Myla heard the front door opening, heard Jane talking. There was surprise in her voice, but Myla didn’t register it until Jane appeared at the doorway. “Myla,” she said, smiling, “there’s someone here for you. A friend? From the college?”
“Who?”
“He didn’t say. He said he flew all the way from New York to see you.” And then Myla knew why Mark hadn’t been returning her calls. He’d come to her. She moved past Jane, into the living room, exultant. He’d read her letter and come here, for her, to work this out. She found herself running the last three steps to the front door, but when she got closer, she stopped dead.
It wasn’t Mark outside. It was Samuel.
AT FIRST, AT SCHOOL, MYLA says she thinks people might recognize us. But they don’t. I tell her I knew they wouldn’t. She says, “Well, maybe they won’t recognize you in your baby school, but eighth-graders pass me in the hall all the time. Someone’s bound to say something.” But I can tell they don’t. Pretty soon she drops it.
Then one night we’re lying in bed. I’m warm and floating into sleep, and then Myla moves the bed by sitting up on one elbow and tilting me into awake. She pokes me. “Pru,” she whispers.
“I hear you,” I say, and pull my eyes open to look at her in the dark.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that people can look at us whenever they want?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m tired. “I want to go to sleep.”
“Okay, okay, in a minute. But think about it, Pru. Did you see those pictures in the gallery? They’re for sale. Someone who doesn’t know us can buy us and put us on the wall.”
“I know.” I can’t think of anything else to say. “But it’s just like snapshots, isn’t it? Or—”
“No,” she says, and the force of her voice shakes me. “It’s nothing like snapshots. Snapshots are just for your family or your friends or the people who come to your birthday party. Ruth’s pictures are for everybody.”
So I sit up. I say, “Well, do you not want them up there? I mean, I bet you could talk to Ruth and she wouldn’t put them on sale. Or if you didn’t want her to show them, she wouldn’t.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. The thing is—don’t you think it’s cool? It’s cool to be up there like that. People look at us and imagine what we’re thinking. We’re like these mysteries.”
“Like mystery books?” I don’t get it.
“Not like mystery books, Pru. I mean like mysterious. People can see that we’re thinking or talking, but they don’t know what we’re thinking or talking about.” Then she stops and listens to hear if it’s David’s footsteps on the stairs or just the wind outside. Nothing moves while we listen. Finally she whispers, “But you’re right about the book part. I mean, it’s almost like our pictures are books that people want to read. It feels good. It feels like every time someone looks at one of those pictures, I can feel it in here.” She touches her chest.
I lie back down. I can’t think of anything to say. I’ve thought about it that way, but I’ve never heard it in words. And hearing it in words makes it seem scary to me. It makes Myla happy, but it starts to make me sad. Then Myla leaves me. I can hear her breathing trail her into sleep, and I don’t catch her in time. When I touch her arm and say her name, she mumbles and turns on her side. I try to go to sleep, but her breathing keeps me awake. It turns into a chant in me with the last words Myla spoke: “Feel it in here, feel it in here, feel it in here.” And then I am sleeping.
chapter nine
what are you doing here?” Myla had no control over her voice. She was shocked; reality swerved. Samuel Blake, here at this house? She couldn’t name her emotion.
Samuel smiled, small. “I’m here to see you.”
“To see me.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what that means.” She tried to figure out what to say next. She wanted to sit down, to ask where Mark was, to sort out how Samuel Blake could possibly be here and what she was supposed to do with him, but sitting down would mean she was weak. She stepped onto the porch and let the screen door slam behind her. She crossed her arms, gathering herself. “What are you doing here?”
Samuel raked his fingers through his hair. “I know I upset you. I didn’t know I’d upset you until I got your letter, and by then I could tell you were more than upset. I still didn’t know why, though, and you didn’t sign your letter, so . . .” He cleared his throat. “So I called Mark, and he’d just gotten your letter, and then he explained who you were.” Myla tried to keep herself from noticing how nervous Samuel was. She looked at him, and he continued. “I know you think I was playing some kind of game with you, that I knew who you were. Rather, who you are. But I didn’t. I had absolutely no idea you’re Myla Rose Wolfe. And I want you to know that.”
