I was pleased with my creation.
I inserted a photo of Amelia and me together in the cooking section. She was reading a recipe to me and I was mixing the ingredients in a bowl. It looked to be my home and I was cooking with my dear friend Amelia. I found it comforting to play the slideshow for myself and watched it several times. I especially liked the section with me and Fritz in the Straubs’ bed, our bodies pressed together. When I looked at the photos, I felt connected to a world and a life. I thought about replacing Fritz’s body with Amelia’s—an image of me and Amelia, our bodies pressed against each other. That would also be an uplifting vision, but I instinctively felt it would be a little harder to achieve.
I was about to go to sleep when I realized that I hadn’t included Jasper. I experienced a stab of guilt: I hadn’t thought about my son, and now it wasn’t clear how to incorporate him. Where had Jasper been the whole time? I finally decided that he had been sleeping the entire evening. That was plausible. He was only five years old, after all. So I created a bed for him in Natalie’s room, and layered his delicate little body onto that bed. It was Natalie and Jasper, as opposed to Natalie and Piper, who were asleep in Natalie’s room. It was as if Piper had gone home after the movie, and Jasper and Natalie were asleep in their beds.
* * *
I texted Amelia again Saturday morning and didn’t hear back. I felt increasingly unmoored and didn’t know what to do with myself. I needed contact with the Straubs. I hadn’t seen them or spoken to them for a week.
Ian was now my only source of information. I made plans to meet him for dinner at a gastropub in the West Village. After dinner, we bundled up and walked down Greenwich Avenue through the crowd of pedestrians. After several blocks, we came to a red light and he checked his watch. “Do you want to have a drink with me?” His breath escaped from his mouth in a misty cloud.
This was what I’d been hoping for. I took his gloved hand in mine, looked him in the eye, and nodded. Behind him was a group of rowdy teenagers. One of the heavier girls was holding a lamppost and pretending to do a striptease, with one knee hooked around the pole.
“At my apartment, I meant to say.”
“I know,” I said.
The teenagers laughed at the pretend striptease. They chanted: “Donna! Donna!”
“I haven’t been on too many dates recently,” Ian said shyly. “I forget the protocol.”
I pressed my fingers into his palm.
We crossed the street and passed a group of loud tourists, maps in hand, young women with bare shoulders and cleavages exposed in spite of the mid-March frost. Even before I moved to New York, when I’d visited for a weekend, I despised the tourists, though I myself was one. I could see how different we were from real New Yorkers. Less sophisticated, less educated, less everything. Even then, I wanted people to believe that I lived here. I understood how important it was to fit in. Emily Miller had been helpful in that respect. She’d grown up with money and understood the landscape. When I was working on her weddings, I watched her. I listened to her. She’d pretend to let her hair down, but she was performing the entire time—not unlike Amelia Straub. A consummate professional, Emily never said or did anything by accident.
* * *
Ian’s one-bedroom apartment, on the second floor of a prewar walk-up, appeared to have been renovated recently, and the masculine furniture was in good taste relative to his fashion sense. The black frames of the enormous uncovered windows contrasted with the crisp white walls, as did the polished dark wood on the back of his white bookshelves. The surfaces were bare, except for a few carefully selected items, probably purchased on his travels, like a Balinese wooden sculpture.
Ian disappeared into his kitchen and returned with two glasses of red wine, which he placed on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I took several sips, deposited my wine on the table, and turned to him. I saw no point in wasting time. I leaned in toward him and we kissed. He smelled like aftershave and garlic. My hand on his crotch. Then my legs around his waist. We crossed to his bed, and then I allowed him to take the lead.
I let him undress me and then we screwed. I enjoyed having sex with Ian and liked the fact that he was smitten with me. But if I were to measure the gravitational pull that I felt toward the Straubs versus Ian, there was no comparison.
After, I suggested another glass of wine. Sex and wine were both helpful in getting the information I needed. Ian pulled his boxers on. He left the room and returned with the half-empty bottle of red wine and our two glasses. He poured us each a glass. I pulled the sheet up over my chest, and positioned two pillows behind me so that I could sit up in bed and drink.
Ian ran his fingers through my hair. “God, you’re beautiful, Delta.”
I looked down, as though embarrassed by the compliment.
“Each time I see you, you’re more beautiful.” He laughed. “I don’t know exactly how that works.”
I looked into Ian’s eyes and saw a generosity of spirit and kindness. But I also saw mediocrity. I didn’t see someone who planned to succeed at the highest level. I saw someone who was content to lead an average life.
“Maybe because I’m trying to impress you,” I said.
Under the sheet, Ian placed a warm hand on my thigh. I kissed his neck.
