by Karen White
“When you find it, we’ll get it framed. And when we have our daughter, we’ll get her picture taken wearing it, too.” An odd look passed over his face. “How do you think she knew you were pregnant?”
“It could have just been a guess, but Mimi’s pretty good at guessing.”
He ran his finger over the pink knit. “Well, I sure hope it’s a girl. Our son will feel foolish wearing a pink dress.”
I laughed, and as we began walking to the door, my cell phone rang. I glanced down at it, recognizing the 912 St. Simons area code, but not the number. Thinking it might be Tish’s number at Eternal Carnation, I picked up the phone from the table and answered it.
“Hello?” I said.
“Ava? It’s John.”
I glanced at Matthew, who was clipping his BlackBerry onto his belt.
“Yes. Hello.”
“You’re probably wondering where I got your phone number. I told Beth—Tish’s daughter—that you’d already given it to me but I lost it. I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to call you but didn’t think it would be cool if I called your house phone.”
I looked over at Matthew again, who now stood by the door with his jacket slung over his arm.
“No. Probably not,” I said into the phone. “Look, this isn’t a good time….”
“I get it. I just was wondering if you’d picked up your pictures yet at the drugstore. I’d love to see them—and I’ve got some photographs of the island I took that I wanted to show you. I was hoping you’d meet me for lunch.”
“Um, sure. Let me call you back.”
There was a brief pause, and then, “Okay. You’ve got my number on your phone now. Call me when you have a minute. Bye.” Without waiting for my response, he ended the call.
“Bye,” I said into empty space, before putting my cell back onto the table and turning to Matthew.
“Was that Tish?” Matthew asked, putting his arm around me.
“Yes,” I said, not even cringing at how quickly the lie came. “She’s ready to get started, so I guess I’ll be leaving right behind you.”
“Take it easy in the heat, okay? Keep hydrated and wear a hat. I know we agreed to wait to tell people, but I think Tish should know you’re pregnant so that if you’re wilting in the heat, she’ll know why and make you stop.”
“I do know a few things about pregnancy,” I said, smiling. “But I appreciate your concern. I’ll tell Tish, if that will make you feel better.”
“It will,” he said. He gave me a lingering kiss with a promise to call me between patients, then left. I turned away before I could see his car disappear, wondering why I’d lied to him, and why I felt compelled to see John McMahon again. I slowly closed the door, feeling like the woman in a B horror film who walks into the darkened basement, knowing all along that whatever she is going to find won’t be what she wants to see.
I sat at an outdoor table under a painted brick mural at Sandcastle Café in the village, sipping a glass of ice water. I was dying for an iced tea, but as I recommended to all of my patients, I had given up caffeine. I watched as a waiter brought a large pitcher of iced tea to a nearby table, and looked away.
“Sorry I’m late.”
I looked up as John McMahon pulled out a chair and sat down across from me, placing a folder carefully on the table.
“Not a problem. I was just early.” I took a sip of my water, trying to swallow the ball of guilt. Technically, I hadn’t lied to Matthew. Tish had called right after Matthew had left, asking whether we could postpone our meeting until the following day. It had been an easy thing to slide my thumb down to the next “most recent” phone number and click on it. I liked John, but I would have been lying to myself to say that was the only reason I sought out his company. He added flesh to Adrienne’s specter, gave her a voice. Matthew wanted to look only forward, but I could not as long as his first wife’s death haunted our new marriage and continued to raise doubts in her family’s mind. I wasn’t naive to think I could prove his innocence and erase all doubts for them. But I had to try.
He looked at the small envelope I’d brought. “Surely that’s not all of the pictures. You had about twenty canisters.”
I smiled sheepishly. “I know. I threw most of them away—I always do. They weren’t anything you’d want to see—trust me. But I kept a few that seemed interesting. I’ll eventually throw them out, too.”
Our waitress approached and took our orders, but only after I’d pored over the menu and discounted anything that might have mercury or too much salt and preservatives. I ended up with a plate of steamed vegetables that I knew would leave me hungry in a few hours.
When she’d gone, John indicated the envelope. “Can I see?”
“Sure. Although I’m not sure I understand your interest. It’s not like I took them myself or it’s anybody you know.”
He held the envelope and regarded me. “No, but I think what you choose to keep says a lot about you. Maybe even things that you’re not aware of.” With a grin he opened the flap and slid out the photographs on the laminate tabletop.
Slowly, he studied them, placing each photograph on the table before examining the next. There was nothing remarkable about any of them—a family group wearing the same-colored shirts, gathered in front of a two-story brick Colonial; a bunch of children sitting on a diving board over an aquamarine pool and squinting at the photographer; an Easter-egg hunt with little girls in bonnets and pastel-colored dresses, their small feet in shiny black Mary Janes. I would end up throwing these out, too, but not until I received my next batch of film.
When John was finished he carefully stacked the photos and slid them toward me. “You didn’t see why these photos stuck out to you? See any connection between all of these photos?”
“A connection?”
“Yeah, something they all have in common.”
