The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  She looked through the viewfinder.

  “Photography is about light,” I said. “Different ways to control the amount of light you want to allow through. Most times you don’t have enough light. Occasionally you have too much light.”

  “How do you give a photo more light?”

  “Three camera settings: ISO, aperture, and shutter speed.” I pointed to the adjustment for each, respectively.

  “Can I take your picture?”

  “Look through the viewfinder. Slowly squeeze the shutter until it fires.”

  She pointed the camera toward me.

  “You are beautiful,” she said.

  It was true that I was beautiful. But I didn’t want to be more beautiful than Natalie. Rather, I didn’t want her to think I was more beautiful than she was.

  She handed the camera back to me and I looked at the photo of myself.

  “It’s a little dark,” I said. “Turn the shutter speed to sixty.”

  She took the camera. “I went on your website,” she said. “I saw the pictures of Lucia in the maternity section.”

  I experienced a mild burning sensation in my chest. “Did you like them?”

  “I didn’t know you were in touch with her. I didn’t know you took pictures of her.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Yes, I’d taken pictures of Lucia. Of course. I’d taken pictures of most people in my life. I was a photographer, after all.

  “Weird that her boyfriend reappeared.” She snapped several photographs, then stopped taking photos and looked at me directly. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”

  “You never know what people will do.”

  Natalie shook her head. She studied my camera and adjusted several of the dials. We played some of the photos back. She had no interest in glamour. She went out of her way to find the moments when I’d divorced myself from my appearance.

  “Natalie. I’m amazed by who you are. And astounded by your generosity and your talent.”

  I opened the door to the patio. It was pleasantly cool outside, a breezy spring afternoon. She followed me out.

  “Photography is always better outside,” I said. “The sun does the work. Energy is added, not subtracted.” Natalie asked me to sit on the chair opposite her and she continued to photograph me. When she played the photos back, I looked over her shoulder to see the images.

  “Take pictures of Eliza,” I said. “That’s one of the most challenging things. Animals keep moving. Same with small children. And they can’t help their honesty.”

  She knelt on the bluestone patio and photographed my cat. Eliza was champagne colored with very dark gray accents on her paws and streaks everywhere, which made for some interesting abstract photos.

  For the next two hours, she photographed the patio, the cat, the apartment, my shoes, my face, my sofa. The sun began to set.

  “Your parents are going to want you home soon.”

  “Just a minute.”

  She was enjoying herself. I went to my camera shelf and looked at my collection. I had two relatively new DSLRs and two mirrorless cameras. I also had an early, but very good, Sony digital, my first camera, that I didn’t use anymore.

  I handed her the camera, along with its charger and memory card. “You can keep this one and practice.”

  “What?” Her face expanded with surprise.

  “I don’t use it.”

  She was trying not to smile, but I could tell how pleased she was. “It’s too big a present. My mom will tell me that I can’t have it.”

  I put my arms around her frame and kissed her warm cheek. “Tell your mom it’s a loaner.”

  Eyes shining, she put the strap around her neck and placed her hands on the Sony in a proprietary manner. I was her mentor now.

  * * *

  On an unseasonably warm afternoon, I was editing on my computer when I heard a dripping sound. I looked in the bedroom and saw a puddle on the floor. Some karmic retribution. I sent Fritz a text and a few minutes later he came down to check it out. It appeared to be a leak from the AC.

  While we were waiting for a return call from the HVAC repair company, I offered Fritz a drink. “I was a bartender in a former life.” Actually, I’d never worked as a bartender. Over the years, I’d noticed that experimenting with cocktail recipes made alcoholics feel better about themselves, as if consuming an alcoholic drink had more to do with the taste than anything else.

  “OK. Surprise me.”

  I mixed a drink and set it down in front of him on the kitchen counter. “It’s called a Silk Panty martini.”

  Fritz’s face colored. He took a sip. His eyes widened, and he took another sip. “You can return to your career as a bartender anytime you want.”

  I smiled.

  He swished his drink in front of him, in a small circle. “Are you having one?” Then he appeared to read my mind. “You’re not pregnant yet.”

  I made myself the same drink, then sat next to him at the counter.

  “Here’s to Silk Panties.” He clinked my glass. “It’s delicious, by the way.”

  I tried to laugh, but the mood had shifted into something harder to manage.

  “Natalie’s so happy that you’ve moved in here,” he said. “I hope she’s not crowding you.”

  “Never,” I said. “And you? Are you happy I’m here?”

  He took another sip. “Of course I am.” I noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  I was wearing a cream-colored dress with a low V-neck. I ran my fingers down my neck and along the neckline of the dress, lingering at the bottom of the V.

  Fritz took his glasses off and cleaned them with his T-shirt, a familiar behavior that often seemed to accompany some nervousness on his part. He replaced them on his nose.

  Various scenarios ran through my head. Rationally, I understood that sex with Fritz could have negative consequences. Even if Amelia didn’t find out, such an action would complicate my position as the Straubs’ surrogate. Still, my desire persisted. If I had sex with Fritz, I would be separating Amelia and Fritz from each other, just slightly, so that I would have a more primary position with each of them.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Fritz?” I said.

