by Carrie Arcos
“Wait, how is any of that your fault?”
“I’m the one who suggested we ditch, started us drinking. I know if we hadn’t, Seb would have made that jump. He would have made it. He always made it.”
I place my hand on his arm. “I’m really sorry about your friend. Thank you for telling me. But you can’t blame yourself.”
Joseph stops, faces the water down below us.
“I miss him. You would have liked him. He was funny and smart and could imitate almost anyone. He always made people feel at ease.”
“He sounds like a great friend.”
“He was.” Joseph sniffs and wipes his eyes. “So, that’s when I started looking for answers. But I’ve only come up with more questions. I still don’t know why Seb died and I didn’t.”
I understand his searching now. It’s been a kind of penance. The need to make his life count for something. He feels guilty just for living. I feel that way too.
I shift and my shirt rubs against my back again. I should just take my shirt off. Run naked across the beach. That would be a good story. Zara Machado finally loses it. Everyone could see my scars. I’d have nothing to hide. Then I get an idea.
“Can you do something for me?” I ask Joseph.
“What?”
I hand him my camera. “You know how to work one of these?”
He fumbles with it and locates the button. “Just push this, right?”
“Well, yes, but here—this is how you zoom, and this is how you alter focus.” I take him through a mini lesson in the basics.
“I need you to take my photo.”
He raises the camera and points it at me.
“No, not like that.”
I turn around and very carefully lift up my shirt so that it exposes my back. I’m not wearing a bra. The strap on the back would chafe too much. I look over my shoulder at Joseph, and he’s already taking pictures. I turn away from him then and watch the ocean as his fingers press the button over and over.
After a minute or two, I pull my shirt down. When I face Joseph again, he clears his throat, looks away. Then he hands the camera back to me.
“I think I got a few good ones.”
I’m already looking through them. “Not bad,” I say. There’s one where he’s zoomed in to just my torso and the light surrounds me. There are a few that I can work with. “Thanks.”
We walk down to the water’s edge and alongside it, letting our feet get wet. Piping plovers run ahead of us, dipping their beaks into the sand, looking for insects. Joseph carries my sandals so that I can step farther into the water and take pictures whenever I want.
I’m not sure if he’s leading me or I’m leading him, but we zigzag up the coastline. It’s calm and peaceful here; the sky is about to become a mosaic of color above and around us, like we’re in the largest chapel. And he doesn’t even mention my scars.
July 16
IT’S BEEN A couple days since my afternoon at the beach with Joseph, and Mom is doing much better. She’s talking more. Moving. Eating real food. Her speech is still slurred and mostly Bosnian. But she’s improving.
I haven’t had the bad dream in a while. It’s almost like we’re getting better together.
This morning when I go to visit her, I watch the nurse help her stand. Her legs shake, so it isn’t for long, but she does it. She even takes two steps.
“Good job, Mom,” I say.
Her head shakes in agitation. The nurse helps her back into bed and then leaves us alone. I try to help pull the covers back over her, but Mom waves me away with her good hand, the one she seems to have the most range of motion with. I feel the sting of rejection instantly, and I fight the tears that well up. But Mom doesn’t fight hers. She lets out a sob of frustration.
I sit down next to her, take a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wipe her tears for her.
After a few moments, she looks at my neck and says, “Tespih.”
I touch the prayer beads. This is the first time she’s seemed to notice I’m wearing them. I wonder if it upsets her, if she’s upset that I found her box.
She says the word again. “Tespih.”
I’m not sure what it means, and I don’t get the chance to ask because Mom closes her eyes as if it has all been too much. I stay for a little while and pray for her, for us. Before I leave, I remove the prayer beads from around my neck and place them on the bedside table.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Later, I have my third photography class. Mr. Singh is very moved by the single-frame story of my mom’s feet sticking out of the rubble. During my critique, he gives me tips about how I could make it stronger. I’m learning so much that I’m glad he made me stick with it.
At the end of class, Mr. Singh mentions the Narrative exhibit again. Many students have already made the trip down to Boston. It sounds so amazing that I really want to go. For the first time in a long time, things don’t feel completely hopeless. It gives me a bit of courage.
“Dad?” I ask later that night.
“Yeah.” He’s sitting at the dining room table with Gramma and Benny, playing a game of cards.
“Can you come here for a sec? I want to show you something.” He joins me in the kitchen. I turn on the screen of my camera and show him the photos from just after the bombing.
“You took these?” he asks.
I nod. I know it must be hard for him to see evidence of what we went through. “Do you think we should send them to the police? You know, just in case there’s something here that could help?”
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Thank you for showing me. Why don’t you email me the photos, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Sure.”
Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze and walks back into the dining room to resume the game. I feel a bit relieved, but I have something else on my mind.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?” he says as he picks up a card.
