I felt flattered that she was comparing her work to mine. I hesitated, however, not wanting to criticize a client. “Are you struggling with a particular person right now?”
She blossomed when the attention was on her. “Not exactly. But it’s been a hard year.”
“Yes?”
“Just … a lot of disappointments.” She frowned. “I count my blessings, though.” Her face had a worn appearance, but regardless, I found her arresting. Even the prior week, when she’d come home drunk and messy, she’d still glowed like a beacon. She lit the room up when she walked in.
“If you ever want to discuss it…”
“I wouldn’t want to burden you.” Her fingers trailed down her neck.
I sensed that she did want to talk about it. “I admire you, Amelia. Your family, your professional success. If you only knew how impressive you are—to an outsider.”
“You’re not an outsider, Delta!”
“I’m honored to be included in your life.”
“When will you see your son again?” she asked.
“I try to FaceTime every day.”
“It must be hard,” she said.
My hand was too hot. I set the cup down.
“Where did you grow up?” she asked, as if the idea had only just occurred to her. I was sorry that it had. My roots—that wasn’t a subject I enjoyed and I usually chose to deflect the conversation away from that territory.
“Florida.”
“Where in Florida? My parents live in Florida.”
Amelia felt it was her prerogative to have the information she wanted, and ignored the social cues that might have led someone else to drop a subject. She wasn’t oblivious to the cues. She simply disregarded them. I was usually adept at pivoting away from my own story after providing only the most rudimentary information, but not in this case.
“Orlando.”
“And your family?” she asked.
“I have an older sister.” I’d always wanted an older sister. “My parents both died a few years ago. Several months apart. They were very close.” My mother had died in a car accident right after I’d graduated from high school, and my father might be dead. I hadn’t seen him for fifteen years and had no desire to. So he was dead, in a sense. “I love Brooklyn. I have a family of friends. We celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. Now that I’m divorced.”
Amelia nodded sympathetically. “Two of our employees have stuck around for a long time. Ian Walker, he’s an associate at the firm and holds the place together. Maybe you saw him at Natalie’s birthday?” Amelia’s eyes shone when she spoke of Ian. “He’s like a member of the family, which is great since it’s just the three of us and Natalie doesn’t have any siblings. So far.”
I found myself envious of Ian. “So far?” I asked. “Is there a sibling on the way?”
Amelia looked down at her lap and shook her head. “I want another baby more than I can tell you.” Her eyes filled with tears. I took her hand and held it in mine. As I did so, I feared I’d overstepped, but she pulled my hand firmly toward her, as if she was drawing comfort from me. Her skin was extremely soft. A circle of diamonds sparkled on her ring finger. All her fingers were long and slender. I wondered if she played the piano.
“I can’t stay pregnant. It’s devastating.” Amelia’s shoulders collapsed. “It’s biological, I guess, the intense need for another baby. Maybe a desire to be young again?” She laughed awkwardly. “And the miscarriages destroyed me.” She wiped several tears from her cheeks and smudged black streaks of mascara across her face in the process. “I’ve got to keep up this appearance. Maybe it’s for Fritz’s sake. I think he needs me to be the strong one.”
I heard Natalie’s footsteps on the stairs. Amelia pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and wiped away her smeared mascara. Natalie walked into the kitchen, wearing shorts and a torn T-shirt, her gangly arms and legs exposed. Did she know about her mother’s longing for a baby, the miscarriages? Amelia didn’t seem the type to play it close to the vest.
“Hi, Delta.” Natalie turned to her mother. “I need help with my math assignment.” She put a few stapled pages down on the white marble top of the kitchen island.
“My daughter’s in the most advanced sixth-grade math class that ever existed.” Amelia handed the papers back to Natalie. “She doesn’t actually need help.”
“I do.”
“Homework’s not my job!” Amelia closed her eyes tightly, turned her head away, and held her hands out to indicate that she wasn’t going to look at the homework. She reminded me of a child who was refusing to eat her vegetables.
