The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  “We have five other grandchildren,” Howard said to Sarah. “You can’t send out a picture of only one.”

  “She’s the one who takes after me.” I didn’t see any physical resemblance between Sarah and her granddaughter.

  “Happy fifth birthday, Hazel.” I knelt so I could look her in the eye. She had a round face and a head of red curls, like Little Orphan Annie.

  “I’m still four,” she said apologetically. “My birthday is next week.”

  “I see.”

  Sarah led her granddaughter to the living room and sat down with Hazel in her lap. Sarah yanked Howard’s arm. “What’s her name, the girl who’s taking pictures?” she said loudly.

  “Delta.” Howard put his finger to his mouth to shush his wife.

  “Delta! Come here!” Sarah called to me.

  Howard stood behind Sarah and Hazel for the group shot. I took several photos of them, and then Carmen and Sergio entered into the frame and leaned over Sarah’s shoulder.

  “Feliz cumpleaños, Hazel!” Carmen called out to the camera. She kissed Hazel on the forehead.

  Sarah’s expression morphed from joyful to irate. She turned to Howard. “I’d like one photograph with my little granddaughter. Without everyone breathing down my neck.”

  One after another, family members entered the apartment: aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, dressed for the occasion. I finally caught another glimpse of Hazel’s parents. They looked amazed by their good fortune—amazed that a child such as Hazel had entered their lives. They seemed to believe in their child’s brilliance and talent, the same way people believe in God.

  “I don’t know if I mentioned,” Brooke said to me, “that Hazel is also a gifted ballerina. She’ll be performing for us later.” She came closer to me so that she could whisper in my ear. “I have an idea for Brian’s birthday. I want to surprise him with a gallery wall—photos of Hazel dancing.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Perfect.”

  Brooke was entirely undiscriminating in her opinions of her child—so different from Amelia. Amelia had high standards for herself, and those high standards extended to her daughter. She wasn’t inclined to heap praise on Natalie if it wasn’t warranted.

  I concluded that all of Hazel’s relatives at the party considered themselves an important part of the girl’s life and had probably never missed a birthday. The child didn’t realize what she had. Her significant place in people’s lives. Her privilege was of a different kind than Natalie’s. For all of Natalie’s material advantages, she would never have the same kind of self-esteem that Hazel had. She simply wasn’t that central. Natalie drifted on the periphery of the Straubs’ lives, in an outer lane around their whirlpool.

  Mack the Magician showed up on time. We’d seen each other at five birthdays in the last two months. I remember the first time we met. We were working on a party in the East Village and we left the clients’ town house together. When we reached the sidewalk, he pointed at the brown leather biker jacket I was wearing. “Funny, I didn’t see you arrive with that.” I smiled and kept walking, but I’ve hated him ever since.

  At two thirty, when Hazel’s party was winding down, I slipped into the front vestibule to phone the Straubs’ house.

  “Delta?” Fritz picked up the phone.

  “Hi, I left my sweater at your place last night. I—”

  “Amelia missed her meeting in Dallas.” Fritz was speaking quickly in a hoarse voice. “She left the house at five in the morning and was supposed to fly straight there, but she didn’t show up. The clients called me. They can’t reach her. I can’t reach her. I left a message for Ian, but I haven’t heard back.”

  “I’ll be there soon.” I attempted to keep my voice in a low, steady vocal range. Changes in pitch indicate fear or anxiety.

  I packed up the camera equipment, which I’d already placed near the front door; it took longer than it normally would have because my arms and hands were trembling terribly and I found it difficult to zip and unzip my camera case.

  I waited for my car on West End Avenue. The rain had stopped, but I could feel the harsh, bitter air cutting through my down jacket. All the blood in my body was rushing to my head. I was confronted with the possibility of losing Amelia. My love for her was as intense as any romantic love I had ever experienced. I needed her. I wanted to disappear inside her.

