Pictures of You

by Caroline Leavitt

  All along his street, the houses were in shadows. Not even the neighbor’s dog Spike was out, barking his head off. The air had a strange, metallic taste to it, like pennies on his tongue. “Hey!” Sam shouted, “Hey! Anyone!” His voice was muffled by the wind whipping through him. He sniffled. He ran next door to the Andersons’ and rang the bell, but no one was home, so he ran to the Rogers’ house. No one came to the door there, either. And then Sam was running, one block and then two, until he was in front of the small blue apartment house on Broom Street and there was a thin string of lights twinkling on it, and then, without thinking, he banged and banged and banged on the door.

  ISABELLE SAT AT the kitchen table, watching her tortoise slowly make his way across her table. It still amazed her that she had actually bought him at a store and brought him home. She couldn’t help admiring the smooth brown of his shell, the scalloped edges that came to a point front and back. Even the slow, dinosaur-like way he walked across her table, his tiny black nails clicking on the surface, gave her a thrill. She’d never had a pet, because her parents thought they were too much trouble and Luke hadn’t wanted one, and even if she had gotten an animal, a tortoise would never have been an obvious choice.

  The moment she had seen him, something about him had gotten to her. She’d been walking home from Beautiful Baby, past the pet shop, and she saw him through the storefront window, wedged into a glass tank that was too small for him, without even room for him to turn around. He looked so unhappy, Isabelle had marched right into the store to complain. “That tank’s too small for that tortoise,” she said. The pet store owner, an older man in a bowling shirt, just shrugged at her. “He’s got a brain the size of a pea. He hardly moves. What does he need room for?” he said.

  Isabelle looked back at the tortoise, at the tiny tank that didn’t even have a bowl of water. The tortoise had his eyes closed, and his legs were tucked tightly into his shell. “I’ll take him,” Isabelle said. “Can you deliver the tank to me if I pay you extra?” Before she knew it, she had spent a hundred and twenty dollars and she was walking home with a nine-inch tortoise in a box and a book called Get to Know Your Tortoise!

  As soon as the tank arrived, the tortoise looked happier. She had lifted the tank—big enough for a small pan of water he could soak in if he wanted—onto her long wood table, and lined it with newspaper. She gave the tortoise a saucer of cut-up tomato and apple, placing it right near him, and she fit in the hollow wood log the pet store had recommended, because tortoises loved to burrow. As soon as he had smelled the food, he had opened his amazing eyes, deep, lustrous brown, ringed in orange. “There you go,” she soothed. She had fed him from her fingers, even though the book cautioned that tortoises could bite. “Nelson,” she christened him. It sounded dignified and hopeful.

  “You are so beautiful,” she told him, and he stretched his neck out for the first time, making a long, lovely curve. Nelson yawned, showing the pink of his mouth, and then he met her eyes, unblinking, as if he were taking her measure. “That man was wrong. You don’t have a brain the size of a pea,” she told him, and it seemed to her that he understood.

  The buzzer sounded and she scooped Nelson up and put him gently back into his tank. He rustled in the newspaper, burying himself under a layer so that only his tail stuck out.

  Isabelle pressed the intercom button, “Who is it?” she said. She was just about the only person here who ever asked who it was. No answer. The buzzer rang again and then Isabelle heard a faint buzz that meant someone else was letting the person in.

  When the frantic knock came on her door, Isabelle cautiously peered out the peep hole.

  For a moment, she didn’t see anyone, which was unnerving. “Anyone there?” she said. Then she looked down and there was Sam. He was crying, shivering so hard his teeth were knocking. She unhooked the chain and the door swung open. He couldn’t stop shaking, and when he looked up at her, she felt staggered. “Sam,” she said, astonished, and then he flung himself into her arms.

