You don’t need me.
I do need him. I do.
I need him right now, while I’m sloshing chemicals in a light-safe tank, saturating my mother’s film. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and Mr. Gerardi is hovering. We had to start the process in complete darkness, winding the film onto a metal spool, but once it was in the tank, he flicked the lights back on and poured the developer in.
My heart beats so fast that my chest aches.
“Do you know what’s on the film?” Mr. Gerardi says.
I shake my head quickly. I haven’t told him about Brandon’s theory about the hit-and-run, because I’m worried he’ll stop the process and call my father.
I clear my throat and find it hard to speak around my galloping heartbeat. “They might be graphic.”
Mr. Gerardi’s eyebrows go way up, and his hand stops mixing the stop bath. “Graphic?”
I blush furiously and choke on nervous laughter. “Not like that. War zone shots.”
“Oh.” He nods and continues pouring chemicals.
“But they could be anything. Film was her hobby.”
“I remember.”
Of course he does. I used to spend more time in Mr. Gerardi’s classroom than anywhere else in the school.
He keeps his eyes on the chemicals as he measures. “What exactly brought this on?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s quiet, and he doesn’t look at me. My words float there in the silence for a while, until guilt begins to prick at me. I do know, and he knows I know, and he’s waiting for me to fess up.
“Brandon came over last night,” I say quietly. “He had a theory that she might have gotten a picture of the car that hit her. We checked her memory cards, but . . .”
“Nothing there?”
I shake my head. “Just shots from her last assignment.”
He straightens and looks at me. “I wish you’d told me this morning. I didn’t realize—”
“No . . . it’s okay.” I shrug and fiddle with her empty camera, sitting on top of her canvas bag. The lens cap is worn in spots from the pressure of her fingers taking it on and off. “It’s a long shot.”
“True. But either way, it might be nice to see what her final photos were.”
“Maybe.” I swallow.
The timer goes off, and I pour out the developer, and he stands ready to pour the stop bath into the tank. I’m out of practice, but it’s like riding a bicycle. I pour, he pours, and the lid goes on with a snap. He inverts the tank, and again we wait.
“Have you given any more thought to coming back to class?” he says quietly.
I shrug and start lining up the trays.
“How did it feel to shoot the Fall Festival?”
At the time, it felt like torture. But this morning, studying that photograph of Declan and Rev and the cheerleaders, I was reminded of how much I love photography. The chance to capture a moment of time, forever. Even if no one in that photograph ever saw anyone else after high school, that moment of friendship and separation was already immortalized.
“It felt . . . okay.”
He waits, but I don’t say anything else. He gives me teacher eyebrows. “And . . . ?”
“And . . . I don’t know.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.”
He nods, then studies me. “Does it make it painful, to know this is something you shared with her?”
“No. It’s painful to know I’ll never be able to do what she does. It makes it all feel so pointless.” I freeze with my hand on a tray. That’s more than I wanted to say. More than I think I’ve ever admitted to myself all at once.
He stops measuring chemicals for the trays and peers at me. “Pointless?”
I blush because it might sound like I’m insulting his career. I don’t know how else to explain it. “She was making a difference with her photography. I can’t do that. I can’t go to Syria and walk through bombed-out buildings. I can barely drive through the city.”
“Juliet, you’re seventeen years old. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think you’d have a hard time walking down the street and finding anyone who would have the physical and mental fortitude to do something like that. And just because you can’t do it now doesn’t mean you can’t do it ever.”
I stare at him, fiddling with my fingers. I don’t know what to say.
He sets the bottles down and turns to face me fully. “My brother is a firefighter. I have no idea how he can walk into burning buildings—but he tells me he has no idea how I can stand in front of teenagers all day. Just because someone isn’t risking their life doesn’t mean their life’s work is . . . pointless.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know you didn’t mean it as an insult, but think about what you’re implying here. Say you give up photography, which is your right. But . . . then what? What profession are you going to find that would live up to this vision you have of your mother’s?”
I don’t know. I’ve never thought about that. I’ve only thought about how I can’t be her.
Mr. Gerardi keeps talking. “My wife is also a photographer. She takes pictures of babies. That’s it—just babies. Do you think that’s pointless?”
I swallow. “No.” I hesitate. “But it’s not life-changing for anyone.”
“Are you kidding? Have you ever looked at a baby photo? As a parent, I’m telling you that having your children captured in a photograph is a true gift. The time goes so fast.”
Mom’s computer flashes in my mind, her desktop background featuring me as a baby, snuggled into her neck. My breathing hitches.
“I don’t want to upset you,” Mr. Gerardi says quietly.
“No. You’re not.” But he is. A little.
“Wait here,” he says. He disappears for less than a minute. When he comes back, he’s got a photo on his phone. In the picture, a woman is pressing her lips to the forehead of a newborn baby. Light comes from somewhere, and the baby’s fuzzy hair gleams like a halo.