  * * *

  Fritz answered the door, his sandy-blond hair disheveled, his face unshaven, a glazed look in his eyes. “Natalie’s in her room doing homework. I haven’t told her anything yet.”

  I dropped my equipment in the vestibule, hung my coat, and followed him into the library.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” I motioned to the sofa. He rubbed his palms together, like his hands were cold. I was genuinely concerned for him. It occurred to me that I needed to behave in a calm and confident manner. It wasn’t the role I wanted to play, but I really had no choice, because anything other than that would send Fritz into a state of greater panic and crisis.

  “Let’s just talk through everything,” I said. “Do you know if Amelia took a car service to the airport this morning?”

  “I wasn’t awake.” He held his hands to his mouth and blew hot air on them.

  “Do you know if she boarded her flight?”

  “Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, covering his eyes with his hands.

  “If she checked into her hotel?”

  He opened his eyes, but didn’t appear to process what I was saying.

  “Do you know the airlines, what flight number?”

  I remembered a conversation I’d had with Amelia. She’d described Fritz as fragile and said that he expected her to be the strong one. Now I saw how he broke down in a crisis.

  He leaned his elbows onto his knees with his head resting in his hands. “I should have gone. Fuck. Fuck.”

  “In a little while, she’ll call us, and we’ll know that everything’s fine,” I said. “Maybe she sprained her ankle. Maybe she lost her cell phone.” Blood was pumping in my head, like there was too much blood and not enough space. I hid my fear, not wanting to add to Fritz’s worry.

  He looked up at me. “Do you think I should file a missing person’s report?’

  “Not yet,” I said, though I didn’t actually know the answer. I took one of Fritz’s large callused hands and held it in mine. The feeling of his hand in mine calmed my nerves slightly. “I understand how you feel.”

  He looked as though he might have a stroke or a heart attack. I gently placed my hand on his cheek. His face reddened slightly, but he didn’t move my hand away. I needed to handle the situation for Amelia’s sake. I needed to comfort Fritz and get him back to thinking straight. “This is so painful right now, but it won’t last long. We’ll find her.” A river of tears poured from his bright green eyes, down his face, and soaked his T-shirt all the way through, as if he’d jumped into a pool. I’d never seen so many tears. He needed my help. I leaned in toward him and kissed his lips very lightly, in an attempt to alter his frame of mind. He didn’t push me away. When I pulled back to look into his eyes and gauge his response, I was relieved to see some animation in his features. I tried to read his expression. It could have been shock, but I tended to think it was excitement. I felt that kissing him was the only way to shake him out of his state. Again I leaned toward him.

  “Dad!” Natalie’s voice called from upstairs.

  Fritz stood up with a start, his face bright red. I could tell how intensely he wanted me.

  “Madeleine’s mom is taking me to chamber music,” Natalie called down. “She’s picking me up in five minutes.”

  “OK, honey.”

  Fritz motioned for me to stay where I was. He turned and ran down the hall and up the stairs. I said Amelia’s name in my head, then tried to find an image of her in my mind, as if my subconscious might give me information on her whereabouts. But even visualizing her face was difficult and painful.

  On their library console
table were several of the framed photos from Natalie’s birthday party: the one of Natalie with her balloon unicorn in a sterling silver frame. One of Amelia holding Natalie, kissing her daughter’s forehead. They resembled each other in that both had large eyes spaced far apart. Natalie’s hair was lighter. I remembered the original version of the photo. I’d edited Natalie’s image because it had lacked sufficient lightness and joie de vivre.

  My gaze returned to Amelia in the photo. I closed my eyes to see if I could place a background with her face and discern any clues to her location. I felt so connected to her—almost like we were one and the same person—I ought to know where she was. But nothing came to me.

  I opened my eyes again and compared Amelia to her daughter in the photo: Amelia was clearly playing to an audience. I doubted that she could identify the line between her performance and her life.