When finished with my wine, I climbed on top of him and rested my head next to his on his pillow. “Is it OK with you if I spend the night?”
Ian looked more relaxed than he had several hours earlier, with far less tension in his face. “I wouldn’t let you go home now. It’s two in the morning.”
“I want to be close to you,” I whispered in his ear.
He wrapped his arms tightly around my body.
I pushed my pelvis up against his, just to keep his mind whirling and defenses down. “I can’t stop thinking about Amelia and Fritz. I’m worried about them.”
He kissed my cheek. “I think they’re doing pretty well.”
“Yes?”
“I spoke to Fritz yesterday,” he said.
“And?”
“It looks like that baby … the baby they want to adopt…” He traced his finger over the outline of my mouth.
“Yes?”
“It’s going to happen. He said it’s going to happen.”
I focused on my breath, low in my body. Shallow, high breathing leads to anxiety and vice versa. “Wow. Is he happy?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“But he’s going along with it?”
“He thinks it’s too late to turn back because Amelia’s frantic. He thinks that she’d lose her mind if he stopped her.”
I rolled off Ian and lay next to him, my head on his shoulder, until he fell asleep. I looked at his digital clock periodically throughout the night, almost every hour, and counted the minutes until I could go home. Ian slept soundly.
The next day, I had a genuine excuse to leave—an early-morning job shooting newborn twins. He insisted on making me a cappuccino with his shiny red Nespresso machine. Before I left, we confirmed our date for the following week. I couldn’t risk losing momentum.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was the week of March 21. I had a sinking sensation every morning when I woke up and looked at my phone. I was hoping for a message from Amelia, but received none. It was almost two weeks since I’d seen the Straubs. I feared that I’d lost my place in their life. I’d had a growing conviction that Amelia was attached to me. And then there was the shattering episode with Lucia, and the fear that she was going to replace me.
I gathered that I’d handled certain things poorly. Maybe Amelia felt that I hadn’t been helpful in facilitating the adoption. Amelia and I were very close, as long as the ground rules were understood: We were both working on making her life better. Her life was the one we were focusing on. I didn’t mind that aspect of our relationship. In fact, the ground rules usually served me well, since scrutiny of my own life wasn’t an option.
On Friday morning I sent Amelia another text aski
ng if she’d like me to babysit Natalie. I received no response. That evening, I turned on my computer and clicked through some photos of the Straubs. I went back to the day that I first met them at Natalie’s birthday party. I remembered feeling Amelia’s attention like the sun. Her gaze could warm, brighten, and heal me. I craved it. I felt a physical need for her presence, and without it, my body was responding with symptoms of withdrawal. I’d had headaches off and on all week, along with shaky hands, a significant handicap in my profession. I’d canceled two jobs, and the quality of my work was clearly suffering.
I turned toward photoshopping as a means of relief from the vast emptiness in front of me. I opened the folder labeled Straub, Alternates. By now it held more images than all my other private folders combined. I started with a captivating photo of Amelia in profile, wearing dark glasses and a leather jacket. She was holding her arm up in the air, waving to someone. I layered that image onto an exterior shot of Court Street in Cobble Hill, as well as an image of myself coming from the opposite direction. We were meeting up for a shopping excursion.
I focused on the image of Amelia waving to me, allowing my eyes to rest on the picture while breathing deeply. In a few minutes, I felt better.
I created another photo of us drinking cocktails at Buttermilk Channel. Amelia was touching my hand. Her welcoming expression in each image mirrored the way she looked the first time I’d met her. I would never forget that day. No one had ever recognized me so fully.
Lastly I created a photo of the two of us running across the Brooklyn Bridge. I felt it was a shame that the event hadn’t been recorded at all. But it was easy to layer each of us onto the bridge. From a distance, the shot had more to do with the backdrop than seeing our faces, but our body language suggested an animated conversation.
I returned to the photo of us on Court Street. I replaced my own image with a version of myself looking seven months pregnant. Amelia was beside herself with joy.
In these photos, I could see Amelia’s affection right in front of my eyes. Not only could I see it, I could feel my body respond, a gradual relaxing of my muscles, a sensation of expansion. The hollow part of my stomach was filled in. The sharp pain in my gut gave way to a feeling of warmth and ease.
* * *
When I arrived at Ian’s apartment on Saturday evening, the beef Bourguignon was on the stove and the salad was in the fridge. The candles were lit. “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen was playing. Ian’s faded jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt were a departure from his usual wardrobe. His hair had grown out a little longer. Overall, the more relaxed appearance suited him.
“Your mom sent me another present,” I said. “A silk scarf.” It was the third present Paula had sent me since we’d met. This time, the card read: To my future daughter-in-law (shhh!) with a smiley face drawn on the side. I didn’t mention the card to Ian.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “She’s the cheapest person I know.”