  IT TOOK HIM a while to stop crying. “Are you all right?” Isabelle asked, and he nodded but kept crying. He was soaking wet. She brought out a blanket and wrapped it around him. His small shoulders, like bird wings, were heaving, and he dug in his pocket and breathed into an inhaler, which made her worry even more. “Let’s get you warm,” she said, “and then we’ll figure this out.” He trailed her as she rounded up an old Harvard sweatshirt Luke had bought her. She found an old pair of black sweatpants that he could roll up and gave those to him, too. “Go put these on,” she urged. “I’ll throw your wet things in the dryer.” He swam in the clothes, but at least he stopped shaking. Then she led him to the kitchen and heated up some soup. She saw him staring at the tortoise. “I just got him today,” she said. “Isn’t he great?”

  “You know my name,” he said.

  “Well, of course I know your name,” she said, and then she stopped because she didn’t want to mention the accident or the newspaper accounts that had been plastered with news of him.

  “Do you have a name?” he said. He stared at the soup, licking his lips.

  “Of course I do. Isabelle. Isabelle Stein.”

  “I didn’t know your name, but I know who you are, too.”

  “You do? But how do you know me?”

  He looked at up her, locking eyes. “I saw you,” he said.

  Isabelle braced her hands on the counter. Sam took another spoonful of soup. “You were there with my mom,” he said.

  Isabelle was suddenly nauseated, turning away so Sam wouldn’t see her distress.

  She stood by the counter, listening to him eat, the two of them completely silent. When she heard his spoon clatter, she turned and then sat down across the table from him. “Where’s your father? Why did you come here?” she asked him.

  He stared down into his soup, making circles with his spoon. “You can look at me, you know,” she said quietly.

  He glanced up and met her eyes.

  “Where were you? Where’s your father?”

  “I forgot my keys!”

  “But why would you come here? How would you even know how to find me?”

  He sneezed into his hands. Isabelle handed him a napkin and he blew his nose. “I followed you once,” he said quietly. Isabelle thought of all those nights she had crept to his house and hidden like a burglar in the shadows, watching for movements behind the windows, straining to hear music that might let her know more about them, that might help her to know that they were all right.

  “Why would you do that?”

  Sam fiddled with his spoon.

  Isabelle crouched beside him so she was eye level. “Why would you go looking for me?”

  Sam stayed silent.

  “We’re calling your dad right now,” she said, finally.

  She thought she should call, but Sam shook his head. “No, I’ll do it,” he said. He was so skinny, she thought. He looked so little. “All right,” she said. “That’s probably a better idea.”

  He turned his back toward her, cradling the phone. He punched in the numbers, his small shoulders heaving. “Daddy?” he said. “I got locked out.” He half closed his eyes. “None of the neighbors were home, but I-I came here.”

  Sam turned farther away from her. “I don’t know!” Sam said. “I am. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. No, this is the first time.” Sam acted like he was confessing a crime, and Isabelle had a sinking feeling that Charlie would think she was responsible.

  “Tell your father I’m on Broom Street,” she said to Sam. “Six forty-four, apartment four B.”

  Sam hesitated and then repeated the address. “No,” he said. “I told you I don’t know! Just come get me!” When he hung up, his shoulders were sloping. “He’s coming now,” Sam said, and it was then that Isabelle realized that Sam hadn’t once said her name to Charlie.

  “Why didn’t you tell him you were with me?” she asked and he shrugged. “I forgot,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes and Isabelle su
ddenly felt afraid.

  AFTER BUZZING CHARLIE IN, she heard his steps on the stairs. She started for the door but then froze. Sam got the door and there was Charlie, hunched into a denim jacket, his long, black hair flying, his eyes so dark she couldn’t see the pupils. She expected him to recognize her, to say something, to shout at her or be angry, but he looked past her, his eyes lighting on Sam. “Are you okay?” he asked, patting Sam down as if he might have broken bones.

  “I’m fine, Daddy!” Sam shook his father off.

  “Do you want to come in?” Isabelle asked, but it was as if Charlie was in some bubble where he couldn’t see or hear her. The tortoise made a clicking sound in his tank.

  “Where’s your jacket and your pants? Whose sweatshirt is that?” Charlie asked Sam.