I’d always been good at math and felt reasonably confident that I would understand Natalie’s math, even if it was advanced. Still, it was a risk. “Can I try to help?”
“Fine,” Amelia said. “But, Natalie, don’t get used to it.”
Natalie and I sat down at the farmhouse table. In lieu of flowers, a wrought-iron menorah served as the centerpiece. Itzhak crawled between her feet. I’d noticed that the dog liked being close to her. Natalie’s homework included several pages of word problems with fractions and decimals, but not beyond my ability, and not beyond Natalie’s, either. She probably wanted attention more than she wanted or needed help. She wanted someone to care about her homework, to care about her.
Amelia slipped upstairs and returned half an hour later in a cream-colored pantsuit and kitten heels. Hovering over Natalie, she stroked her hair. “All of our dinners are client dinners.” I detected self-righteousness in her tone. “We never leave Natalie for a social event.”
Perhaps Amelia thought I was judging her, and wanted to convince me she was a devoted mother.
“Of course,” I said.
Amelia kissed Natalie on her forehead. “Delta, feel free to watch TV or borrow a book after Natalie’s in bed.” Amelia headed to the door. “We’ll be home by midnight.”
When Natalie and I finished her math, we turned to a diorama she was working on for a school contest—a three-dimensional model of an ideal public park. I attended an unexceptional public school, not a fancy private school like Natalie. I don’t remember ever having had an assignment like hers—empowering and harnessing my ingenuity. She took it for granted.
Natalie wanted to start with a carousel. “I used to go to the one in Prospect Park with my dad,” she said, “and also the one near the bridge, with glass around it.”
I know a lot about carousels. More than the average person. I’d probably spent hundreds of hours on the bench in front of Cinderella’s Golden Carousel. I can still picture each horse in detail. I can still hear the music.
Natalie and I cut out each component of the carousel and each individual horse, then mounted them on cardboard. We cut out and mounted the children also. Each cardboard child had distinct features and unique clothing. Natalie must have thought about the personalities and the inner lives of each child as she was drawing him or her, and the result was a group of diverse children. I found such a holistic approach extremely unusual for a child. Many adults who considered themselves artists didn’t think that way.
“You remember in Mary Poppins,” she said, “when the children jump into the sidewalk chalk drawing of an English countryside. They land inside the drawing, and the whole world comes to life. And then they ride the carousel, and the horses jump off and just keep running, away from the merry-go-round, through the fields, anywhere they want to go?”
I nodded, not sure if I’d ever seen Mary Poppins at all.
“They’re attached to the carousel, going round and round, and they’re stuck there. But then, all of a sudden, they realize they can ride their horses anywhere. It’s like they could do that all along but didn’t know it.” She demonstrated with one of the cardboard horses, moving it through the air in leaping arcs around the room. “Every time I ride a carousel, I tell my horse to jump off and run away.” She laughed. “None of the horses listen to me.”
She finally glued the last horse int
o place.
We moved on to trees, a garden, rock formations, and a playground.
Natalie studied the completed diorama. “One day I want to build this park for real,” she said to me conspiratorially.
“Are you going to be an architect when you grow up, like your parents?” A sharp burn of envy pierced through me, but it was mitigated by the unassuming expression in Natalie’s eyes.
“If I’m good enough.” Her quiet tone of voice indicated she didn’t believe she would be. It was as if she thought there was only so much talent handed out to one family: Her mother had most of it. Her father had what was left over.
“You’ll be good enough.”
“I hope I win the contest,” she whispered, though we were the only two people in the house.
I felt myself becoming concerned for Natalie. She was a very sensitive girl. As much as I admired Amelia and Fritz, I sensed that they were not fulfilling their daughter’s needs. She didn’t have enough of their attention. I understood exactly how she felt.
After dinner, Natalie got in bed and read for half an hour. I returned to her room to say good night. She turned back one of the pages of The Giver by Lois Lowry to mark her place and then positioned the book on her nightstand.
I picked it up and looked at the jacket copy. “How’s the book?”