“Okay.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“Okay.”
Then a surge of anger shot up through her as she remembered the last things she’d heard Samuel speak: words disparaging her father, words blaming Ruth’s photographs for Pru’s death. She felt her voice turn clipped, cold, as she reached for the door handle. “Well, you’ve seen me. So I guess that’s it. You can leave.”
“Could you hear me out?” Myla didn’t move her hand from the door, but she didn’t move away from Samuel either. “I flew all the way across the country. Surely that counts for something?”
“I didn’t know there was a point system.” Myla felt herself wanting to argue with Samuel, to engage with him, but she realized that the less she argued, the sooner he’d leave. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She looked at him and said, “Okay.”
“I can’t believe it. I really can’t.” Myla watched Samuel’s mouth spread into a slow smile. “You just—it’s amazing that you’re really Myla Rose Wolfe. It’s so strange. In a good way, of course. So strange that I’ve looked at those photographs a hundred times and never even once recognized you. Maybe I intuited something—”
“Hold on.” She felt herself growing strong. “Just because I’m in some photographs that you happen to think you know a lot about doesn’t mean you know anything about me. I’m not who I was when you and I were involved. I’m not Kate Scott. You don’t know me.” She pulled the screen door open and placed one foot inside the house. “Please leave me alone.”
“You disagreed with what I said about your family and the photographs, didn’t you? In my lecture? That’s why you’re so angry at me.”
“I’m not anything at you. I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“Wait, Myla.” His voice hooked her, suddenly sure of itself. He’d said her name. She waited. The house before her was dark, cool. And behind her, where Samuel stood, it was bright. She turned her head and listened. “You think I said horrible things about your family. You don’t even know what to do with the things I said. And what I said was even more confusing because we were really falling for each other. I mean, at least I was falling for you. I really was. I don’t care what your name is or what it was.”
Myla turned her body so she could see Samuel’s face. She leaned against the door frame, propping open the screen door with her foot. She was tired. “What does it matter? That was a week ago. I had a different name. I had a different life.”
“Maybe it doesn’t all have to disappear.”
“It didn’t disappear, Samuel. I left it. I left you. Remember?”
“Because of what I said.”
“Okay, yes. You insulted my dead father, accusing him of parental irresponsibility and who knows what else. For all I know, you truly believe that Ruth Handel was a pornographer and that she and my father were trafficking dirty pictures of his daughters. Hell, you probably think my coming all the way across the country simply proves your point: I was a traumatized girl who’s become a traumatized woman. And you probably think you’re going to save me. Well, I don’t need a prince. I just need time.”
“Would it help if I apologized?”
“It wouldn’t
even help if you took it back. Because I know it’s what you believe. You were honest in your classroom. You believe what you said. And I can’t be with someone who thinks . . .” Myla straightened her shoulders and looked Samuel squarely in the eye. She planned to break him. “The thought of being with you sickens me.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Samuel said.
“What?” Myla was shocked to see Samuel looking so triumphant. “You’re here because you sicken me? That’s the most pathetic—”
“Not that,” he said. “Jesus, Myla, I have a backbone. No, no, just listen. I’ll tell you why I’m here. Please? Just give me one minute of your time, and then I’ll leave you alone.” She nodded for him to continue. “You’ve more or less been in hiding for your entire adult life, right?” he asked.
“I haven’t been in hiding—”
“Whatever you want to call it. No one’s known who you really are.”
“Okay. Yeah. So?”