“My wife took this picture,” he says.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The baby died,” he says quietly. “Less than two hours later. They hired my wife to document the birth, but he was born with a severe heart defect.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling my throat constrict. “Okay.”
He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Have you ever heard of Humans of New York?”
I shake my head.
“A man named Brandon Stanton started a website where he’d take photographs of people in New York City and ask them a question, then publish their photo with what they said. Somehow people tell him their darkest secrets, their most painful memories—and they allow him to publish them online. His pictures have been seen by millions of people. Millions, Juliet. Millions of people have been affected by his photographs—and it was all because one guy started wandering around New York, taking pictures of strangers.”
“But I’m not like that,” I whisper.
“Maybe not yet. But you will find your own way to make an impact.”
The timer rings, and he turns away to flick the light switch. The overhead lights go off, replaced by the red lights. He unloads the film and begins unwinding it. “Do you want to start at the end? Maybe do the last five shots?”
My heart is jumping around again, unable to settle after everything he’s said. “Um. Sure.”
He cuts the film and holds up the strip, but it’s impossible to tell what might be on it now. We’ll put the strip into the enlarger, shine it onto paper, then float the paper in chemicals to bring the images out.
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think these shots involve a car,” he says quietly. “It looks like a person.”
My brain starts jumping up and down with maybes. Maybe it’s the person who hit her! Maybe she took their picture! But reality is heavy and stomps on those thoughts. I sigh.
He glances at me. “Do you want to stop?”
&n
bsp; “No. We’ve come this far.”
Once we’ve projected the images, we set the photo paper into the baths I’ve prepared. My heart trips along, and I remind myself to breathe.
“You know,” Mr. Gerardi says, “there are some people who might not think your mother’s job is all that brave at all.”
I flash irritated eyes his way. “Like who?”
“Like the soldiers there to fight the wars.”
Oh. I use tongs to make sure the paper is fully submerged. An image is beginning to appear. I know I can’t rush it, but I want to.
“I’m not insulting your mother,” he says. “Not at all. Her work is amazing, and important.”
Yes. It is. There’s no easy way to compare my mother to anyone. It’s like the difference between my mother and my father. The difference between color photography and black-and-white. Vibrant rainbows versus shades of beige.
That’s what makes this so difficult.
Lines begin to appear on the paper. I still can’t make out much of anything.
My throat tightens. These were her last shots. Possibly some of her final moments. It’s a chance to see through her eyes.
I look at Mr. Gerardi. “Can I . . . can I finish developing them alone?”
He hesitates, glancing at the baths again. He’s not allowed to leave me with the chemicals, but I was once a special student with special privileges. I think of his precious Leica. Maybe I still am.
“Please?” I whisper.
He sighs. “Okay. I’ll walk down to the teachers’ lounge and get a cup of coffee.” He hesitates. “Are you sure you want to be alone?”
I nod and swipe at my eyes. The image is becoming clearer. Wild hair, the slope of an arm.
Mr. Gerardi slips through the door, and the latch clicks. I’m alone. Silence presses around me.
My eyes blur, and I blink to clear them. The image has processed.
I have to blink again. My mother smiles up from the photograph, her eyes bright, her hair a wild mess of curls and tangles.
She’s naked. She’s in a bed. An arm covers one breast, but the other is unashamedly bare.
I stop breathing.
The next tray develops. Another of my mother, still naked. She’s laughing in this one, reaching for the camera.
The next tray. A tangle of arms. A blurred neck, some dark hair. The edge of a jaw.
The tears go cold on my cheeks.
The next tray. Mom laughing and struggling, a muscled arm around her neck, trying to pull her into the photograph. An old-fashioned selfie, taken with a camera instead of a phone. The other face is mostly cut off, but my eyes lock on that muscled arm.
It’s not my father’s.
The next tray. This selfie caught them both. I seize the picture with my hands, ignoring the chemicals that drip down my forearms.
It’s Ian. Mom’s editor. He’s shirtless, holding her against him. Her face is turned up, nuzzling into his neck.
I think of my father, moving through a fog for months.
She was cheating on him. She was cheating.
I pick up her camera and throw it at the door as hard as I can. Glass and plastic explode and tinkle across the floor.
How could she? Her bag is sitting open in front of me, and the smell of her lotion mixes with the chemicals. How could she do this to him?
I grab the lotion and throw it after the camera. I’m sobbing. I hate her. I hate her.
I seize her tissues. I press the pack to my eyes and then fling it. I hate her.
I grab the boarding pass, wanting to tear it into shreds, crumpling it. The folded corners press into my skin. I want to slice into all of my skin if it will take the edge off this pain.
She was cheating.
I feel like she was cheating on me, too. Her love was supposed to be for us. Not someone else.
“How could she?” I whisper.
I stand there and sob into my hands. Mr. Gerardi is going to find me like this, sobbing into her boarding pass.
