The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  “Is this your son?” She looked disoriented.

  A pit of nausea in my stomach was making its way to my throat. “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “When was he here?”

  I searched for the correct response to the question. “He was—”

  Layers of her confusion seemed to obstruct her speech. “When … when … was he in the house?”

  “I was—”

  “Why is he in Natalie’s room? Why is he in the photo?”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Is it really your son?”

  “I…”

  “Who is it?”

  She came to another shot of Jasper and his family. My clients.

  “It’s not your son, is it?”

  In addition to a growing panic, a deep anger was threatening to overtake me. I resented Amelia’s disrespectful tone.

  Her voice blasted through the house. “DO YOU HAVE A SON?”

  “Jasper is my son.” I believed in Jasper. I clung tightly to his image in my head.

  Natalie was still looking away, resting her head in her hands.

  Amelia came to another group of photos. Lucia. A sharp pain made its way through my skull. It was one of the photoshopped versions and I had drawn a large red X on the photo.

  “It’s a picture of Lucia,” Amelia said. “Why do you have it?”

  “I took a few shots of her.”

  “What does the X mean?”

  “It’s not—”

  “Why do you have it? WHAT DID YOU DO TO LUCIA?”

  I backed away from her toward the kitchen island.

  Fritz stood up. He looked like a wild animal. A speeding train was coming toward me. Head forward like a bull, he ran straight in my direction. He stopped abruptly when he was two feet away and pulled his upper lip back with disgust. “You are some sick pervert.”

  His words hit me in a bad place. I tried to control myself. I held my voice low. “I’m sorry.” I had to say the right thing.

  “How dare you use my image?” he growled. “How dare you bring your depravity into our home?”

  Natalie looked up. She was watching her father. Her face was pale.

  Amelia burst into hysterical sobs. “You should be down on your knees with gratitude to us,” she said between her sobs. “Are you mocking us? After all we did for you.”

  “Did you do something for me?” My breath was catching in my throat. “Remind me.”

  “You used us.” Amelia spoke through clenched teeth.

  I was in a tunnel of rage—having difficulty allowing air into my lungs. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.” In that moment I hated Amelia with every molecule in my body.

  “You are repulsive,” Amelia said.

  “Mom,” Natalie said. “Enough!”

  “It’s OK.” I tried to make eye contact with Natalie. “I’ll leave. As soon as I can get a moving truck.”

  Amelia took long strides down the hallway toward the front door, grabbing a ring of keys off the hall console table. “You have more shit downstairs. I need to see all of it.”

  “No.” I followed her, but she was fast. In an instant she was out the door, down the front steps. I was behind her. I refused to allow her into my computer, my files, my home. Whatever she thought she was going to see, she was wrong. I caught up to her at the top of the exterior stairs that led down to my garden apartment. I held her arm to prevent her from descending. She wrenched away from me. I ran ahead of her and put my body in front of hers, on the step below her, to block her way.

  “Get out of my way,” she said.

  “It’s my private apartment,” I said. “You can’t enter without notice.”

  “Bullshit.” She pushed me aside.

  I stepped back to catch myself, but my foot didn’t make contact with the step below me. My feet shuffled to get a hold, but I fell to the stone steps and rolled sideways down the remaining stairs. I landed at the base.

  * * *

  Perhaps this was the way it was meant to end. I felt the cool cement beneath my face. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

  Amelia’s blurred face appeared over me, contorted in a sick grimace, and her breath was briefly suspended. Fritz was standing behind her.

  “What did I do?” she whispered. “No, no, no, no.”

  Both of Fritz’s lips were pulled back to reveal his gums and teeth. “We need Delta out of here today,” he said.

  Amelia moaned—a sound from deep inside her. “The baby.”

  I felt my hip bone and the side of my face against the cement. I felt moisture between my legs. And a viselike sensation around my abdomen.

  Amelia knelt by my side. “What did I do?”

  “Mom, you pushed Delta?” It was Natalie’s voice in the distance.

  “No, no, no, no, no.” Amelia grabbed Fritz’s wrist.

  “Calm down,” he said.

  I was watching both of them, as if in a film—as if I were slightly removed. I noticed the shadows in Amelia’s face, hollow spaces that made her look old.

  “This baby is my life,” Amelia said. “My life.”

  “I hate you,” Natalie hissed from the top of the stairs.

  “Go upstairs, Natalie,” Amelia said. “Now.”

  “No.” Natalie didn’t move.

  “Delta, let me help you,” Amelia whispered to me.

  I felt blood running down my legs. Amelia’s gaze landed on my bare foot, which was covered in blood. It had run all the way down my leg.

  “No, no, no, no!” she wailed.

  A weight on my chest pressed me to the ground.

  Up the stairs, I saw Natalie’s outline, then her gleaming eyes, her lanky arms, her charm necklace with the clay heart and the zigzagged line down the middle. Fritz led her up to their house. I was left alone with Amelia.

  She helped me up. My body was pounding. She helped me inside my apartment. “We need to go to the doctor,” she said.

  “I think it’ll be OK,” I said.

  “No. No. No.” Amelia’s eyes were glazed.