  “She gave me these clothes. Mine are in the dryer,” Sam said.

  “Can you just wait in the hall for a second?” Charlie asked him. “Don’t go anywhere. Just stand right outside.”

  Charlie waited until Sam was outside before he turned slowly to Isabelle and then, for the first time, he met her eyes. He looked different suddenly, as if all his features had fallen. “You’re that woman,” he said quietly. “I recognize you from the newspapers.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “Why would my son come here?” Charlie interrupted.

  Isabelle hesitated. She looked out in the hallway and saw Sam rolling one hand along the small wooden banister by the stairs, head dipped so low, his hair covered his face. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “How would he even know where you lived?”

  “He said he followed me once. I didn’t know until he told me tonight.”

  “He followed you? When did he even see you?”

  Isabelle hesitated. “I happened to pass by his school one day on my way home. I didn’t speak to him—and I didn’t know he had followed me.”

  Charlie shook his head. “You can understand why I don’t want him here, can’t you?” he said quietly. “I don’t know what crazy ideas he has about you, but he’s had a very hard time of it and you’re the last person in the world to help us.”

  Isabelle was surprised by how much that stung. She stepped back.

  “Sam came here,” she said. “He was cold and wet and he didn’t have his key. I got him out of his wet clothes and gave him some hot food. I made sure he was all right. And we called you.” She looked toward the kitchen. “I’ll go get his things.” She went to the dryer and pulled out Sam’s clothes, folding them as she walked toward Charlie. “They’re dry now,” she said. “You can keep the sweatshirt and pants.”

  Charlie took the folded clothing, looking down at them. His eyes scanned her long table, where Sam’s drained glass was, his empty soup bowl.

  “He finished the soup,” Charlie said quietly. “He hasn’t really been eating much these days. I didn’t even know he liked soup that much.”

  “He had two bowls.”

  He met her eyes, and self-conscious, she stepped back.

  Charlie’s shoulders straightened. “Thank you,” Charlie said quietly, and then he stepped out into the hallway, putting one arm firmly about Sam. Sam stared up into Isabelle’s eyes, and she couldn’t help it. She smiled at him. Charlie pulled Sam closer to him. “We appreciate this, but Sam won’t be back here,” Charlie said, and then he started down the stairs and they were gone.

  ON THE WAY HOME, in the car, Sam kept studying his fingers. Charlie felt his stomach roil and there was a dark, sour taste in his mouth. “I’m so sorry the extra key wasn’t there. From now on, I’ll double-check.” Sam nodded but still wouldn’t look at Charlie.

  “Why did you go to that woman’s house?” he asked carefully.

  Sam looked out the window, as if he were considering something. “I remembered her from the accident,” he said haltingly.

  Charlie suddenly felt sick. Of course. Isabelle was the only other person who had seen what Sam had seen that day, who had been there. Sam probably felt some weird kinship with her or maybe it was a way he was processing his grief, to go and seek her out. He glanced over at his son, and he looked so fragile that it was all Charlie could do not to stop the car and take Sam in his arms.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said.

  Charlie turned the car down their block. “Listen,” he said carefully. “You don’t have to, but I think it’s best if you stay away from her.”

  “Away from her! Why?”

  “She’s a stranger and you don’t talk to strangers. She shouldn’t have approached you. That was a very wrong thing to do. You tell me if you see her again.”

  As soon as they got home, Sam stormed into the house, marched into his room, and firmly shut the door. What was he supposed to say to Sam? Charlie wondered. That if it wasn’t for Isabelle, Sam’s mother would be alive? That if Isabelle had gotten better directions, she might not have been on that road, might not have struck his wife? The papers said she was local. That was what really bothered him. After such an accident, why hadn’t she moved away? Why did Isabelle have to live here, where they both would see her and be reminded of what had happened? He didn’t even want to breathe a mouthful of the same air she was breathing.