  His cell phone rang. It was Amelia calling.

  * * *

  May 14: The embryo transfer took place at Krasnov’s office in the early morning. I was scheduled to return in ten days to find out if I was pregnant.

  That afternoon, Ian stopped by. He came into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He had an odd expression on his face.

  “I met your son.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. I laughed.

  “Really,” he said. “I met Jasper.” He was smiling with his mouth wide open, like a silent laugh. He had a manic look in his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” A feeling of nausea made its way from my stomach to my throat.

  Ian stood and paced back and forth across the living room. “My college roommate was in town. He invited me over to his cousin Robert’s place for brunch. Robert’s son is Jasper. Jasper’s mother is Alexis.”

  My mind raced for a way out of this situation. I was doing my best to control my breath. “It’s a funny coincidence,” I said, “that the child’s name is Jasper. But my son is in California.” Long, slow inhalations and exhalations. I needed to appear unfazed by his story.

  “You’ve shown me more than ten pictures of Jasper. I saw one of those pictures in their apartment.” He looked around my apartment. On an end table, he spotted a framed photo of Jasper at his birthday party, blowing the candles out on his cake. He picked it up. “I saw the exact same photo on their bookshelf. Same kid, same T-shirt, same cake with a picture of a dog on top. They hired you as their family photographer.” He waved the photo in the air. “You know, I memorized Jasper’s face because I cared about you, and I imagined, one day, maybe I’d take the kid to ball games. Maybe I’d help him with his homework.” He smiled again with the same manic look.

>   “My son is in California.” I kept my voice low and calm.

  Ian’s smile disappeared and his face turned dark. “For Christ’s sake, have you ever told me the truth about anything? Who are you?”

  “Shhh.” I was worried that the Straubs would overhear him.

  He pointed upstairs. “Tell them the truth.”

  I sat down next to him on the sofa, analyzing the various ways in which I might be able to neutralize the situation.

  I took his hand in mine and closed my eyes. “I do have a son.” Tears spilled down my face. “His father took him to California when he was six months old, and I haven’t seen him since.” My whole body shook with heaving sobs. “I don’t know if he’s safe. I don’t know if my little boy is OK. When I met Jasper at his birthday party, he looked like I imagined my son might look. It was comforting to me, just to tell myself that someone was looking after him.” I folded onto Ian’s shoulder. He pushed me back and stood up.

  “Get away. Get away from me.” In a moment he was out the door.

  * * *

  May 18: six days left.

  Natalie arrived at my apartment in blue jeans and a thin almost transparent T-shirt that highlighted her skinniness. It said Normal people scare me. It was an indication of low self-esteem. She wore high-heeled wedge sandals. It was essentially the same outfit she’d worn the previous day and the day before that. She was pushing the envelope in her sophistication and maturity and had turned up the volume abruptly. But her personality was still vulnerable.

  I consciously chose not to discuss my potential pregnancy, unless Natalie brought it up—though not a minute passed that I wasn’t thinking about it, analyzing every physical sensation in my body, every twinge, every cramp, hoping for clues. I’d been having little conversations with the baby, alone in my apartment, and I believed the baby heard me.

  Natalie pulled her Sony out of the camera bag. She turned it over, setting and resetting the dials. “In seventh grade, photography’s one of the electives at my school.”

  I detected a hint of enthusiasm, which was unusual for her these days.

  “I’ll definitely take photography when I’m in seventh grade.”

  “What kind of photography subjects interest you the most?”

  “People.”

  In the background, we could hear the peaceful hum of the dryer. I’d never had laundry in my own apartment before.

  “There are all the pictures where someone says ‘smile’ and everyone smiles,” Natalie said. “But I want to take pictures of people acting like they really act. When they’re sad or angry or scared. Sometimes I look at my mom and I want to take a picture of what she looks like when she’s not performing. She’s performing most of the time.”

  Natalie was looking to unmask. It was dangerous to take a photo of someone without their permission, with the intention of catching them unaware and exposing something inside them that they never intended to show to the public. Natalie didn’t seem to care.

  Later that day I received a text from Ian: Tell Amelia and Fritz the truth.

  I wrote back: give me time.

  * * *

  May 24: The implantation failed as a result of poor embryo quality. When I learned the news, I felt a heavy weight bearing down on top of me, almost as though I might have trouble staying aboveground. It was Amelia’s failure. Not mine. It had nothing to do with my uterus. I was angry with Amelia. But, even so, I worried that she would find a way to blame me.

  So I was surprised at her reaction to the news. “Delta, darling, please, please, please … Please try again. I know we can do this.” She shone all her light on me.

  There was no recrimination. No criticism.

  “Of course, Amelia.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Even if I’d wanted to, there would have been no way to resist her entreaty.

  * * *

  I called Ian’s mother that evening. We had spoken a few times since she’d moved to Florida. She said the recovery from her hip surgery was slow and painful.

  “I’m just pathetic, Delta.” Paula laughed. “I still can’t drive, not even to the grocery store.”