  I told her I needed to lie down. She insisted I go to the doctor.

  * * *

  Right now I’m the child’s mother. And I need to talk to my baby.

  I’m the child’s mother. Delta Dawn.

  And did I hear you say, he was a-meeting you here today,

  To take you to his mansion in the sky?

  It was my loss. It was my baby.

  * * *

  Amelia drove me to the closest emergency room in downtown Brooklyn. I told her that I would go in by myself. I needed privacy. I’d been asking for privacy when she pushed me down the stairs. This time she didn’t dare to object.

  Late that night I was released from the hospital. I called Amelia. “I lost the baby.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Two days later Natalie knocked at the door of my garden apartment and let herself in. I gathered her parents didn’t know where she was.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “About everything.”

  I placed a stack of shirts in my suitcase, which was open on my bed. I packed my sweaters, one by one. Then my pants. Dresses. Bras. Underwear.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “I understand.”

  She seemed composed.

  “You’re not upset?” I said.

  “At least you’re choosing your own life.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not someone to look up to, Natalie.”

  “I want to go with you,” she said.

  I thought about the furniture in her room, her desk, her bed. I was overwhelmed trying to picture all her belongings in the moving truck. It wouldn’t be big enough for her furniture in addition to mine. “You can’t.”

  An image of Jasper: golden-brown skin in red swim trunks, running on the beach. He was wading in the ocean, the waves splashing up on his thighs, laughter deep in his throat, spilling out into the California air. “I have to find Jasper,” I said.

  “The three of us could b
e together.” Her voice sounded faint, as if she were out of breath.

  I conjured an image of Jasper and Natalie playing together. I could see them laughing and running and swimming. I could see them Rollerblading on the boardwalk. I could hear the waves lapping against the shore. I could smell the salt water and feel the breeze against the back of my neck.

  A minute later I was in the room again with Natalie, looking at her slim form in front of me. She didn’t draw comfort from images.

  “Jasper doesn’t exist.” As I spoke those words, I felt a blow to my solar plexus, as if someone had punched me with full force. I recovered my breath. “Not actually.”

  “Then where are you going?” she asked.

  “To find him.”

  Her eyes drifted to my abdomen. I looked down and saw that my hand was clasping my middle in a protective gesture. Natalie was watching me closely. She looked from my hand to my eyes and back again to my hand. “My mom said you lost the baby.”

  I nodded.

  “She says it’s her fault.”

  She approached closer and placed her hand on my stomach, next to mine. “Did you lose the baby?” She locked eyes with me.

  I gently removed her hand from my stomach.

  Her eyes welled up with tears. I put my arms around her and kissed the crown of her head.

  She looked up at me. “I’ll miss you, Delta.”

  Saying goodbye to Natalie was the worst thing I ever had to do.

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  I hang up his backpack in his cubby. We put his lunch below. Then I hug him and kiss him goodbye. “I love you, boo-boo.” After I leave Jasper’s classroom, I peer through the small high window in the hallway. He can’t see me but I can see him. He’s standing by himself. I watch him until he sits on the rug next to a little girl. They start talking. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can see him laugh like he’s enjoying her company. Then she pulls out a box of Magna-Tiles. They start by building a tower together.

  * * *

  I didn’t miscarry the baby.

  When I was lying in the hospital with needles in my arms, I talked to the baby. I could feel his fear. I told him he was going to be OK. I promised him that I’d never leave him, no matter what. I promised him.

  * * *

  Over the last few years I’ve kept track of the Straubs. They didn’t have another child. They didn’t hire a surrogate or adopt. I also know that Itzhak died, at the age of fourteen. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Natalie lost Itzhak. I wish I could tell her that.

  It seems the Straubs never heard from Ian again once he resigned from their firm. I had told them before that he loved Italy. They probably envision him living in Rome. It’s an uplifting image and not an unreasonable assumption. I can picture opportunities opening up for him there.

  I have the same dream almost every night. Natalie is running toward me, smiling, and I hold out my arms to embrace her. But as she approaches closer, her face changes and I grow frightened of her. Then yesterday I saw her on the street in Venice Beach, but this time it wasn’t a dream. She was taller and her face was thinner, but I’m certain it was her. She might be looking for me.

  * * *

  I invite Jasper’s friend Izzy and Izzy’s mom, Maya, to our apartment in Venice for a playdate. They live in a Spanish hacienda–style house on the edge of Santa Monica Canyon, with transporting views of the whitewater ocean, mountains, and canyon, each layer informing the others. I know their house because Jasper and I drive past it on our way to go hiking.

  Izzy’s dad drops Maya and Izzy off. He smiles and waves from the car, then leaves to pick up groceries. Maya hangs her jean jacket, along with Izzy’s, on the hooks in the entryway. She and I chat while the children play Uno. Maya asks about all the framed photos hanging on the wall, opposite the suspended glass cabinet in the kitchen. “They’re works of art,” she says.

  “That’s Jasper with his grandparents. They both passed away last year,” I explain. “And that’s Jasper with his cousins on his fifth birthday.” Jasper’s green eyes are beaming straight at the camera.