“I need to go to Boston for a photography exhibit.”
“Um, okay,” he says. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh. I don’t know if anyone can take you.” He draws a card from the pile, eyes focused on his hand.
“It’s okay. I thought I could just take the train.”
That gets his full attention. He looks up at me, and I see Gramma’s eyebrows rise behind her cards.
“Ooh, can I go too?” says my brother.
“Oh, sorry, Benny. It’s for my class.”
He sinks a little in his chair, pouting.
“I don’t know, Z. That’s pretty far to go by yourself,” Dad says.
“I’ve done it plenty of times.”
“Yes, but that was before . . .”
He wants to say before I was a victim of a terrorist attack. Before, when I could handle being in public places without question.
Things have definitely changed, but I can do this.
“I’ll have my phone on all the time. I’ll check in. I think it would be good for me. I’m not saying I’m not nervous, but I really want to go. I need to see this exhibit.” I can’t stop living just because some terrible thing might happen. I need to keep going, push through.
Vovo surprises me by chiming in from the living room. “I can drop her off in the morning.”
“Thanks, Vovo,” I call back.
Dad examines my face. He sees something there that makes him nod and say, “Okay.”
“Anyone want some coffee?” Gramma asks.
“I’ll make it,” I say.
I grind some fresh beans and pull out the džezva. I haven’t had proper Turkish coffee in a while.
Gramma doesn’t say anything, just gives those eyes to Dad again.
July 17
IN THE MORNING, Vovo wa
its with me for the train. I tell him that he can go, but he doesn’t. He gives me a hug before I board.
“Proud of you,” he whispers.
I feel a tiny bit of anxiety as he walks away, but I fight through it.
My bandage is off too. I still feel a little more secure with it on, but today is about stepping outside my comfort zone. And since it’s been two weeks, it’s technically safe now to leave my cheek uncovered. Dad says once my wounds are fully healed, we can decide what steps to take. If I’ll need any additional treatment. For now, I get on the train. I tell myself that no one is staring at me. That no one notices the thick scabs on my face. I find my seat and, finally, breathe. This was the hardest part. Making the decision to go. Taking those first steps. The rest will be easier.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Boston is my favorite city. It’s not like I’ve done extensive traveling, but as far as the cities I’ve been to go, Boston is hands down the best. I love the feel of it. The style. The architecture. It’s beautiful, and even though it’s not too far from home, I want to come here for school, I think.
For years I’ve been planning to study photography, but I don’t have my whole future planned out like some people I know. Audrey is going to community college first. She says it’s to save money. I think it’s because she doesn’t want to leave her mom. And look at Christine. Her whole life had been about tennis. In one moment, that’s gone. I wonder what she’ll do now.
Either way, I know plenty of people who plan to stay put. I’ve just never seen myself as one of them. Rhode Island is too small. I need to find some new stories.
I raise my camera and take a picture through the train window as we cross a bridge. The image is blurry but cool, kind of like a gray smudge of water.
Everything ok?
Dad.
Perfect
I settle into my seat, put on my headphones, and enjoy the ride.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
The exhibit is off Newbury Street, which is this upscale, very pretty and very touristy section of Boston. Trees line the street in perfect equidistant marks. Stores have little black fences and gates. There’s greenery everywhere, small patches of perfectly manicured grass and flowers and bushes. It’s sunny and hot out but, thankfully, not too humid. Small white puffs of cloud decorate the sky. There are a lot of people walking around. It makes me nervous, but I press through it. And if I have to, I’ll stop. I remind myself that I’m not in a hurry, that I can take my time.
Redbrick brownstones line both sides of the street. I pass a number of cool places as I go; there are plenty of opportunities here to enjoy great art. There’s shops and cute restaurants with tables set outdoors too. I contemplate sitting at a café before hitting up the gallery, but I kind of want to get started.
I find the gallery easily, and as soon as I enter, I notice the large framed photographs lining the walls. Already I feel a sense of home. I remove my notebook for class from my bag and approach the Narrative exhibit like an anthropologist.
I begin in front of a portrait of a child with dark hair and eyes, a narrow face and thin lips. He looks Spanish, maybe; I’m not sure. The picture is just an intimate and up-close look at him. Nothing special about it, except maybe the gaze, which is very personal. The next photo is a middle-aged woman wearing a dark blue hijab. Her face is round and full, with heart-shaped lips. Wrinkles spread from the corners of her eyes, and dark circles form underneath. The next photo is an Asian man with freckles dotting his upper cheeks. He’s laughing like the photo was taken right after a joke was told.
I savor each picture, examine each detail.
The only things shown are the heads from the neck up. The background of each photo is white. The faces tell the whole story. I love how stark they are yet full of emotion. I wonder how the photographer was able to capture so much in each one. I take some notes. What kind of lighting and makeup did the photographer use, if any? I peer as close as I can, my nose inches away from the photographs.