I fanned out the photos on the top of the table and studied the faces of strangers, wondering what I was supposed to see, wondering what I’d hoped to find when I’d first discovered the film in a discarded camera. I looked from face to face, then at the backgrounds, looking for something familiar, anything that would make this stupid hobby of mine make sense.
My gaze met John’s. “No. Nothing.”
John moved the photographs so that they formed an overlapping circle, exposing just enough of each picture to be able to compare them. “Sisters. All of these family groups have what looks to me to be sisters in them. They could actually be cousins or close friends, but in most it’s obviously close family members—not that that would really matter if you’re just looking for a photograph of an image in your mind you’re trying to re-create.”
I looked down at the photos again, recognizing immediately what he was seeing and what I must have seen, too. Leaning back in my chair, I smiled. Since my earliest memories, the only thing I’ve ever really wanted was a sister. Every birthday and Christmas I’d ask for a little sister. I didn’t know why I’d been given brothers—all tall and loud boys who shed their hair and dirty laundry in the single bathroom I’d had to share with them when we lived in the same house. I’d studied with envy my friends who had sisters, annoying these same friends by inviting their little sisters on our playdates.
I chewed on the straw in my glass. “That actually makes sense, I guess, in a weird roundabout way.” I stared into his cool blue-green eyes, wondering what it was about him that inspired confidences. I continued. “I’d always wanted a sister, which was unrealistic at best, seeing as how my mother was forty when she had me. But when I was eight years old my mother had a stillborn girl. I’ve never asked, but I’m pretty sure the pregnancy was an accident, and both of my parents had been thrilled. They even bought matching twin canopy beds for my room.” I stared out at the passersby on the sidewalk, but saw only the empty bed I’d stared at for a year before the extra twin bed had been removed from my room.
“Mama carried the baby for five months before she lost her. I was there when she miscarried. J
ust me and Mama—there wasn’t time to call for help. They named her Charlene, which is my grandmother’s real name, and buried her next to my grandfather.” I was thoughtful for a moment. “It’s why I became a midwife, actually.”
John regarded me silently, and I admitted to myself that I liked that about him. He would listen or allow me to change the subject without being judgmental.
I placed my glass back on the table. “And even though I was so young, I did everything Mama told me to do—got towels, and warm water, and called for an ambulance. Even later, when I thought about it, none of it grossed me out. Didn’t even faze me. But Charlene died anyway. I think I grew up thinking that if I just knew more, I could have saved her.”
He gave me a soft smile. “I’m a great believer in everything happening for a reason. Think of all the babies you’ve brought safely into the world because of Charlene.”
I watched the waitress as she negotiated around the other tables with our orders in her upraised arms. “Yes,” I said. “I think of her every time I help a mother give birth to a healthy baby.”
We were silent as the waitress placed our plates on the table and refilled our drinks. Then I indicated the folder he’d brought with him. “Your turn,” I said, placing a steamed zucchini in my mouth.
He slid the folder in front of me. “Just don’t get food on them, okay?” He winked.
I opened the cover and found myself looking at a black-and-white photo of the St. Simons lighthouse. It was taken from the base looking up, exaggerating the height of the structure, somehow making it more formidable. I looked at the white brick building, trying to identify what looked off to me. Finally, I asked, “Has it always been brick? Seems to me I must have seen a picture somewhere that shows most of the bottom portion made of tabby.”
“Must have been an old photograph. The original lighthouse was mostly tabby, but was destroyed by the Confederates when they abandoned the island in 1862. The existing lighthouse was built in 1872.”
I stared back at the photo, wondering why it still looked wrong to me. I’d seen it in person on my trip to the pier, but I supposed I’d been too preoccupied at the time to notice that the lighthouse didn’t look like it belonged.
“It’s a beautiful photograph,” I said. “I like your perspective.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking pleased as I flipped slowly through the photographs. They reminded me in a way of Adrienne’s paintings that exhibited her love of the island and its people. John’s photographs were of the marsh during different seasons, of shorebirds and driftwood, of sand dunes and sun-bleached houses. But there were people, too, shrimpers with grizzled faces, schoolchildren in a playground, and an elderly couple sitting on the beach holding hands. At Tish’s party, John had said that Adrienne had all the talent in the family, but that wasn’t true at all.
“You’re a real artist, John. You should be trying to market these.” My hands faltered as I flipped to the last two remaining photographs. I recognized the subject immediately. They were taken of a younger Adrienne, twelve or thirteen at the most, sitting in sand and staring at something outside of the picture. Her white-blond hair was still baby-fine, her face devoid of makeup but clearly showing the beauty she would grow into as an adult. But there was nothing childish in her expression, nothing that spoke of innocence or childlike dreams.
“You see it, too, don’t you?” John asked quietly.
My eyes met his. “See what?”
The corners of his lips tucked into a frown. “Her expression is like an old woman’s, isn’t it? Like she’s already seen too much.” He paused. “She always believed that she’d die young. Even as a child, she would tell me that. Strange, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Tish called Matthew an ‘old soul.’ Maybe that’s what Adrienne and Matthew saw in each other.”
