Pictures of You (16 page)

That night, when there was a knock at the door, she was surprised that she wanted to answer it, that she yearned for company, even if it was a two-minute chat with someone canvassing for money. She peered through the window expectantly. Michelle and Jane were standing there, talking intently to each other, their arms full of packages.

She pulled open the door and, instantly, Jane reached for her.
“Don’t even think of sending us away,” Michelle said gravely. “We brought Indian takeout and a video and we’re staying until you kick us out.”

Isabelle looked at Michelle’s flushed cheeks, at the sunflowers tucked under Jane’s arm. She was surprised when she felt tears stinging her eyes.

“Oh, Izzie, I know,” Michelle said.

Isabelle shook her head. “No, no, it’s just—well, I’m just so happy you’re here.” She opened the door wide.

That night, Isabelle ate half a carton of veggie tandoori. “Have more,” Jane kept urging, but she could really only pick. Isabelle tried to concentrate on the film, a comedy about two girlfriends in love with the same guy. She laughed when her friends laughed. She felt them watching her, making sure she was okay, and when Michelle asked if she wanted them to stay the night, Isabelle shook her head. She was tired, but it wasn’t the same kind of exhaustion she had been feeling. Before they were out the door, Michelle turned and gave Isabelle a hug. “Just remember, you’re not alone,” she told her.

M
ORE AND MORE
, people gave her advice. Take it easy. Take your time. Don’t rush back into work. Figure out what you want to do. She called Dora, Michelle’s friend in New York, to see if the illegal sublet was still available. “If you make a move in the next two weeks, it is,” Dora told her.

She felt something warming in her stomach. She could still have a new life. She’d leave and all this would fade, like a stain she’d bleach from a shirt.

The day the insurance company processed her claim, Isabelle went to get a new car. Lindy had offered to go with her, but somehow it seemed important to Isabelle that she do this on her own. She remembered how anxious she had been driving home from the hospital with Michelle, but that was because it was all so soon. She had been so raw.

She took her bike, figuring she could put it in the trunk of whatever new vehicle she came home with.

The bike glided into the lot. No one was there except for two bored-looking young men in white shirts and ties, their hair slicked back. When they saw her, they perked up and whispered something to each other, their faces ruddy from the heat. The taller one came toward Isabelle. “No one comes here on a bike,” he said cheerfully.

“I do,” she said. “But I want to leave in a Honda.”

“Let me show you,” he said.

He touched the back of her shirt, guiding her toward some cars, and she flinched a little.

She slid her hand along the side of a blue car and felt a little queasy. “Get in and see how this baby feels,” the salesman told her, opening the door. Isabelle got inside. He was standing outside, grinning at her, all lips and bright white teeth. At first, she felt the same unease she’d felt riding home from the hospital, but she shook it off and turned the key in the ignition. The motor rumbled and then, suddenly, she felt a hard, thick piece of glass slam down between her and the salesman. He was saying something, but Isabelle couldn’t hear it. It was ninety degrees outside, but her skin was cold and she shivered. She swallowed hard, fighting the ball of panic rising in her throat.

He opened the door and leaned toward her. “Are you all right?” he asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look so good.” He leaned closer. “You aren’t going to throw up, are you?” he asked.

Her hands flew to her head. His voice was coming from underwater. Panic was thumping so hard in her body, it felt as if it were going to break through the skin. She knew if she moved she might die.

“Ma’am?” the dealer said doubtfully.

She began to shake all over. She couldn’t do this. She gripped the wheel so tightly, her knuckles grew pale. She was going to die and she knew it and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“Ma’am!” The dealer’s voice was sharp this time and then he touched her and she felt something breaking and she managed to move, jolting out of the car. As soon as her sneakers hit pavement, she felt her heart slow. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see shards scattered on the ground. She stared at the car as if she’d never seen one before.

The dealer’s smile had gone funny and stiff. She pretended to study her watch. “Oh, look at the time,” she said. She nodded like an idiot. “I’ll come back. I have to run now.” She couldn’t look at him. She grabbed her bike, but her legs were too wobbly to get on it. Her whole body felt like a rag doll, limp and useless, and she began to walk her bike, leaning on it for support, the two miles home.

Isabelle had never really been afraid of anything in her life. She’d never had a phobia, never had to sleep with a nightlight, and heights didn’t bother her. She had climbed up scaffolding to get a shot she wanted; she had waded into freezing waters and when a power line snapped and snaked toward her, sparking with current, she calmly took its picture. And of course, she hadn’t been afraid of running away with Luke. Now, she was terrified of something. She had been driving since she was fifteen and suddenly, just the thought of getting into a car made her feel as if she were dying. She couldn’t imagine even being a passenger in a car. Not after what happened. She tapped her hands on the counter. She wouldn’t let this beat her. She’d fly to New York, then. She’d live in a city where you didn’t need to drive at all, where you could walk everywhere.

T
HAT EVENING, WHEN
the sky was clear, she took a walk, hoping to break up the long night ahead of her. She mindlessly wound in and out of the streets, and when she found herself walking down Mayfield, Charlie and Sam’s street, she didn’t question it. She didn’t wonder if it was her subconscious guiding her here or if it was a simple coincidence. She knew she couldn’t have stopped going this way if she had wanted to. Her legs kept carrying her forward, stopping only when she saw their house.