  TEDDY DIDN’T COME back to school all that week. Sam tried calling him the next few days, but the line was always either busy or no one bothered to pick up, and they didn’t seem to have an answering machine. Once, after school, Sam even gathered up his courage and biked over to Teddy’s, praying the whole way that his terrifying mom wouldn’t be the one to answer the door; he positioned his bike for a quick getaway, just in case she was. He kept remembering the narrow slit of her eyes, the pinch of her mouth when she looked at him. He rang the bell three times, then four, standing at the door so long, a neighbor finally came out next door and yelled at him, “Go away! They’re not home!” She shooed at Sam with her hands like he was a stray dog.

  SAM BEGAN TO BE a target at school for bullies. Before he had been friends with Teddy, no one had really paid him much attention. But once the kids knew he was hanging out with Teddy, there had been that sudden burst of respect. Kids made way when Sam passed. No one mocked him when he began to cough and wheeze in class and had to ask to be excused, because if they did, Teddy would shoot them a threatening look.

  Now, Sam felt punished for his friendship, like the kids knew that without Teddy, he wasn’t so big, certainly nothing to be afraid of. A spitball pinged against his back, but he couldn’t risk turning around. He brushed at the back of his shirt, ignoring the titters, and when the lunch bell rang, he took his time getting up. He was starving, but the thought of going to the cafeteria for lunch was terrifying, especially since yesterday Bobby Rocket had stolen his sandwich and thrown it in the trash, giving his friend a high-five after he did it. So Sam crept to the art room and shut the door, slowly eating his baloney and mustard sandwich until he heard the bell.

  The longer Teddy was absent from school, the worse it got for Sam. “What are you going to do about it?” Billy Adams sneered, tearing Sam’s homework out of Sam’s hands. When Sam raised his hand because he knew what the periodic table was and proudly gave his answer, he heard muttering behind him, dry and hot on his neck like a heavy wind. There were repeated kicks to the back of his chair. “You think you’re so smart,” someone hissed.

  He stopped doing his homework, because then it couldn’t be taken from him. “See me,” Ms. Rivers wrote on his papers. She called him to her desk, which made the kids snicker. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” she probed, and he shook his head, keeping his eyes down, focusing on the red laces of his sneakers. When Miss Rivers called on him for an answer later, he stopped saying it because then no one would kick his chair. He made his mind shut like a slammed door.

  “Sam,” sighed Miss Rivers. “Are you with us, Sam?”

  “Asthma Boy,” someone whispered, loud enough for the whole class to hear, but he didn’t turn around. He squinched his eyes tightly shut.

&n
bsp; He knew that sometimes, what you didn’t see couldn’t hurt you.

  RIDING THROUGH TOWN on her bike, Isabelle thought about what a mess she had made of things. She told herself it was over. She had tried her best to do the right thing, but look how terribly that had all gone.

  She swerved, heading for the park. She didn’t have to be at Beautiful Baby for another hour, to photograph newborn triplets. Imagine being that lucky, she thought.

  She took her camera from her bike pack. She snapped the front of the local deli, which was being torn down. She loved the sign: FRESH SANDWISHES. GET THEM WHILE THEIR HOT. She was angling for another shot and, to her surprise, saw Sam in the lens.

  Isabelle lowered her camera. A raw pang traveled up her spine. He had appeared out of nowhere and he looked so skinny and pale, as if someone had rubbed him with a gum eraser. His hair was too long and shaggy, falling past his collar, and he had faint purple circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping. But when he saw her, his face lighted up. “Hey, kiddo,” she said, trying to sound casual, not to let him know how upset she felt at seeing him

  “Is your father here?” she asked, and Sam shook his head. He kicked at a stone in front of him, once and then twice. She wanted to stroke his hair back, to give him her scarf, to feed him the package of butter cookies she had in her pocket, but she kept her hands on her camera. He’s not your child, she told herself. Not your responsibility.

  “You aren’t supposed to be with me,” she said simply. “You know your dad wouldn’t like it.” He kept staring at her, and she began to fiddle with the lens setting, rotating the lens aimlessly.