  In one revealing photo of Fritz and Amelia, they were saying goodbye to their guests, toward the end of the party. Amelia was resting her head on Fritz’s shoulder. He was gripping her wrist. She wanted him to protect her. He wanted her to protect him. They both wanted to be saved. Amelia described herself as the organized one who always had to take charge. Fritz felt that she expected too much of him—that she was always slightly disappointed in him, and he was probably right.

  I’d seen an unpaid tuition bill for Natalie’s school in their office. Such questions of money could bring stress into a relationship. Enough stress to break a marriage. I knew, not because I had any firsthand experience. I knew because I’d seen it in subtle ways whenever I’d photographed a party. Some parents wouldn’t notice whether I charged five hundred or five thousand for a birthday party.

  But there were others, maybe bankers, traders, lawyers, or otherwise, who might have had a couple of lucrative years. Then there was an assumption it would continue like that. And maybe their expectations were set in a certain place. Luxuries crept in. And perhaps, they assumed, because they saw their peers, they assumed it could be done. They were wealthy. And they would stay that way.

  The families would hire me one year and then they’d hire me back the following year whether or not they could afford me. And the birthday party they’d have for the child—it would be as lavish as it was the prior year. Maybe it was a matter of pride or positive thinking. If we believe we have the money, we will. So it was in those cases where I could see the tension starting to eat away at the family. And I could see it was right under the surface, just like Amelia and Fritz. And the mom was snapping at the dad because she was angry. Because they’d hired a photographer and a magician, and they had a fancy cake, but the kid was screaming his head off. Tension. And on some level, the mom probably knew that they spent the money and it wasn’t worth it because of what it was doing and would do to their relationship. And she was probably angry at herself. But she felt angry at her husband because, well, in Amelia’s case, she was the wage earner for all intents and purposes. But he was supposed to be. She wasn’t supposed to be worried about money. That was the unspoken arrangement. She’s not supposed to wake up one morning and feel her way of life slipping away from her, out from underneath her. And he feels angry at her. Why is the burden on him? And why is she the one who’s running up the tab? And why, why, why.

  Because someone lied to them. Someone told them that every year would be a little better than the last one. These were people who were working hard. They heard the silent promise floating through the air. And they probably believed it. Until one credit card bill after another started to pile up. And the private school tuitions were too much. And maybe we need to pull our kids out. Or move out because New York’s too expensive. And experience the shame because our friends would know why. And our children would know that this was never the plan. And for some of them, the children loved the school. And the children would be so sad. It all comes crashing down. It all comes crashing in on you. That can happen when you have too much. Like some people do.

  But Fritz and Amelia were different. They were truly deserving and generous. Truly. They were raising a principled daughter and they were instilling decent values in her. Fritz and Amelia were talented, sensitive, cultured, intellectual types with fine sensibilities, well read, with sophisticated taste. I felt myself to be so very fortunate—that Fritz and Amelia and Natalie had entered into my life. All that they were. And it was because I knew that I was my best version of myself when I was with them. Yes. When I was in their house. In their company. I became the person I’d always wanted to be. Possibilities opened up for me. I knew I could help them. First and foremost, I could help Fritz to find Amelia.

  And later, when Amelia returned … I could help them have the baby they longed to have. It was clearer than ever to me now. In life, sometimes we have an opportunity to choose our family. I couldn’t imagine there were any other people in the world with whom I’d have had such a strong connection. It was a certain kind of ecstasy to know where I belonged.

  * * *

  Fritz descended the stairs holding Natalie’s hand. I didn’t want her to see me, so I stepped back into the library and around the corner. A car horn beeped outside. Natalie kissed her father. Cello case in hand, she headed out the door, knowing nothing of her mother’s absence. The door closed behind her.

  The house was now empty except for Fritz and me. I thought about the Straubs’ king-size bed, the mountain of pillows, their organic cotton sheets, and felt my body sliding under the sheets next to Fritz, his body on mine. I would help him get through this. He needed me right now. I needed him too. Holding Fritz close to me might ease the pain I was feeling. The excruciating pain of Amelia’s absence. I moved back into his line of sight.