  “Tell Ian you need him there to help you.” I waited for a response. “Paula?”

  She sighed. “OK. OK, fine.”

  “If you were to fall and no one was with you, Ian would never forgive himself.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I gathered that a second IVF cycle was going to be a financial strain for the Straubs, but they didn’t hesitate. We scheduled another embryo transfer for mid-July.

  The eight weeks passed as if in slow motion, as did the ten-day wait after IVF.

  I didn’t talk to the baby this time.

  On Day 10, I was pregnant. I belonged to the Straubs. We belonged to one another. If the pregnancy were successful, I saw a joyous future with all of us, Amelia, Fritz, Natalie, and me, raising the child together.

  In one single bound, I had catapulted myself into another life, another social stratum. I had power now. I was carrying a baby in my womb, living in the home of artists, in a rarefied neighborhood, and it followed that I had status myself.

  I walked to the grocery store nearby, and looked around at the customers and the people who worked there. I practiced looking down on these people and speaking to them with a tone of superiority. I purchased groceries and asked that they be delivered, saying my address loudly and repeating it, so everyone around me could hear where I lived. I walked into a café. The barista did not make my drink correctly. I had the right to complain. My voice mattered. My pregnant body demanded respect.

  Some people live their whole life just waiting for the moment when they have the power to scorn others, as opposed to being the object of scorn themselves. Now I could assert my superiority with confidence, knowing that I belonged to a family of means. Fitting in with my clients and their friends had always seemed to be just out of my reach. Now I would seize a place at the table and make sure the rest of the world understood my position.

  I was going to partner with Amelia and Fritz as parents. I believed that Amelia was sincere when she talked about my shared participation in the baby’s life, but I also knew it was important to make certain. When the time came, I would clarify what my needs were.

  I did recognize, without it ever being articulated, that if I didn’t succeed in carrying the child, everything would disappear. Like Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and women throughout history, my value had all to do with my body, whether I could carry a baby to term. I knew very well that if I lost the pregnancy, I would lose my new apartment, my new neighborhood, my new family. I would lose all of it if I lost the baby. I was paying for all of it with my womb.

  Amelia and Fritz were supporting me with low rent, nutritious meals, and health care. I turned down several jobs in order to prioritize my sleep and my health. My income was going to drop and that was perfectly OK. The baby was going to come first.

  In weeks four and five, I didn’t have any signs or symptoms of the pregnancy. It was a terrifying sensation, as if the baby were a figment of my imagination. But in the sixth week, morning sickness kicked in. My days began and ended with retching. The extreme nausea gave me confidence—tangible evidence of the life inside me.

  Amelia was excited, bordering on frantic, busying herself with activities to channel her energy. One Sunday evening in late August, she and I were talking in her kitchen. “I want you to eat as many meals here as you’d like to,” she said. “I plan to buy fresh fruit, vegetables, fish and steak, organic yogurt and milk, all the things you really need when you’re pregnant.” During the lowest points of Amelia’s despair, I’d noticed that the Straub refrigerator was often empty. Now, however, Amelia considered the unborn baby’s health an acknowledged priority.

  She poured us each a glass of seltzer. “It’s odd that Ian hasn’t returned my calls,” she said. “Do you know if anything’s wrong?”

  “Well…” I paused and counted to three. />
  “What?” She sat down at the counter next to me.

  I sipped my seltzer, enjoying the carbonation in my throat, which temporarily relieved my nausea. “He’s mentioned a desire for growth … something like that.”

  She looked at me like we couldn’t be talking about the same person. “He’s not happy in his job?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to put words in his mouth.”

  * * *

  In early September I was seven weeks pregnant and Amelia was soaring. She texted to ask me to babysit and to come upstairs before Natalie arrived home from school, so we could talk. She had returned to the glamorous woman I’d met months earlier. Today she answered the door wearing black pants, a low-cut red silk blouse with no bra, and a very large clunky amethyst necklace. I envied her effortless Katharine Hepburn figure.

  I was soaring too, maybe higher than Amelia, but even so, I was aware of Natalie and didn’t want her to feel unappreciated, whereas Amelia’s attention was fixed solely on “the new baby.” In other words, it was fixed on me. Her attention was what I’d been pining for, only, I didn’t want it at Natalie’s expense. I found myself covering for Amelia at times, distracting Natalie, changing the subject of conversation, when her mother was being particularly insensitive.

  At this point, I found it easier to spend time with Natalie or Amelia, as opposed to both of them, so I was pleased for Amelia to invite me upstairs early, before Natalie arrived home. “How I wish I could pour you a glass of wine right now. After the baby is born, we’ll have cocktails every day.” She held her arms high in the air in a gesture of triumph. I imagined our future with evenings together around the fire and coffee together every morning.

  Amelia filled her wineglass and poured me a glass of filtered water.

  “Do you mind if I drink in front of you?” she asked solicitously.

  “Of course not.” I did mind, actually. I found it challenging to watch Amelia drink. Over the last few months, I’d noticed a significant uptick in her drinking, and it hadn’t leveled off with the news of my pregnancy. But her body wasn’t the sacred vessel. Mine was.