A shadow passed behind his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. Instead he reached over and stacked his photographs, sliding them back into the folder and hiding them from sight. I waited for him to speak, and when he did I knew he’d changed his mind about what he’d wanted to tell me.
He smiled. “So, how’s the project with Tish coming along? She told me something about it when I was in her shop last week picking up flowers for my mom.”
“So far, so good—we’ve only done some preliminary work at Christ Church, but I’m meeting her tomorrow to do a remote site on the Hampton River.”
His fingers drummed against the glass of his beer bottle. “Adrienne loved all that historical stuff. She was a member of the society, too.” He paused. “Maybe it was because we were adopted, but Adrienne took a real interest in Matthew’s family history. Did a lot of research, as a matter of fact. Had everything in a huge briefcase. She said there were lots of skeletons in the Frazier family closet and that it would make a good book. She planned to write it one day, but I guess she ran out of time.”
I squirmed a little in my seat, wondering how close I could skate the line bordering morbid curiosity about my husband’s late wife and obsession. “What kind of skeletons?”
“I wasn’t all that interested at the time, so I pretty much listened with just half an ear, but I do remember a few things.” He looked away, but not before I could see the regret that clouded his eyes.
“Like what?” I pressed, too far past the line to skate backward now.
He shrugged. “Well, we all grew up knowing about the Frazier ghost who supposedly roams the beach looking for his unfaithful wife. Adrienne claimed to have seen him once, and he was so real that she could see the lantern that he held. It was probably just some guy with a flashlight, but it was real to her. That was the thing about Adrienne—she had a great imagination. Her book would have been really great.”
“Tish said something about Frazier’s wife running away with another man. But it was a long time ago, right?” I took a sip of my water, shaking the ice cubes in the bottom.
“It was during the British occupation of the island during the War of 1812. Hard to believe people still care.”
“Adrienne did.” I thought for a moment. “What happened to her briefcase of notes?”
His eyes focused on his fingers peeling the label off the bottle. “Matthew has it. Or had it. I’m just surprised that he hasn’t shown it to you, especially after you joined the historical society. He probably doesn’t want you to think there’s any stain on his family tree. Although treason is a pretty big stain. And infidelity.” He raised his hand to the waitress to bring him another.
John’s eyes were cool and unblinking, and I refused to look away. Lifting my chin, I said, “He’s probably just forgotten about it. I’ll ask him, though, because I’m curious. I can’t imagine him wanting to hide something from his family’s past. It’s not like it has anything to do with him or me.”
John leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “You don’t think so? Adrienne was a big believer in karma: that we are punished for the sins of the past until we find a way to make penance. She was pretty sure that history was bound to repeat itself until we’d learned whatever lesson we were meant to.”
I thought of the resurrection ferns, of their death and rebirth, and of how they could live for one hundred years without water. “You mean she believed in reincarnation of the soul?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Something like that.”
The waitress brought his beer over and then placed the check on the table. John reached for it and opened his wallet. “My treat,” he said. “I appreciate the company of somebody who loves photographs of people and the island as much as I do.” He slapped a credit card inside the black folder, then slid it to the edge of the table. “Besides, don’t want Matthew suspicious if he sees the bill on your statement.”
I leaned forward. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be. I’m quite able to come and go as I please. I doubt he’d notice.”
“Yes, he would.” He made to push away from the table, but I placed my hand on his arm to hold him back.
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“You and Matthew were once friends, right?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Then why do you seek out my company if you think it will upset him?”
After a moment, he said, “Because I do like you. Because I like how you collect the forgotten photographs of strangers. And you like my photographs and think it should be more than a hobby.”
I studied him for a moment, not doubting what he was telling me, but knowing, too, that his reasons weren’t the main one. Quietly, I said, “I would like to be your friend, John. But a part of me believes that you’re trying to either get information from me or you’re trying to upset Matthew. And none of it is necessary.” I took a deep breath, not yet ready for him to speak. “I know that you and your parents believe Matthew is somehow responsible for Adrienne’s death. I don’t want to trivialize your feelings, but from what I’ve heard it was clearly an accident. She was alone. Could it be possible that in your grief, you’re just looking for somebody to blame?”
His aqua eyes appeared liquid, like a hot flame behind them was melting them into water. “Ask him where that briefcase is, Ava. Ask him why he didn’t like her digging into his family history.” He slid his chair out. “And then ask him where her appointment calendar is. She wrote everything in it—not just her appointments. She liked to draw things in it, too, in the margins. When Matthew gave her personal effects to my parents at their request, it wasn’t there. He claims he doesn’t know where that is, either.”
My jaw hurt, and I realized I was clenching my teeth. “That doesn’t mean anything, John.” But even I could hear the doubt in my words.
We stared at each other for a long moment, our gazes not wavering. John broke contact first, his hand reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a small brown leather pouch secured with a yellow drawstring that he placed on the table between us. “But maybe this does.”
I hesitated, then used my index finger to drag the pouch toward me before meeting John’s eyes again.