He nodded. “And now you’ve disappeared in a very dramatic way from a very respected college. Mark’s going to have to tell the authorities everything he knows, if only because the college turned your departure into a missing-persons case. And then, pretty soon, the press’ll get wind of it—remember that piece in Vanity Fair?—and someone will figure out where you’re living, and some asshole with a tape recorder will find you. And then you’ll have to answer for your family. I know it’s not fair, but it’s bound to happen. And I’m going to help you.”
“Help me?” Myla was stunned, mainly because she realized Samuel had a good point. She’d planned Kate Scott’s life down to the last detail, except she hadn’t been discreet about her disappearance. She’d simply left, and he was right: if there was anyone interested in finding the current whereabouts of Myla Rose Wolfe, it would be easy.
Samuel continued, “The people who’ll buy an article about the Ruth Handel case won’t buy it because they’re bad or just ignorant. They’ll buy it because they’re concerned; a little girl died, as far as they know, because of naked pictures. And they want to know how her sister’s faring. And when it’s put that way, I think you’d realize why someone like me would be curious. Why someone like me might wonder just exactly how a man could still be a good father and allow naked pictures of his children to be taken.”
Myla groaned. She tightened her grip on the door and said, “Leave, Samuel.”
Jane came up from inside the house and placed her hand on Myla’s shoulder, making her jump. “Is everything all right?” Jane asked, trying to sound intimidating.
“Yes. We’re fine. This is Samuel. Sorry for the noise, Jane. We’re just figuring something out. But Samuel’s leaving in a minute, aren’t you?”
“Nice to officially meet you,” said Samuel, reaching inside the screen door for Jane’s hand.
“You flew all the way from New York just to see Myla?” Jane asked, repeating what he’d already told her.
“Yeah,” said Samuel.
“Wow,” said Jane, arching one eyebrow at Myla as she went back inside the house.
Samuel spoke fluidly now, rapidly, looking Myla straight in the eye. “You said in your letter that I had to climb out of the ivory tower and look at how others live. You called me a weak scholar, saying I knew nothing of what I spoke. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve made my own version of a story out of a slim number of events. But I’m everyone out there. I’m the person you need to think about. If your father really was a good man, and if you really believe those photographs are not only innocent but important in their own right, then you’re going to have to convince me of it. Because if you don’t convince me, someone else, someone from the media, will be knocking on your door next week, and they sure as hell won’t care if they tear you limb from limb. They won’t have held you while you slept, they won’t give a damn if it breaks your heart. Rest assured, they’ll drag your father’s name through the mud, and they’ll dishonor your sister’s memory. And I can’t let that happen. For one simple reason: because I like you. I’m here to see you, and I’m here to help.”
The world was spinning again. Myla needed a glass of water. “I can’t do this,” she said. She stepped inside and let the screen door go, separating her from Samuel. As she turned and strode into the darkness, retreating into the cool, she heard the door yawn closed, then the clip of the latch behind her. Her eyes adjusted, and she saw Jane standing in front of her.
“So you’re going to let him leave?” Jane’s voice was low, whispering.
“What am I supposed to do? I didn’t ask him to come. I don’t know what he wants.”
“He wants to help you, Myla. He wants to talk to you.”
“But what if I don’t want his help? I never asked for it. I don’t need him, Jane.” Myla felt herself hovering on the brink of a decision, but she didn’t know how to make it: either trust him, believe he wanted to help her, and let him stay, or listen to those things he’d said in his lecture hall and ask him to leave because of them.
Jane put her hands on both of Myla’s shoulders. She said, “It’s not my practice to nose into other people’s business. But Emma would do something. Emma would tell me I have to do something.” Jane walked around Myla to the screen door and pushed it open. Myla heard Jane’s footsteps on the porch and then the low mumble of talking. Myla listened as an indiscernible conversation passed, and after a minute—a long, long minute—Jane pulled the door open again. She walked to Myla and placed her hand on the small of her back.
