The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  “We can’t cancel the dinner,” Amelia said.

  Every muscle in my feet, calves, thighs, shoulders, jaw, scalp, and brow all contracted and then simultaneously released. “Yes, then. Yes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m usually a voyeur, not a participant. Amelia and Fritz were embracing me and including me—turning to me in a time of need, as a trusted friend.

  Amelia and Fritz went upstairs to freshen up. Natalie said a perfunctory goodbye to her friend Piper at the door. Alone, without her friends around her, I found it easier to study Natalie’s character and appearance. Her features were lacking in definition, except for her silver eyes, surrounded by black eyelashes.

  She pointed to something resembling a braid in her relatively short hair. “Piper started it, but I really wanted a Dutch braid. Do you know how to do one?”

  I examined the mass of Natalie’s tangled hair. “Let’s try.”

  Natalie led me up to the small, but impeccable, second-floor bathroom. A subtle striped wallpaper surrounded us. She picked up a thin purple hair ribbon, one of many ribbons and clips that were resting on the marble vanity. “I’d like for you to weave this in.”

  Dutch braids were in my repertoire, but Natalie’s fine, layered hair posed a challenge. She watched me in the oversize mirror as I untangled Piper’s braid, if you could call it that. Once Natalie’s hair was tangle free, I started by braiding the shortest hair near the crown of her head and then I pulled a little more hair into each section each time. Most of the shorter hair tucked into the Dutch braid neatly. Where it didn’t, I used a bobby pin. Apparently, it was good enough for her.

  “Mom!” She ran out of the bathroom and down the hall into what I guessed was the master suite and then disappeared inside. “Look!”

  “Lovely, sweetheart.” I heard Amelia’s voice from behind a closed door. I imagined Amelia seated at her dressing table in front of a Hollywood-style vanity mirror. Next to her on the chaise longue lay the outfit she’d chosen for the evening. “Make yourself at home, Delta,” she called out. “Help yourself to anything you see.”

  Another tide of warmth flooded my body, similar to earlier when Amelia had asked me to babysit. What exactly was she referring to when she said “anything”? Food, wine, clothing, cosmetics, linens?

  Natalie came running back out of the master bedroom toward the bathroom again. “I’ve got an idea! I can do your hair!”

  I didn’t love the idea of anyone braiding my hair, not even a child. “But you also … you might want to learn to do the hairstyle on yourself,” I said. “It’s different from doing it on someone else.” I realized too late that this could not be achieved. She was young and impatient. And she didn’t have the advantage of being able to see her work while she was braiding. With each new attempt, she was growing more frustrated.

  Ten minutes into the lesson, Amelia and Fritz appeared in the bathroom doorway. Amelia had changed out of her jeans and into a silky purple wrap dress and low pumps. She wore red lipstick and gold hoop earrings.

  “Looks like you guys are having fun.” Fritz, who had also changed, adjusted his tie and the collar of his sports jacket.

  “We have leftover lasagna in the fridge,” Amelia said to me, then turned to Natalie. “Lights out at nine thirty, sweetheart.”

  Amelia and Fritz both kissed Natalie on the forehead.

  Natalie stopped mid-braid, and her small amount of progress was lost. “I don’t want you to go,” she said to them. “It’s my birthday!”

  “Tomorrow’s your birthday.” Amelia’s voice was like music, the words rising and falling in pitch. “Today was your birthday party.” She clicked her tongue to indicate excitement, perhaps.

  Fritz high-fived Natalie. “Awesome party, dude.” Seeing the disappointment in Natalie’s face, he hesitated. “So … are we on for chocolate chip pancakes in the morning? Or should we have spinach pancakes for the birthday breakfast?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He and Amelia disappeared down the stairs and out the front door.

  “You have my cell if you need anything!” Amelia called out. I heard the heavy front door close behind them.

  Natalie’s frustration with her braids escalated after her parents’ departure. “I suck at this!”

  I needed a new activity to distract her. “You know what I realized? I haven’t seen your room.”