“She has good taste.” I smiled.
Laughter and chatter made its way from the street to Ian’s second-floor window, which was barely open.
Halfway through dinner, he refilled my glass of cabernet. I was pleased to see he was pouring a fifty-dollar bottle.
“Tell me more about Jasper,” he said.
My throat tightened. I wondered why he was asking.
“He’s so smart,” I said. “And adorable.”
Ian served me more beef Bourguignon. “You said he’d be away for a few months?”
“He’ll definitely return by September. He’ll start kindergarten here.” I wiped my mouth with a dark green linen napkin. Such details are unusual for a straight bachelor.
“I don’t want to pry, but…”
“I don’t have secrets.” I smiled again.
“What happened to your marriage?”
“Robert had an affair.” I sipped the cabernet. “He fell in love with another woman.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK now. We’re friends. Sort of.”
“Does Robert have a place in LA?” The voices outside were louder. Ian walked to the window and lowered it, then returned to the table.
“In Santa Monica, close to his office.”
“Who stays with Jasper when he’s working?”
I could still hear a man laughing outside. “He’s in daycare.”
“What about the woman?”
The wine had dulled my brain. “Which woman?”
“The other woman.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my hands in my lap while I collected my thoughts. I wasn’t usually sloppy with my details.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“She lives in New York.”
He looked confused. “He’s single now?”
“Yes.”
“What’s Robert’s last name?”
Fuck you. “Why do you ask?” I said politely.
“You mentioned that he works in film. I have some friends in entertainment.”
I paused. “I’d rather not talk about Robert anymore. It’s a painful subject.”
Ian looked at the ground, his index finger to his mouth, like he was trying to remember something. “Where does your sister live?” he asked.
He was sharper than I’d realized. “We’re not in touch.”
“Is she married?”
“I know she was with a guy.”
He thought I was lying to him.
“I don’t think you trust me.” He frowned.
“I don’t trust anyone.” I laughed. That was true, but I didn’t exactly mean to say it. It wasn’t a good look. People think there’s something wrong with a woman who doesn’t trust.
“I don’t care about your sister or your ex,” he mumbled. “But I’ve got to start with something. Whatever was there. It doesn’t just go away, you know.”
I saw something in Ian’s eyes, affection maybe, and I wished for a moment that I was a different person. “Too bad. It would be nice if it did. Go away, that is.” I finished the rest of my wine. “What about you? You haven’t told me about your past.”
“I dated someone for eight years. She said she didn’t believe in marriage. But I thought she’d change her mind.” He shrugged. “Well, she didn’t change her mind. She broke up with me.” Ian spoke quickly, in an upbeat manner. I thought he was making an effort to sound casual.
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t be mad,” he said. “She never pretended to be someone she wasn’t.”
Was he challenging me? I studied his face. No, he wasn’t. He trusted me.
* * *
After we had sex, I lay on top of Ian’s body. My face was right next to Ian’s on his pillow, the tip of my nose touching his cheek. His hair was wet from perspiration, as was the pillow underneath us. “Cheap Thrills” by Sia played on the bedroom speaker.
“Natalie loves this song.” I paused for several seconds. “Have you seen her lately?” I hadn’t seen Natalie for two weeks. I hadn’t told Ian about the strain in my relationship with the Straubs, and I hoped they hadn’t mentioned it to him.
“No,” he said, “but I saw Fritz at work yesterday. Did you hear about their birth mother?”
“No.”
“She got back together with her boyfriend. He reappeared.”
A hard knot inside my abdomen released, and a pleasurable tingling feeling traveled from my organs to my extremities. My body felt buoyant, like I might float up to the ceiling. My photography had brought them together. I knew that. I knew it for a fact. No one could do what I could do.
“Amelia is scared that Lucia’s going to change her mind,” he said.
I needed to see Amelia and Fritz. I needed them to understand that I could help them.
“I feel awful for her,” I said.
“Fritz says she’s a wreck,” he said. “It’s almost like she thinks that’s the only baby she can possibly have.”
“She’s wrong.”
“They’ve been trying for a while.
”
My body still on top of his, I allowed my fingers to trail over the side of his hips. I shifted so that my legs were staggered with his—one of my legs over one of his. “There are alternatives.”
“I guess.”
“Like surrogacy.”
He shifted his body underneath me. “Seems complicated.”
“Not always. It’s exhilarating to create a life. And for some women, it’s the best thing they’ve ever done.” I kissed his neck. “I would enjoy doing it.”
“What?” he said.
I breathed into his neck. “I would enjoy doing it.”
“No!” He laughed and pulled on a strand of my hair.
The Photographer Page 13