“It’s about a community where everyone’s assigned their life work,” she said. “No one gets to decide anything or choose anything.”
I studied the image of the man’s face on the cover.
“I’d like to have some choices,” she said.
“You’ll create your own choices,” I said, “like I do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
In the Straubs’ home office, I turned on the overhead lights and sat down at Amelia’s walnut desk, where I found two new Post-its. One read travel, and underneath were written several dates. Another read couples counselor and a phone number. Amelia’s inability to carry another child had obviously put a strain on the Straubs’ marriage. Of course, I felt deep concern for both of them, but I also had the exhilarating realization that the Straubs and I had crossed paths now for a reason. Perhaps, I was in a position to help them.
Next to Amelia’s keyboard, I noticed an exquisite pot of lip gloss. I opened the small gold jar to discover that it was fire-engine red. Amelia was a little old for such a bright color; it would make her look harsh. It was actually a better color for me. I applied a dab to my lips and returned the jar to its original spot. Next to her desk on the floor, a Post-it was stuck on top of an Asics shoebox with the word return scribbled on it. I looked inside and saw a pair of expensive running shoes. Before leaving the office, I examined the scene to make certain everything was returned to its original location. Then I turned out the lights.
I’d been dreaming about the Straubs’ master suite for two days, anticipating my opportunity for exploration. The moment I walked in, I felt a thrill. It was the intimacy of being in their bedroom, deep inside their lives. Swimming in the pool of their merged identities—woven into their larger family identity. The bedroom looked out over a patio and the backyard. Underneath grand casement windows trimmed with brass hardware, a built-in window seat extended the width of the room. Crisp white molding set off the ivory walls. The duvet resembled a watercolor, as did the silk rug. In Amelia’s closet and dressing room, the quality of the custom millwork equaled that of their kitchen cabinetry. Many thousands of dollars in clothing resided there.
It was the master bath that captivated me above all else. The photos I’d seen did not allow the eye to appreciate how each layer informed the other layers. It was a stunning vision of glazed silver floors, a polished stone vanity, large dramatic sconces, a spacious marble-lined shower with a rain showerhead, mosaic tile flooring, and an overscaled egg-shaped resin tub.
I approached the vanity and the built-in magnifying mirror attached to the wall in order to study my reflection: golden hair framing a youthful complexion and shiny red lips. It was not until last year, when I turned thirty-five, that I noticed a few fine lines in my forehead and, even then, only if I looked closely. In one of the top drawers of the vanity, I found several beautifully packaged skin creams, along with a thirty-dollar mascara, a seventy-dollar concealer, and a pair of tweezers that I used to remove several stray eyebrow hairs.
When finished at the mirror, I turned to take in the magnificence of the bathtub. I’d never bathed in such a tub. I considered how much time I had. It was 10 P.M. The Straubs definitely wouldn’t return home before eleven, and Amelia had indicated it would be later. If I were to take a bath, I’d have at least an hour before I’d have to worry about their arrival.
I pulled my shirt over my head, removed my bra, and examined my torso in the full-length mirror. I still had a flat stomach and a slender waist. I thought about conceiving and bearing a child. Childbirth can alter a woman’s body, sometimes permanently. I sat down on an Indonesian stool and pulled off my socks, my jeans, and my underwear, then stood naked in the lavish bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, savoring a sense of connection and intimacy with the Straubs. And also the power associated with claiming what I needed.
I considered the logistics of my bath. I ought not to use a towel for my bath, because I might not have time to wash and dry it. They would likely notice a damp towel or a damp tub. Maybe I needed to wait for my next visit and bring my own towel. The thought of postponing the bath brought my spirits down. I spied a damp towel draped over the towel bar and contemplated using that one. I leaned over to smell it and detected Amelia’s musky scent.
Still undecided, I returned to the bedroom to study the Straubs’ bed. A dozen pillows of various sizes and fabrics, and in various shades of blue, covered the upholstered headboard. I wanted to lie naked under their organic cotton sheets. Thoughts of Amelia and Fritz having sex entered my mind. Maybe they’d stopped having sex after all the miscarriages. Maybe it was too traumatic for them now.
