Stars: The Anthology

by Janis Ian

  The "box" was a large cardboard carton that had once contained the "lifetime" supply of film for Mom’s camera. I suppose it was, in a way, the ideal place to store old pictures, though few of them were from the Instaluxe, which didn’t last all that long. As far as I knew, the camera itself was long gone. The sides of the box were broken and torn, and inside were kept the treasures of a lifetime. My parents’ wedding certificate, and several of the mother’s day and birthday cards my sister and I had painstakingly crafted over the years of school and summer camp out of blotting paper and construction paper, leaves, seeds and tracings of feet and hands. They were all slowly crumbling to dust inside the box. There were other things in there too—old wedding invitations, thank-you cards, Hebrew school diplomas, a Popsicle stick bird feeder and a glued-together jigsaw puzzle of "Starry Night" with several pieces missing. And piled loosely in a small hill, slowly metamorphing into confetti, a lifetime of photographs. No, more than a lifetime. Heavy cardboard pieces opened up to reveal my grandmother’s wedding, my great aunt’s first birthday, and a hundred friends and relatives who no longer had names, let alone relationships.

  I noticed off to one side a Kodachrome picture of my father. Probably taken not too long after I was born, he was holding a very young Linda’s hand and gazing down lovingly into a carriage that most likely had yours truly inside. Like most old Kodachrome photographs, the colors were odd and tinged toward the yellow. I looked through the stack quickly to see if there was a better one, perhaps a more recent one, but the photos seemed to be crumbling in my fingers. Something had to be done. There had to be some way to fix them, to preserve them, to hang onto them, as if they were the past itself and not just the memories. From somewhere in the back of my mind came an image of my mother, going through the box just after Grammy died. She pulled out a picture of me from one Halloween long past. I was wearing a drug store Cinderella costume of cheap plastic with a gauze mask, the kind that would not only smell just awful when it got wet, but which would lose its shape as well, which it somehow always did around the mouth area before the night was over. Being only sixteen or so, I saw all reminders of my baby years as proof that I was still the skinny, ugly thing I had been at 5. I didn’t think anyone should ever be allowed to look at them, and sneering at my mother I told her I was going to destroy the evidence. She lifted the picture out of my reach and laughed at me.

  "You mustn’t do that," she told me. "Our memories aren’t just reminders of the past, Sandy. They’re who we are."

  I wondered if that picture was still there among the other memory debris, as I gazed down into the face of a woman I did not recognize. Was she family or family friend? I thought about how much closer I felt to some of my friends than I did to my own sister and wondered if there was a difference. My parents could no longer tell me who anyone was. My father was an only child and my mother the baby of her family by so many years that her siblings had long gone to their reward. There was no one left to turn to. I pulled out a photo at random and looked into the face of a stranger. Whether he was my father’s best friend, the last serious date Mother had before Daddy, or my uncle Horsham from Connecticut, a stranger he would remain forever. I placed the box carefully into a small white trash bag and carried it home.

  The next day I bought a scanner. My husband, Ray, complained about the money, but money didn’t enter into it for me. I knew nothing about computer graphics, but by God I was going to learn. These pictures were my history and they had to be preserved. I bought a book and a photo program and carefully practiced restoring their example until I knew just what to do. For several days I practiced sampling from various parts of the image to repair a tear or cover a dull red drop of strawberry juice. Then I opened the box, wanting to find a good head shot of my father. He had taken the position of photographer and managed to appear in only a few of the photos. There were several of my mother at various ages, but like the woman herself, these were heavily decayed. Corners, if not whole chunks, were missing. The colors were faded and all were cracked and lined. Those that had names, places and dates written on the back sometimes had spots where the ink had seeped through, or perhaps smeared on from another photo, and several had stuck together and were now impossible to pull apart without damage. The ancient Kodachrome squares had taken on a yellow, metallic tinge, the old Polaroids had curled and cracked and paled into uselessness. I did find a picture of Dad, old enough that it might have been from before their marriage. I remember as a child, laughing to see him young, his head covered with hair, a moustache on his face. He looked almost nothing like the chubby, bald man on whose shoulders I sat, searching for a handhold on that naked scalp during the chilly Mummer’s Parades past. I could remember the man with his large tummy, emphasized by skinny chicken-legs sticking out of the massive leg holes of his bathing suit when we went to Atlantic City. And all these years I thought that all my mother had seen in him was his warm pliant character with occasional bursts of humor. Now he was just an old man, quietly waiting to die, but hanging on to allow my mother the courtesy of going before him. I knew that, uncomfortable as he was, his biggest fear was going before her, leaving her alone. If he could have his way he would take her hand and the two of them would pass quietly out of this world together.

  For her part, he seemed, almost, to no longer exist. Half the time she didn’t recognize him, and once, for a moment, scared me deeply by announcing to me, "Sandy, that’s not your father." I thought perhaps I was in the midst of a family revelation for which I was just not ready, but realized after a bit that she simply didn’t recognize him. Worst of all, she seemed to find his touch repellent. When he reached for her hand, she pulled away. If he minded, he never showed it, but it made me sad.