  She sighed loudly, like she wasn’t interested in showing it to me.

  “I’d love to see it,” I said.

  “Fine.” Natalie led me to the third floor and stopped outside a closed door. “The theme of my room is unicorns. Did you know I collect unicorns?”

  “No, I didn’t.” I wondered if the concept of a themed bedroom was prevalent and I’d somehow missed it.

  I stepped inside. Numerous objects in the room reflected light, so it was hard to identify any primary light source. Indeed, I saw unicorns everywhere I looked. Little statues of unicorns lined three shelves. Several pictures of unicorns were hung on the walls, with one mural painted directly on the wall, apparently by a child.

  She showed me around, explaining the provenance of each unicorn. As she did so, her mood improved. I paused in front of a rainbow unicorn on a bookshelf, because I recognized it as a Disney souvenir. My parents had worked as janitors at Disney in Orlando, and I’d lived there for most of my childhood.

  I envied her bedroom. Or maybe I envied the life that seemed to go with the bedroom. I’d seen my share of wealthy children’s bedrooms—rooms that were decorated so as to appear “magical,” with a few items purchased for that reason. But Amelia and Fritz were working on a much deeper level. A great deal of the magic in Natalie’s room came from the lighting. It was clear that the materials and colors of the drapes, rug, furniture, walls, ceiling were all chosen to work with the lighting—to reflect it or absorb it, depending on the desired effect—and create a true feeling of otherworldliness. This child’s room might as well have been an art installation, it was executed so well. To a layperson, it appeared personal, authentic, and unstudied. That was what made it so effective.

  * * *

  Turning the brass knobs on the Straubs’ extravagant oven, grasping the substantial pulls on the smooth sliding drawers, handling the kitchen faucet, all of these actions were gratifying to my senses.

  Natalie sat at the counter and watched me. I found the lasagna in the fridge. “It looks delicious. Did your mom make it?”

  “My mom?” Natalie laughed sarcastically. “No.”

  I could tell Natalie enjoyed pointing out something her mother didn’t do well.

  “Does your dad cook?” The kitchen tools were all coordinated, as were their dishes and their copper pots and pans. The items hadn’t been acquired over many years. It was clear that they’d been purchased all at once, and all other items had been disposed of. Amelia was obviously purposeful in deciding what she wanted to include in her life and what she wanted to exclude. I felt honored that I was being included at this time.

  “Sometimes. We get some meals delivered.”

  The Straubs probably catered to liberal, sensitive, and socially aware clients, the kind who named family as their priority and considered the kitchen the center of the home, whether anyone cooked or not. And, naturally, their own home would reflect that sensibility. I tried to envision a typical evening in their house and felt a tinge of irritation when I thought about the kitchen sitting unused.

  Natalie swiveled back and forth on the kitchen stool.

  “Piper seems nice,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “But she’s no hairstylist.”

  I was relieved to see Natalie laugh. She appeared to relax a bit.

  “Did you have fun with her?” I said.

  I noticed a temporary tattoo on Natalie’s hand that was already disintegrating. It said, She Inspires.

  I served her a plate of lasagna and sat on the stool next to her.

  “Piper likes to tell me how much fun s
he has with her other friends.”

  “I see.”

  She took a bite of lasagna. “She doesn’t want me to think I’m an important friend.”

  “Maybe she’s worried she’s not important.”

  Natalie paused as if considering the idea. “Maybe.”

  She was quiet and pensive while she ate. After dinner, I served us each a piece of cake. I rarely ate dessert, because I wanted to maintain my figure. But I needed Natalie to feel as though I was celebrating her birthday with a full heart. She ate all the icing off the outside of the cake, then the cake itself. Then she served herself a second piece of cake.

  “Your mom said you’re a really good cello player.” I was looking for a subject that would put her in a good mood.

  “She wishes I was.”

  I searched for a lighthearted response. “No, she really thinks you’re amazing. Do you like playing the cello?”

