The Photographer

Next to them was a stack of several books with the spines facing away from the room. I picked up the stack and turned it over. They were all books about fertility. I removed one from the shelf and flipped through it. In the chapter titled “Miscarriage,” several pages in a row were dog-eared. Someone had written in the margins: blood clotting disorder, ask Metzger. Based on a few dates in the margins, I surmised that Amelia had had four miscarriages, all of which had happened after the birth of Natalie. It was helpful information. I sensed it would serve me to learn as much as possible about this family, in case a time came when they needed my support.
In the kitchen, I opened a utility closet and found a Miele vacuum, brooms, and more cleaning supplies, arranged in perfect rows. A second door led to an inviting space I had not yet seen, apparently a home office with one entire wall of glass doors. The office opened up to a shallow deck that wrapped around the back of the house, too, and a spiral staircase led down to the backyard.
In the middle of the office, two identical midcentury desks faced each other. I identified Amelia’s desk because her burgundy silk scarf lay draped over the chair, then I examined each stack of papers and folders, which were clearly labeled and held together with rubber bands. She was almost as organized as I was. Only a few Post-its with handwritten notes marred the perfectly organized work space. On one such piece of paper were the words cello teacher and a phone number. I picked up another piece of paper, which read Jenny Douglas, then a phone number, then the words due date July 10. I wasn’t able to remember even one time that I’d focused on a pregnant woman’s due date to the degree that I would actually write it down. On a third piece of paper, the words birth mothers were followed by three names. Perhaps the Straubs were looking to adopt. My pulse quickened.
After returning each paper to its original location, I sat down at Fritz’s desk. His labeling system wasn’t as consistent as Amelia’s, but his handwriting had more to offer than hers did. (I’d read several books about handwriting over the years and had tested my knowledge by comparing acquaintances’ handwriting with their behavior, to see if the two were aligned.) Fritz’s narrow L loops indicated tension, probably in his marriage. Perhaps he was disappointed in his wife’s inability to carry another child. The loose placement of his i dots led me to believe he had an extraordinary imagination. Thoughts of Fritz made my body tingle.
At ten thirty, I went up to the third floor to check on Natalie, and brought my digital Canon EOS with me. The bathroom and closet lights shone into the room and I could easily make out her face, even though my eyes were adjusting. She was sound asleep, but her hand was still clutching her stuffed unicorn. I pulled her thin cotton blanket up over her and sat down on the edge of her bed to observe her. Holding my fingers inches from her nose and mouth, I felt her warm breath.
When I look at someone through the viewfinder of my camera, I can see what lies below the surface. I studied Natalie and captured several images of her sleeping—a gift for her parents at some point, maybe. Natalie’s chest moved up and down, almost imperceptibly. Her face appeared thin and fragile, as did her body. She reminded me of myself at that age. She took refuge in her imagination. Children with hyperactive imaginations are usually running away from something, escaping from something. Some children don’t have imaginations because they don’t need them.
I used to play a game with myself, looking for the perfect parents. Living at Disney, I had a lot of people to choose from. In due course, I found a gorgeous mother and a debonair father and named them Isabel and Peter. Isabel looked like a ballet dancer, flawless ivory skin, long neck, turned-out feet. Peter had salt-and-pepper hair and large clear eyes. Their children would surely have had all the toys, dolls, stickers, dresses that I coveted. For the next several years, whenever I was feeling inferior or depressed, I envisioned myself as their daughter. Over time, I forgot exactly how Isabel and Peter looked and how they spoke. But I held on to the idea of them—the opposite of my own demoralized parents. By the time my mother was thirty, long hours in the Florida sun had coarsened her face. “Your skin’s too smooth,” she’d say to me. “Get away, I can’t bear to look at you.”
The memory of deprivations sometimes remains dormant and you might think you are past it. But it’s actually just below the surface, ready to rear its head with the slightest provocation.
Meeting the Straubs reminded me of my game, because I’d always felt certain that Isabel and Peter were architects too.
The front door opened downstairs, and I heard footsteps. A minute later I met the Straubs in the stair hall, having deposited my camera in its case on the hall bench. I sensed that they wouldn’t understand why I was still taking photos. Many people don’t realize that I use my camera to interpret the world around me. It’s another set of eyes.
Fritz had a beet-red face and smelled of alcohol. Amelia stumbled toward me and almost fell into my arms. It appeared that she’d recently applied lipstick and had done so poorly, as I could see lipstick outside the lines of her lips, like a clown, and on her teeth. The rest of her makeup had worn off.
“Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?” She belted out the first lines of the Tanya Tucker song. “Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?”
Faint bells sounded in the distance. How unlikely that Amelia would know that song