  Now, as I went through the box I began to realize that some of these many versions of my parents, my sister, myself, cousins, aunts, and even the occasional old friend, were more real to me than others. Certainly this father of the five-year-old me, standing proudly in front of our brand new 10-inch television set, while Ozzie and Harriet faded into the background, was my father, not this suave, mustachioed creature who wouldn’t sire a child for years yet. I sorted the photos into two piles, leaving the other memorabilia alone for the moment. Into a shoebox went all the photos that I wanted to save. A large manila envelope received all the ones I no longer had any means of identifying, though some of them were interesting. For now, I would scan the former and fix what I could. The rest would have to wait.

  It was easy fixing tears and cracks, lighting photos that had darkened to obscurity and darkening those that had faded to almost nothing. Even correcting color distortion got to be fairly easy. I had taken the photo of my father and colorized it so that it now looked like one of those oil photographs that were so popular when I was a kid. Linny found this all to be a crashing bore, but the rest of us enjoyed looking at them. Still, I knew our time was limited. Mom was getting worse. She had been sent back to the hospital for the fourth time, and though she was home now, it didn’t bode well for the future. I wanted to make a compilation photo of her and Daddy to hang in their room. I suppose I hoped it would help her to focus, to remember, to get better. I knew it was nonsense, but I had to try. The pictures came up on the screen and I lifted out the head and shoulders from one each of Mom and Dad, fitted them together on the same canvas and added color. The mouse fit my hand as if it grew there, and each stroke formed on the screen as if I had drawn it on paper. As if the machine itself was alive and attuned to my will.

  The one thing I had forgotten was photo paper. I had regular paper and stiff card stock for making greeting cards, but no photograph paper. I tried printing the damn thing out on the card stock, but it didn’t look right. Lacking the smooth skin of a glossy stock, or even the creamy texture of a matte finish, it merely looked lumpy. I looked around for something that would do. The inside of a book dust jacket might work. I wasn’t sure if I cut a file folder in half if it would fit through the complex contortions of the printer, but I was
fairly sure that even if it did, the manila color would have an effect on the photograph. I had worked long and hard putting this together, smoothing out the wrinkles and scars, coloring in the old black and white. I wanted it to be perfect. There was one possibility. I didn’t yet know if it would work, but it couldn’t hurt anything—at least I didn’t think it could.

  In the back of the box I had spotted them when I was sorting the pictures. Since I didn’t really want them, I hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but there they were, the individual cards from the Instaluxe camera. Judging by eye, the entire "lifetime" supply of special cards was still there, untouched. I doubted that Mom had ever used them. Of course I had no idea what they were coated with, or if they were too old to use, but one thing I was sure of was that they were just the right thickness of paper to slide through the threads of the inkjet printer. Whether or not it would accept the ink once it was applied I could only guess at. I shrugged as I peeled the waxed paper away, half expecting the card to be dry and worthless after all this time, but it was as soft and pliant as if it were brand new. I slid it into the photo-paper slot and printed my picture. It came out so well I couldn’t wait to take it to show them. I wasn’t sure my mother would recognize it, but Dad would be delighted. At least, I hoped he would.

  "Look," I said to my mother as I entered her room. She sat on the sofa all crumpled into herself, her skin like parchment. Her reaction surprised me. Almost as if the photo itself revived her, she took a renewed interest in the picture. I could almost see it bringing the memories back. Though she looked about the same as always, there was, somehow, something different about her. Perhaps it was just that her eyes, which rarely seemed to focus on much of anything lately, took in the picture with a new light of intelligence for the first time in ages. Dad, too, looked somehow more alert. He was seated in his favorite lounge chair, unable, for the past year, to get up without assistance, but his eyes were focused on the ballgame that constantly ran on their little television, and he seemed to care when a ball was hit out of the park. At least, I heard him say "Damn!" softly and knew it was the other team that hit it. Strange, but they were always having good days and bad days. I laughed at my silly notion that bringing the picture had done anything for them, except, perhaps, to revive old memories.

  "Oh, look at that!" she said, taking the photograph and showing it to my Dad. "I remember that picture. But I could have sworn your aunt Margie was in that one with me. I don’t remember being with your father when that was taken,"

  "Wow, you remember that?" I said. I’m not sure I’d have recognized it if I hadn’t been the one who’d spent several days extracting Aunt Margie and putting Dad in instead.

  Mom puzzled over the photo for a moment more. "No, I’m sure it wasn’t you, Dave," she said, "because that one of you was taken just before our wedding and I know we were already married when I got that dress." For just a moment that confused look was back on her face but it didn’t last long. "I’m sure that dress wasn’t red," she said.

  "It was blue," my father said softly. "I remember how it made your eyes shine." He reached for her hand and she smiled at him, took his hand and squeezed it gently. Then she looked at me.