  He took a step back. “The important thing here is I need to find Amelia.”

  “Yes.”

  He was sinking, melting into quicksand. “Nothing else,” he said.

  “Yes.” And I knew that he was right. I wanted Fritz’s hands on me. But more than that, I wanted Amelia back in the house.

  Fritz and I looked out the window next to the door. I saw Natalie climb into the back seat of the Toyota Highlander that had pulled into the Straubs’ private driveway. The car door slammed shut. Her friend’s mother waved out the car window. I heard the car accelerating onto the street. Fritz finally looked back at me.

  “Do you have access to Amelia’s calendar?” I asked.

  * * *

  In the daytime, the Straubs’ home office looked as if it were completely open to the side deck; one entire wall was made up of sliding doors with glass so clean, you wouldn’t even know it was there. Outside, I saw the snow beginning to melt. The rain had washed much of it away. I could almost make out the lines of the landscaping. A few potted plants, which had been covered with snow up until now, were starting to reveal themselves.

  Fritz turned on Amelia’s computer. I sat next to him so I could look over his shoulder. His strong body odor filled the room.

  Over the course of an hour, we looked through each and every meeting and call that had taken place that year, starting in January, as well as those that were scheduled to take place in late March and April.

  “There was one time,” he said, “maybe five years ago, when I thought Amelia was having an affair. I was gone a lot. And I think she was lonely. I didn’t blame her.…” I heard a layer of darkness in his voice. “But it takes a toll.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Amelia in bed with a woman, not a man. When I tried to make out the woman’s face, I realized it was mine.

  “Recently she seems anxious,” I said.

  Fritz continued to scroll through the calendar. “The whole baby thing.”

  “I know.” My stomach clenched. He’d brought the subject up himself.

  “Yeah, we’ve been looking at adopting,” he said. “Looking at surrogates.”

  Amelia’s absence had led to an opening for the surrogate conversation. Here was an opportunity and I couldn’t turn away from it. “Did she find a surrogate?”

&nbs
p; “We were … arguing. Amelia thinks a surrogate would confuse Natalie. And she doesn’t want her baby in a stranger’s body.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a decision with fucking zero information, all these donors, surrogates, birth mothers, for Christ’s sake. And you don’t know a goddamn thing about anyone.”

  Patience. I needed patience and a level head. “You should hire someone you know to be the surrogate.”

  Fritz combed his fingers through his hair, starting from his forehead and going straight back.

  “It might give you a measure of comfort.” I patted Itzhak, who had followed us into the office. I could tell the dog was also troubled by Amelia’s absence.

  “Nothing’s giving me comfort right now, Delta.” He repeated that gesture of running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know where the fuck my wife is.”

  Fritz was obviously agitated. Even so, I needed to see the subject through to its logical conclusion. Granted, it was not the best timing, but it wasn’t likely that surrogacy would come up again in an organic way. “Listen,” I said, “there might be a woman who wants the experience of being pregnant. Or someone who loved being pregnant and wants that experience a second time. Or someone who needs the money. There are health benefits. Your risk of cancer and heart disease go down.”

  “OK.” Fritz was staring at the monitor and didn’t respond.

  “All of those reasons would pale compared to the reasons that a friend would do it. A good friend who cared about you would want to see you happy. I know that I would.”

  He shifted his jaw to one side. “Yeah?” He was finally listening to me.

  “I would do it for a good friend.”

  He squinted. “For us?”

  My whole body was vibrating with uncontainable energy. I tried to maintain poise and stillness. I didn’t want Fritz to know how high the stakes were for me. The lengths to which I would go. “Fritz, you and Amelia”—I took his hand in mine in a purposefully platonic gesture—“I love both of you. And I love Natalie too. I don’t think it’s appropriate.… Amelia is the one who should be having the conversation.”