“Quite intimate,” the woman behind the desk says to me. “Isn’t it?”
I hadn’t noticed her when I entered, so her question startles me a bit.
“Yes,” I say. Though it’s more soul piercing, I think.
“Anything I can help you with?”
“Um, no. I’m just here for a class.”
“Oh.” She perks up. “What class is that?”
“I study with Allen Singh in Providence. He suggested we come and see this exhibit.”
“Oh yes, Allen Singh. We curated a show of his a couple years ago. What a wonderful photographer.”
“Yes,” I say. Now that she realizes I’m legit, hopefully she’ll stop watching me like a hawk and leave me alone.
I move on to a portrait of a group of black women in a hair salon.
“Are all these photographers local?”
“No. Most of them are international, actually. The one you’re looking at is a Zambian photographer. I believe he’s from Lusaka.”
The photo wants me to focus on the woman in the chair. She’s clearly the center, as she’s laughing at something said, possibly by the stylist. But there’s so much to take in. There are three women in chairs, getting their hair done. One woman has hers wrapped up in a towel. There’s a stylist with long braids standing behind the laughing woman. And I spy a pair of eyes in the corner. There’s a little boy crouching beneath a sink. He’s staring at me, holding some kind of pastry, wearing cutoff shorts and a striped shirt. His mouth has some jelly on the sides, or maybe it’s chocolate. He looks like he’s been caught by the photographer. His smile says, Shhh, please don’t tell. And just like that the story has shifted. Maybe the focus is not the woman in the chair, but this boy.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure the gallery woman isn’t watching me, and I quickly take a picture. I don’t know if they allow photos in the exhibit, but it’s worth the risk.
I get a text. The woman clears her throat. I turn the volume off.
Hey what’re you doing?
It’s Joseph.
At a gallery
Cool. Where
Boston
Where?
I send him the name of the gallery. I wonder if he knows where it is. If he’s been here before.
How long?
Couple hours at least
I slowly peruse the rest of the gallery. Each wall features a different artist’s work and a different method. Most of the photos show people. Some are of land- and cityscapes. The occasional animal.
One of my favorites is this photo series of a group of children, all different ages and ethnicities. They’re playing tug-of-war in the middle of a park in a city. I’m not sure where exactly, but the park is half grass, half dirt. When I look closer, I see it’s actually an old baseball field, not really a park at all. The thick rope is really a bunch of rags tied together. The children’s legs are streaked with dirt. But their faces are great. Some are concentrating so hard, like the little girl near the front of the line. Others have their heads thrown back and are laughing. One child has fallen in the back. The next shot shows one side is winning. Feet have moved, slipped. A couple more kids have gone down. The third photo is of the victory. One team has their hands thrown up in the air, and I can almost hear the excited screams. The other side has fallen in the dirt. A bigger kid at the end lies on his back, hands covering his face.
Clever. It’s a documentation of a single moment. But it works so well because of the setting and the number of people in the photo. I wonder what the effect would be if it were only two people instead of, say—I count the children—twenty-one?
I continue through each section of the gallery. I feel both overwhelmed and inspired by the work here. Overwhelmed because I wonder if I’ll ever be as good as these photographers. And inspired because of all the amaz
ing pieces and new ideas I want to try out later. It feels so, so good to be in this creative space. To want to be here.
I round the corner, and my eyes are immediately pulled to the wall at the far end. It’s covered in what almost look like Polaroid photos. The magnitude of the piece is astounding. It’s just picture after overlapping picture featuring a single person in each—some of the shots are black-and-white, some are color. They are taken against all kinds of backdrops—nature, rooms, buildings. The effect is almost as if I’m looking at a huge missing persons board. But more like the kind that people put up themselves at a memorial site. It’s a collective memory. There are so many. So many lives. So many individuals, yet all telling the same story. I was here.
The title of the piece is Lost.
My legs are tired from standing, so I shift from one to the other. I look around and notice that I’m still alone. No one has entered the gallery since I came in. Sad. People are really missing out.
I sit on the ground and place my camera next to me. This also allows me to study the lower section better.
There’s a photo three rows up from the bottom. Over to the left. It catches my eye because I’ve seen that bridge somewhere before. There’s a girl with long brown hair standing in front of it, smiling into the camera. And in a flash, I realize I’ve come face-to-face with my mom.
1994
Summer
Sarajevo
BiH
Dear Mama,
Yesterday there was some strange ceasefire. People crawled out of their homes like rodents plaguing a desolate graveyard, not a once beautiful city. All the stories Dad used to tell of his school days in Sarajevo seem like a fantasy. He couldn’t be talking about this place. This place was never beautiful.