The thought is enough to jerk me back to the present. Shards of glass and plastic litter the floor, glittering in the red lights. Chemicals have splashed everywhere. Mr. Gerardi is going to freak. I smooth out the thick paper, as if that will somehow put everything back the way it was. The boarding pass is a wet mess, but the date is in huge letters, right in the middle.
WEDS MAY 22
Wait.
There’s no mistaking it, though. The characters are almost an inch high.
WEDS MAY 22
I blink a few times, as if my tears could have somehow turned “SAT” into “WEDS” or “25” into “22.”
My breathing stops again.
I flatten the boarding pass again and press it against the edge of the table. There must be some mistake. This must be an old one. This must be for some kind of connecting flight.
It’s not an old one. This was her flight home.
Three days earlier than we expected her. Three days before she died.
All of a sudden, Brandon Cho’s voice echoes in my head.
Hammonds Ferry Road isn’t on the way to the airport.
She came home early, exactly like I’d begged her to do. She came home three days early.
Just not to be with us.
CHAPTER FORTY
From: Elaine Hillard - HAMILTON ENGLISH
To: Murphy, Declan
Date: Wednesday, October 9 03:11:53 PM
Subject: Invictus
Declan:
I’ve had a chance to read your in-class essay regarding “Invictus,” and I’d like to discuss it. Would you have time to stop by my classroom tomorrow morning before homeroom? I’ll be in my classroom by 6:30 a.m.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Hillard
I read the email while mowing, because Frank will go off at me if I stop. Then again, after yesterday, maybe not. But after weeks of emails from Cemetery Girl, this one is kind of a downer. Nothing says awesome day like meeting with an English teacher at six thirty in the morning.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and slide my hand into my glove.
For the twenty-fifth time today, I wish I could return to that moment in the cafeteria. I wish I could tell Juliet. I wish I could hold her and whisper the truth.
Instead, I’m stuck on a mower, unsure if she’ll ever speak to me again.
Unsure if I’ll ever sleep at home again.
Rev said that Geoff and Kristin will let me sleep there for a few nights, but they think we should all sit down with Mom and Alan and talk things out.
The thought makes me want to avoid Rev’s house almost as much as my own.
I apologized. I apologized, and my mother said nothing.
That put a vise around my chest that refuses to loosen.
The sky is overcast, bringing a light drizzle to the cemetery, but I don’t mind the rain trickling down into my shirt. The weather keeps people away, making my job easier. Music pours into my headphones, deafening me as effectively as the mower.
A flash of motion to my right draws my attention, and I look up from the monotony of grass and gray granite. A girl is running across the cemetery.
Juliet.
Panic flashes through me. She must have figured it out. She’s coming to confront me.
But no. She skids in the wet grass and falls in front of her mother’s grave. She’s across the field, but even from here, I can see her face is a mask of anguish and pain.
She’s screaming.
She’s punching the gravestone.
I turn the key and kill the mower. And then I run.
By the time I get to Juliet, her fingers are bleeding and swollen. Tears streak her face, and her voice has gone hoarse. I can’t understand what she’s saying through her sobs, but she barely recognizes I’m there. She slams her hand into the gravestone again.
I grab her and wrestle her back, pulling her against me. “Juliet. Juliet, stop.”
/> Her rage is so pure I expect her to struggle and fight to get back to her assault on the gravestone. Instead, she collapses against me, sobbing into my chest. Her hands clutch my shirt like it’s a lifeline.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s so obviously not. I hold her tight, whispering against her hair. I pull my work gloves off with my teeth and stroke her back. “It’s okay.”
Cold rain has formed a mist through the cemetery, offering us the illusion of privacy. The scent of cut grass hangs thick in the air, mixed with the scent of Juliet, cinnamon and vanilla or something warm.
When the worst of her tears seems to subside, I lower my head to speak along her temple. “Do you want to sit down?”
She sniffs and shakes her head fiercely. “Not near her.”
“Okay. Here, then.” I pull her back a few yards, to an older gravestone that’s never seen a visitor in the time I’ve been here. We sit and lean against the back of the stone.
She hasn’t stopped clutching me. Even when we sit, she leans against me, a warm weight against my side. Light rain trickles through the clouds to chill my face and mix with her tears.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I say.
“No.” She swipes at her face.
“Okay.” I look down at her. Enough rain has collected in her hair to fill it with droplets of light. Mascara runs down her cheek in a long stripe. Her weight against me is both the best thing and the worst thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
I reach up and stroke a finger along that line of makeup.
She sighs and closes her eyes. “I wish I hadn’t done it.” Her voice breaks and she starts crying again.
“Shh.” My lips brush her temple. I would hold her in this cemetery forever. “What do you wish you hadn’t done?”
She straightens a little and pushes rain-damp hair away from her face. Her fingers are shaking. All of her is shaking. “My mother was a photographer. I developed her film. The pictures she took before she died. I wish I hadn’t.”
That’s right. She was going to do that today.
My knee-jerk reaction is to play this the way I’ve played everything else, putting up a front like I don’t know every detail of her sorrow from the other side of an email conversation.