Natalie’s face appeared in the doorway. Her body lurched back at the sight of me.
“Hi, Natalie.” I spoke in a calm tone, though a wave of panic ran through me. I spotted a throw draped over a nearby chair. “The craziest thing…” I wrapped the blanket tightly around my body. “Just a few minutes ago … Itzhak vomited. I was downstairs and lifting him off the porch. Awful for him. Really.” I avoided her eye contact. “So all my clothes … I had to clean everything. It was quite a mess, and I’m … I’m going to wash my clothes in the machine. I’ll just find a towel until they’re dry.”
“Poor Itzhak.” Natalie crossed toward me in the direction of the bathroom. I feared she was going to examine my clothing to see if I was telling the truth about the vomit. But she stopped in front of one of her parents’ nightstands to check the time. She turned around and walked back toward the bedroom door.
Fortunately, Natalie returned to bed rather quickly after a glass of milk. I was mildly concerned about how she would relate what she saw. She appeared to believe me when I explained about Itzhak. But I couldn’t be certain.
Still wrapped in the blanket, I went back to the master bathroom, where I’d left my clothes, and sent Amelia a text: can I use the laundry machine to wash my clothes? unfortunately, Itzhak’s been ill.
no! did he ruin ur clothes?
i’m fine
please use my bathroom to rinse off. The response allayed all my fears and filled me with the same sense of euphoria that I’d had earlier.
I placed my clean clothes in the laundry machine with detergent. Then, when I entered the master bathroom again, it was not as a trespasser, but as an invited guest. I sank down into a tub of steamy hot water. The water jets massaged my body, and I imagined it was someone touching me. Thoughts of Fritz consumed my imagination. Followed by thoughts of Amelia. I stared at the magical light fixture on the ceiling, a million drops of crystal held together by some invisible force. A feeling of deep contentment and optimism pervaded my soul. I stepped out of the bath, invigorated. Onc
e I’d dried off, I returned to the laundry room to place my clothes in the dryer.
When Amelia and Fritz came home, they both apologized repeatedly. They felt awful for leaving Itzhak in my care, a dog with chronic gastrointestinal issues. In this situation, they could only see themselves as the guilty parties.
* * *
The next day, I woke up late with a headache, as if I were hungover, though I’d had very little to drink the night before. I checked my phone. The first time I’d babysat for Natalie, Amelia had written to me early the following morning, but I found no message this time. I checked again twenty minutes later. And again after that. I was hoping for some acknowledgment of our growing relationship. I feared sliding back. I drank a cup of coffee, showered, dressed, checked my phone again, then collected my equipment for the job I had that afternoon in Tribeca.
I arrived and stepped out of the elevator directly into a corner duplex penthouse: twenty-foot ceilings, white oak floors, a landscaped terrace, and sweeping views. Having photographed more than eight hundred parties given by wealthy New Yorkers, I was no longer impressed by the size of a home, nor was I impressed by costly art, furniture, or finishes. A majority of rich people have bad taste and derivative homes. Some of them have an impressive art collection dictated by an art consultant. It’s possible to hire people who will tell you what art to buy, what dishes to buy, what sheets to buy, what color to paint your walls. But the final product does not reflect any one person’s point of view, personality, taste, or sensibility. Just like any generic idea of what’s good, it’s actually not good.
The Straubs’ home was different. Amelia and Fritz did not design their home with the goal of trying to re-create something that they’d seen before. They, themselves, were the artists. They, themselves, had the vision.
Since I’d arrived early at my clients’ home, seven-year-old Boris was alone in the living room playing video games on an iPad. I approached the sturdy-looking child and handed him a box wrapped in green paper and silver ribbon. “Happy birthday,” I said. He took the package and placed it on the floor next to his feet. Then he jumped, landing with all his weight on top of the birthday present. He picked up the crushed package and handed it back to me, with a snide look on his face.
The Photographer Page 4