  She smiled on one side of her mouth. “I don’t know what I like doing.”

  “Play something for me.”

  Natalie inhaled quickly. “Yeah … OK.”

  When she finished her cake, she found her cello in the media room and played a piece from memory. She was actually quite good.

  I clapped. “Stunning!”

  She held back a smile, but I could tell she was pleased by my reaction. “That was Elgar’s Cello Concerto I played for my recital last week.” She modestly returned her cello to its case.

  “I wish I’d seen the recital.”

  “My parents got a video from my teacher, since they couldn’t make it. I can show it to you sometime.”

  Later, in her bedroom, she put on her unicorn nightgown, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed under her unicorn sheets. I kissed her forehead, exactly like her parents did when they left for the evening.

  * * *

  I ran the dishwasher, using the Straubs’ organic dishwasher detergent, and wiped down the counters, leaving the kitchen with a minty smell that made me queasy. Then I fed Itzhak his organic dog food. I was bitten by a rottweiler when I was eight and ended up in the hospital, once my third-grade teacher noticed the inflamed bite marks on my arm. Since then, I’ve never been entirely relaxed around dogs. Itzhak was too feeble to hurt anyone, but some fears are not rational.

  The wind picked up outside and the windows shook loudly. Itzhak howled at the ceiling. “Shhh.” He settled back down after a few minutes. I thought about how my life compared to Itzhak’s life. He’d been raised with unconditional love by people who cared about his physical and mental well-being.

  When finished in the kitchen, I had the rest of the evening to myself. I was free to peruse the house without anyone looking over my shoulder. Many of my clients had indoor security cameras, but I wasn’t surprised that the Straubs didn’t. Cameras would interfere with the exquisite lines of their design. I walked into the library and toward the far wall of bookshelves. I looked through each shelf methodically and stopped whenever I came to a book that had been read several times. Without stepping away, I would remove the book and read a few pages, then flip through to see if anyone had written something in it. I put it back in the exact same spot.

  I’d expected to find a lot of books on architecture and art, which I did: exquisite large, heavy books with thick glossy pages and saturated photos. Many cost more than a hundred dollars. They were the kinds of books most people would display on a coffee table, but the Straubs had too many to display.

  I moved to the side bookshelves and found a few how-to and self-help books on the bottom shelf close to the wall. Next to them was a stack of several books with the spines facing away from the room. I picked up the stack and turned it over. They were all books about fertility. I removed one from the shelf and flipped through it. In the chapter titled “Miscarriage,” several pages in a row were dog-eared. Someone had written in the margins: blood clotting disorder, ask Metzger. Based on a few dates in the margins, I surmised that Amelia had had four miscarriages, all of which had happened after the birth of Natalie. It was helpful information. I sensed it would serve me to learn as much as possible about this family, in case a time came when they needed my support.

  In the kitchen, I opened a utility closet and found a Miele vacuum, brooms, and more cleaning supplies, arranged in perfect rows. A second door led to an inviting space I had not yet seen, apparently a home office with one entire wall of glass doors. The office opened up to a shallow deck that wrapped around the back of the house, too, and a spiral staircase led down to the backyard.

  In the middle of the office, two identical midcentury desks faced each other. I identified Amelia’s desk because her burgundy silk scarf lay draped over the chair, then I examined each stack of papers and folders, which were clearly labeled and held together with rubber bands. She was almost as organized as I was. Only a few Post-its with handwritten notes marred the perfectly organized work space. On one such piece of paper were the words cello teacher and a phone number. I picked up another piece of paper, which read Jenny Douglas, then a phone number, then the words due date July 10. I wasn’t able to remember even one time that I’d focused on a pregnant woman’s due date to the degree that I would actually write it down. On a third piece of paper, the words birth mothers were followed by three names. Perhaps the Straubs were looking to adopt. My pulse quickened.