  “Oh my God,” she says, “you have to take pictures of Izzy’s birthday party.”

  I smile at her. “I would love to.”

  After Izzy and Maya leave, Jasper and I watch Mary Poppins together for the third time. The movie always makes me think of Natalie’s carousel. We get to the part where Mary Poppins’s friend Bert does a sidewalk chalk drawing of an English countryside. Mary Poppins, Bert, and the children jump into the picture. They land inside the drawing, and the scene comes to life. The picture is real because they want it to be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heaven was shining down on me the day I met my literary agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan. Stephanie brought this book to life. Brilliant, kind, with a formidable sense of humor, she is a true partner and friend. Thank you to Stephanie’s colleagues at Levine Greenberg Rostan, especially Jim Levine and Daniel Greenberg. And huge thanks to Courtney Paganelli as well.

  I am grateful to my dazzling editor, Catherine Richards, for choosing to work with me. With clear eyes and terrific skill, she made this novel infinitely better. Our collaboration continues to be a blessing and a joy. And thank you also to Nettie Finn, for all of her support.

  Thank you to Andrew Martin and Kelley Ragland, for be lieving in this book. To the remarkable Sarah Melnyk, for her excellent ideas and creativity. To Danielle Prielipp, for her enthusiasm. To Paul Hochman. To Chrisinda Lynch, as well as Kaitlin Severini and Justine Gardner. To David Rotstein, for designing a beautiful cover. Thank you to the entire phenomenal team at Minotaur Books and St. Martin’s Publishing Group and their fabulous publisher, Jennifer Enderlin, who has been a great champion of this book. I am fortunate to be in their midst.

  For her commitment to this book and her excellent notes, I am grateful to Jo Dickinson, my UK editor, and her talented colleagues at Hodder & Stoughton.

  I cannot begin to express my gratitude to my magnificent friend Faith Salie. She is the angel who introduced me to Stephanie Kip Rostan.

  Because I have the opportunity here and now, thank you, thank you, thank you to the magical Michelle Kroes, who opened doors to a television series, and all of her colleagues at CAA, especially Michelle Weiner and Arian Akbar. Thank you to Sam Esmail, Sarah Matte, Chad Hamilton, Andy Campagna, and Madison Cline for seeing the potential in this story.

  I’m deeply indebted to my teacher and friend Helen Schulman for her direction and instruction and for telling me she believed this was a book. Thank you to another teacher and friend, Luis Jaramillo, for his excellent ideas and guidance. To John Freeman and Tiphanie Yanique, both of whom responded with enthusiasm to the first twenty pages.

  To three amazing ladies: Dina Lee, KrisAnne Madaus, and Nicole Starczak—all of whom gave me constructive notes, again and again and again.

  Thank you to the genius Anika Streitfeld, who taught me more than I can say and whose illuminating notes brought countless moments from my mind to the page.

  To Michael Carlisle, for his mentorship and friendship.

  I am grateful to my entire family—to all the Carters around the country, as well as the Holbrooks, Heaths, Wiesenthals, Cohens, Schonwalds, Carter-Weidenfelds, and Wellers.

  To Ginna Carter, who is always my ally; to Jon Carter, Pamela Carter, Whendy Carter, Ellen Carter, Ali Marsh, Fred Weller, Eve Holbrook, and Claus Sørenson. To Hal Holbrook, who is rooting for me. To Joyce Cohen, a loyal friend. To Arthur Carter and Linda Carter, for their unending love and support.

  And to my mother, Dixie Carter, who is with me in spirit.

  I am ever so fortunate to have married into the Kempf family—Nancy and Don Kempf, Kathy and Donald Kempf, and Charlie Kempf, who is no longer with us—but especially Nancy Kempf, who treats me like her own daughter and hopes for my success, like she would for her own.

  Thank you to Manfred Flynn Kuhnert for many years of education in art and images, story and structure. And for an invaluable frien
dship.

  To Cara Natterson and Sherry Ross for guidance on medical questions. And to Karen Snyder, Larry Golfer, and William Lewis for guidance on photography questions. For helping me in big ways and small ways, directly and indirectly, thank you to Ilsa Brink, Fauzia Burke, Jake Carter, Juan Castillo, Ming Chen, Wah Chen, Ali Clark, Aleksandra Crapanzano, Hayden Goldblatt, Lydia Kris, Dylan Landis, Darya Mastronardi, Lisa Choi Owens, Steve Owens, Mo Rocca, Beowulf Sheehan, Drew Vinton, and Jaime Wolf.

  The biggest thank-you of all goes to my husband and best friend, Steve Kempf, who has brought me so much happiness. Without him, I wouldn’t have this book. Finally, I am grateful to Eleanor and Henry—the brightest joys of my life. You are everything.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARY DIXIE CARTER’S writing has appeared in TIME, The Economist, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Chicago Tribune, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The New York Sun, The New York Observer, and other print and online publications. She worked at the Observer, where she served as the publishing director, for five years. In addition to writing, she also has a background as a professional actor. Mary Dixie graduated from Harvard College with an honors degree in English literature and holds an MFA in creative writing from The New School. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two young children. You can sign up for email updates here.

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