“He’s staying for dinner. I told him it’s up to you what happens next, but this is my house, and I want to be hospitable. A man who’s flown across the country deserves at least one meal before turning around again.” She leaned in to Myla. “I’m making lemonade. Go talk to him. I told him you don’t want to talk about anything serious. But he’s sitting on the porch swing. He just wants to know you’re okay.”
Jane headed toward the kitchen, leaving Myla alone in the living room. Myla knew Jane was right: no matter what Samuel’s beliefs, it took a lot of something to fly across the country after a woman you barely knew. She turned around, squinting into the light of the day. And then she went toward it. Toward Samuel.
EVERYBODY HAS AN OPINION about the pictures. Ruth makes them. Jane hates them. Emma wants to be in them. Myla uses them to show off. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone but me.
And David too. I like to be in the pictures, and I know David likes that. So one afternoon when Myla’s over at someone’s house, and there’s no babysitter, and David has a cold, I decide to ask him. But I don’t ask him what he thinks. I ask him why Jane gets so mad.
David’s sitting on the green couch in the sunlight with a box of Kleenex and a pile of student papers. I keep refilling his glass of orange juice that’s crusty around the top. I just ask him. I say, “Why does Jane hate the pictures so much?”
David looks surprised, moves the papers off his lap. “What makes you say that, Prudence?” He uses my whole name when he’s being serious.
He and I both know that Jane hates the pictures. What I don’t know is why. What I also don’t know is this other thing. So I ask him another question. “Does Jane hate Ruth?”
That makes him stand up and go across the room and pull a big heavy book off the bottom shelf. He dusts it with his sleeve. This is one thing I love about David. He is always answering questions about one thing with examples from something else. Sure enough, he opens up the book, sits beside me, and spreads it across our laps so it smushes my legs.
“Look at this,” he says.
I look.
“What do you see?” he asks.
It’s a picture. A photograph. An old brown photograph. And even though I know it’s the ocean and the sky, it doesn’t really look like the ocean and the sky. Black rocks are at the bottom, black clouds are at the top, the water and the air are in the middle.
“The ocean,” I tell him.
“And how do you know it’s the ocean?” David asks.
�
�Because,” I say.
“Does it look like the ocean?” he asks me.
“Not really,” I say.
“Why not?”
It’s all so obvious, and I wonder what this has to do with Jane. “Because.”
“Let me help you think about this,” David says. “You see the ocean because you know it’s the ocean. You know it’s supposed to be the ocean because you see a boat there, in the middle. But what if you didn’t know about boats? What if you’d never seen the ocean before? What you’d see—what it looks like—is a wall of water and air.
“This photograph is called The Great Wave, and a French photographer named Gustave Le Gray took it in 1856. What we know is that the ocean stretches far out. But that’s what we know with our brains, from experience. If we forget our brains, we see a wall. Our eyes see a wall because our eyes are dumb, with no experience of their own.”
I hear what he’s saying, and I stare hard at the picture. It’s a new kind of idea, because you just think, “The ocean’s the ocean.” So I stare at it and try to see a wall. But my experience keeps me from seeing it. I can only see it stretching out. And then, just in a flash, I see what he means. It is a wall. And then it’s gone.
After I try to see the wall again, I start to get bored. I wonder what this has to do with Jane hating Ruth. And almost as if he reads my mind, David says, “Trust me. I’m talking about Jane here and how she sees the pictures of you and Myla. Because, Prudence, we learn how to see. Our brains teach our eyes how to see the world. First we learn how to see the world, and then we learn how to see pictures of the world. Representations. And we get so smart and so fast and so good at it that we don’t even realize we have opinions about what we’re seeing that have nothing to do with what we actually see.
“When I look at this picture, I can see both a wall and a stretch of sea. And when Jane looks at a picture of you, she sees a wonderful, beautiful, sweet, seven-year-old girl whom she loves. But she can also imagine the way a stranger might see the picture. And she tries to imagine what a stranger might think. So she doesn’t hate the picture. She doesn’t hate Ruth. She may not even hate the stranger. But she’s scared.”
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