  After returning each paper to its original location, I sat down at Fritz’s desk. His labeling system wasn’t as consistent as Amelia’s, but his handwriting had more to offer than hers did. (I’d read several books about handwriting over the years and had tested my knowledge by comparing acquaintances’ handwriting with their behavior, to see if the two were aligned.) Fritz’s narrow L loops indicated tension, probably in his marriage. Perhaps he was disappointed in his wife’s inability to carry another child. The loose placement of his i dots led me to believe he had an extraordinary imagination. Thoughts of Fritz made my body tingle.

  At ten thirty, I went up to the third floor to check on Natalie, and brought my digital Canon EOS with me. The bathroom and closet lights shone into the room and I could easily make out her face, even though my eyes were adjusting. She was sound asleep, but her hand was still clutching her stuffed unicorn. I pulled her thin cotton blanket up over her and sat down on the edge of her bed to observe her. Holding my fingers inches from her nose and mouth, I felt her warm breath.

  When I look at someone through the viewfinder of my camera, I can see what lies below the surface. I studied Natalie and captured several images of her sleeping—a gift for her parents at some point, maybe. Natalie’s chest moved up and down, almost imperceptibly. Her face appeared thin and fragile, as did her body. She reminded me of myself at that age. She took refuge in her imagination. Children with hyperactive imaginations are usually running away from something, escaping from something. Some children don’t have imaginations because they don’t need them.

  I used to play a game with myself, looking for the perfect parents. Living at Disney, I had a lot of people to choose from. In due course, I found a gorgeous mother and a debonair father and named them Isabel and Peter. Isabel looked like a ballet dancer, flawless ivory skin, long neck, turned-out feet. Peter had salt-and-pepper hair and large clear eyes. Their children would surely have had all the toys, dolls, stickers, dresses that I coveted. For the next several years, whenever I was feeling inferior or depressed, I envisioned myself as their daughter. Over time, I forgot exactly how Isabel and Peter looked and how they spoke. But I held on to the idea of them—the opposite of my own demoralized parents. By the time my mother was thirty, long hours in the Florida sun had coarsened her face. “Your skin’s too smooth,” she’d say to me. “Get away, I can’t bear to look at you.”

  The memory of deprivations sometimes remains dormant and you might think you are past it. But it’s actually just below the surface, ready to rear its head with the slightest provocation.

  Meeting the Straubs reminded me of my game, because I’d always felt certain that Isabel and
Peter were architects too.

  The front door opened downstairs, and I heard footsteps. A minute later I met the Straubs in the stair hall, having deposited my camera in its case on the hall bench. I sensed that they wouldn’t understand why I was still taking photos. Many people don’t realize that I use my camera to interpret the world around me. It’s another set of eyes.

  Fritz had a beet-red face and smelled of alcohol. Amelia stumbled toward me and almost fell into my arms. It appeared that she’d recently applied lipstick and had done so poorly, as I could see lipstick outside the lines of her lips, like a clown, and on her teeth. The rest of her makeup had worn off.

  “Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?” She belted out the first lines of the Tanya Tucker song. “Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?”

  Faint bells sounded in the distance. How unlikely that Amelia would know that song well enough to sing it to me. It was a sign of our strong connection. My mother had given me the first name Delta to go with my last name, Dawn—her tribute to Tanya Tucker. I wasn’t proud of the name, but I couldn’t separate myself from it. And Amelia singing it to me, it was like she understood all that. She understood me. She recognized me.

  “Amelia thinks she can sing,” Fritz said. “Too bad she didn’t grow up in Nashville instead of Pittsburgh.” His comment was likely meant as a joke, but came out sounding slightly hostile. Amelia didn’t appear to hear him. She reached into her purse and pulled out four crisp twenty-dollar bills.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that she would pay me. I’d viewed myself as doing the Straubs a favor. “No, I shouldn’t…” A familiar ache pulsed behind my sternum until I looked into Amelia’s eyes, where I saw real affection. She didn’t look down on me.

  “Delta!” she cried, pushing the bills into my hand. “La Divina!”