  "Did you do this?" she asked. "Dave, I think Sandy did this," she told Dad without waiting for an answer. She said it in the exact same tone of voice with which she greeted my macaroni art when I was 7. "We’ll have to hang it right up here." She placed it on the wall right next to the window.

  It was good seeing them like this. I wished we might always have such good visits. I stayed as long as I could, promising to bring the kids as soon as possible, and maybe some of the photos for her to identify on my next visit. She seemed happy about that, but as she leaned over to kiss me goodbye, I could see that her hands hurt her badly and she still had trouble walking.

  It was gratifying to see her so much better, but in a way, worse as well. Now that she was more aware of her crumbling body it had to be much more painful to her. At least, I thought it had to be. I wanted to do something to cheer her up, but I didn’t have much time. My workload was heavy and my daughter had a new job and no sitter yet, so that work fell to me. I would be both a fool and a liar to say that I didn’t adore my grandchildren, but they were a lot of work and required much more energy than I had. I did manage, with the aid of a few cartoons and much help from Ray, to work on a photo that I thought would cheer my mother up. It was a picture of my Dad, the one with Linny and the baby carriage. Taking both out of the picture it became a picture of my father, leaning slightly and looking down. He looked reflective and happy, much more poetic than was usual for him. I added grass and flowers to cover the spots where Linda and the carriage had been, and replaced the houses of the street with trees and sky. Now it was a picture of a man admiring flowers, and though my Dad, who had hay fever, never spent much time around flowers, somehow it still looked natural. I found a great one of my mother I wanted to work on, but my job kept me much too busy to get around to photo work. Linda kept me busy as well. I knew that Mom wasn’t doing well. She had slipped into a bad period after I left the last time. The constant back and forth of worried phone calls from my sister made me aware of that. She had been sent to the hospital twice in the last week, given fluids overnight and sent home early the next day before I could even get out for a visit. When I did finally get there the following weekend, I was shocked by what I saw. This couldn’t be the same woman who had sat there on the sofa talking to me the weekend past. This woman barely resembled the Marion Zifkin Brodsky I’d known all my life. She looked like a crumpled tissue, curled up in the very back of the chair, barely willing to speak to me.

  "I brought you a present," I said brightly. She ignored me. I took out the picture and waved it at her. "Look, it’s Daddy!" I said. I went to hang it up on the same wall where the last one I had brought was hanging, only it wasn’t there. No, that’s not quite correct, it was still hanging there, but somehow, the half with my mother’s face was missing, torn right out of the photograph. Dad seemed about the same as he had the week before. Aware of me, and still alert, but now also very anxious for my mother. He noticed where I was looking.

  "The kid tore it," he said. "He was fixing the window and he accidentally ripped it. He didn’t mean to hurt her," he added. How odd that he would refer to a torn photo as if it was actually my mother.

  "Hurt her, Daddy?" I asked.

  "Look at her. She’s been like that ever since he ripped the picture." I shook my head. One thing Dad had always been was clear-headed. This was very sad. "What’s that?" he asked me. He got up out of his seat and came over to look. I could feel my jaw dropping open. Dad walking? This was something I hadn’t seen him do for months. I asked him about it.

  "Yeah, I do, from time to time, but usually it hurts too much. Just this week, though, it’s been a little better." Then he looked at me and shook his head. "Why do me? Do pictures of her. She’s dying," he said, his eyes filled with deep pain. I had to admit that she didn’t sound good. She had fallen asleep in the chair and her breathing was deep and rattling. He walked over and put his hand on her head, but she didn’t wake. I tried shaking her, but that didn’t wake her either.

  "Let me get someone," I said. I ran to the main desk asking help from anyone I passed. I called Linda, who arrived while we waited for the ambulance. They took Dad down to the TV room and kept him there while we waited for the EMTs to show up. I had mixed feelings about that. The two of them had been together so long, why not let them be together now? But nobody asked my opinion. My sister and I were allowed to stay, and we held Mom’s hand and talked to her as she slowly slipped out of this life before help could come.

  Linda and I stayed to keep Dad from being alone, but he didn’t want any company. He didn’t sob either, but quiet tears rolled down his cheeks. While my sister and I made the occasional lame joke to ease the pain and tension of death, he stared straight ahead, occasionally looking up to say, "She was so beautiful."

  When
it was time for us to leave, I kissed him goodbye. "You want the limo to come get you for the funeral?" I asked, and was surprised to see him shake his head.

  "You won’t need to, but don’t worry, I’ll be there," he answered. "Goodbye, Sandy," he said, with an air of finality as if he was about to walk out the door. "Goodbye, Linda. You girls take care of those kids of yours. Tell them Grampy loves them."

  "Dad, don’t be silly. I know you miss her, but you’re fine. You’re better than you’ve been for months," I told him.

  "But that’s not me any more," he said, pointing at the photograph I’d hung on his wall. "I’m tired. It’s time," he said, and oddly enough he gave me a smile.