in a far corner, laptop open, drinking an enormous cup of coffee. A skullcap hides his dark hair, making his eyes appear even bigger, especially when he looks at me. I’m still getting used to this version of Josh, who texts me all the time, who skips school with me, who is determined to help bring my father home. Before, he was like an elusive animal in a nature documentary, the kind photographers pursue to get that one picture. At school, I’d scan the halls and classrooms and cafeteria for a glimpse of him in his native habitat. Now, he’s tame. No longer skittish.
I rest my bag on the table. He stands, all gentlemanly. When they took Dad, I kept thinking, This can’t be real.
With Josh, when his lips meet mine, I think, This really is happening.
Why do terrible and wonderful things occur at the same time? The terrible eclipses the wonderful—no matter what. Is it the only way we can stay grateful, to know that with gain comes loss? That, no matter what, happiness can never be a permanent state of being?
Emma and Isaac walk in. “I’m going to get coffee,” I tell Josh.
As soon as I’m close enough, Em nudges me with her elbow. “Are we all here to get to know him better, or do you have news?”
“It would be nice if you got along, but there’s a bigger purpose. Not news. A plan. We need to do something,” I say.
“Then we should,” Isaac says.
I fill them in on the conversation with Uncle Miguel and how we’re still waiting on a verdict from the Tribune. If they won’t run a story, then we’re stuck.
Isaac orders a triple espresso, and Emma keeps it calm with a chai. I hope she balances him out.
“Let’s go hang out with your boyfriend,�
� Isaac says.
“Don’t be a dickwit,” Emma says. “You promised.”
“And don’t call him my boyfriend. He’s Josh. He’s not anyone new. Isaac, you guys went to the same middle school.”
“Exactly,” Isaac says. “I know what I’m talking about.”
I know he’s kidding, but I’m not exactly in a joking mood. “Stop. Please. Not today. Just behave. Pretend we’re in class, if that helps. Pretend Megan is forcing you to be nice.”
Isaac smiles dreamily at the mention of Megan, and lust lulls him into silence.
They exchange hellos with Josh, who returns them with equal formality. I feel like I’m having tea at Buckingham Palace, with all the forced niceties. I just want them to be as normal with one another as they are with me. I add a sugar packet to my latte and stir. “Josh, do you want to explain the plan?” I ask.
Emma and Isaac listen without interrupting.
“That’s good,” Isaac says. “Do what the rebels are doing—make a video. Everyone will see it.”
“Yeah, but what will be in the video?” Emma asks.
“Just Charlotte,” Josh says. “We’ll make two, one in English and one in Russian.”
“That’s kind of genius,” Emma says.
Josh gives me a smile and says, “Anyone would listen to you.”
Isaac almost knocks over all of our cups as he rummages through his backpack. He flips to a blank page in his spiral notebook. “I’ll start on the script now. The American one should be straightforward. Bring him home, right? The Will Baxter pitch. What about the Russian one?”
“Set him free. That you want to negotiate,” Josh says.
“We can’t say that. The FBI was super clear—it’s treason. We’re not allowed.” I look at each of them to drive the point home. “We can ask them to set him free. Tell them that he’s a journalist and he can write about their demands and everyone will listen.”