All the lights were blazing inside, the same way hers always were because it made the house feel less empty. She could hear music, something with a thumping beat, a bright chime of singing voices that she didn’t recognize. Kids’ music. For a moment, she stood in front of the house, unable to move. There was a yellow toy truck parked on the front lawn. She felt her body listing toward the light of the house. She took a step, trying to steady her balance. She moved up on tiptoe, craning her neck. She hated herself for what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop. She saw someone move past the window and her heart slammed in her chest. She jumped back, toward the hedge next door, crouched behind it so she wouldn’t be seen. The front door suddenly flew open. She heard a man’s voice call, “Sam!” and then she saw the little boy on the porch, his shoulders heaving, his long hair in his round, dark eyes. He threw something into the air, panting. A small green blur in the sky. A plastic dog. She heard it clattering on the street, and then something bounced toward her. A tiny red collar. She stepped back.

Charlie came outside. “Sam,” he said, only now his voice was so sad that it made Isabelle ache. Sam folded his arms tightly about his chest. He hunched over. His shoulders moved up and down and then Charlie walked toward the object and picked it up and handed it to Sam. “You don’t want to do that,” Charlie said quietly, and Sam wrapped both arms about the plastic dog. “Better?” Charlie asked and Sam nodded. “Come on, let’s go inside.” Charlie started to put one arm about Sam, but Sam moved past him into the house and Charlie’s arm hung there, for a moment, in the air. And then he turned and looked out across the lawn, right toward the hedges where Isabelle was, and she froze, but he didn’t see her. When the door shut, Isabelle sprang forward and came around the hedge. She bent and picked up the collar. She quietly put it in the mailbox, where they might find it.

Then Isabelle took off. She walked again, faster, until she had rounded the corner, telling herself that this was not her business and that she would never walk down that street again.

But she couldn’t keep her promise. Isabelle always had an errand to do. Grocery shopping. The cleaners. To buy film she wasn’t using. She walked toward Charlie and Sam’s house with her eyes down, and the closer she got to it, the more terrified she was, and the more ashamed, but she kept walking, and every night she learned a little more. From the takeout boxes she saw in the trash can, she learned that Charlie didn’t cook. She learned that Sam liked balls and trucks and that he liked to throw things on the lawn. It was a house full of music. Blues, classical; once, someone sounding like Bessie Smith wailed that just like a flower, she was fading away.

One night she went by later than usual, and even from across the street, a few houses away, she saw the lights were not as bright and she felt a clip of fear. And then she took another step and stopped because there was Charlie on the porch, a glass of wine in his hand. Isabelle fell back in the shadows, crouching behind an SUV. She knew that what she should do was turn around and walk the other way, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Charlie.

Charlie didn’t drink the wine. He was standing so still she didn’t dare move. He rubbed his face with his hands, stared at the sky for a moment, and then began to weep. Isabelle turned on her heel and began running home, and by the time she got there, she was crying, too.

G
RADUALLY, THE NEWSPAPER
stories stopped. Every morning, she got online and thought about making airline reservations and getting the hell out of there, but she never did. In town, she didn’t feel as though people were staring at her anymore. She saw her friends, she got outside. Life went back to normal, but still, she walked down Charlie’s street. One night, a neighbor came out of the house, an old man in bright blue running shorts and a sweatshirt, a pedometer strapped to his waist. He waved happily at her and Isabelle started. “How far today?” he asked.

“How far what?” It was strange to hear her voice in this neighborhood.

“How far do you walk? I always see you!” He patted his chest. “Six miles,” he said proudly.

“Five,” Isabelle whispered.

“Good for you!” he stood there, moving from foot to foot and she realized, with a shock, that he was flirting with her. “We ought to start a neighborhood walking club!”

“Good idea,” she said lamely, and he nodded.

“See you tomorrow!” he said, “I’ll look for you!” He sprinted off.

He knew her. He recognized her. He was going to look for her. She had never seen him before. Isabelle had thought she was the only person here, but while she was busy watching Charlie’s house, people were busy watching her. She couldn’t come back. And yet she couldn’t leave.

The New York City sublet was gone, but Isabelle called Luke and told him the house was his, that she didn’t want to be in it anymore. She found a cheap one-bedroom apartment, a one-floor walk-up over on Broom Street, just a block away, and let Michelle and Lindy help her move in.

She thought of those stories Nora had told her. Nora believed that spirits who had unfinished business stuck around people’s houses, haunting them until someone pointed them toward the light. Every time she heard the house creak, she would nod at Isabelle. “That’s your father,” Isabelle’s mother would say. “He loves us so much, he can’t leave,” and Isabelle would roll her eyes. Now, Isabelle felt like a ghost herself, drawn to Charlie and Sam’s house. But who would point her to the light?

A
T THE END
of September, nearly a month after the accident, Isabelle went back to work. She hadn’t picked up a camera since the accident, hadn’t been able to think of anything she might like to photograph, and the one photo she tried to take, of two old women talking on a bench, had come out so terrible, she hadn’t bothered to keep the print. She thought she could do the work at
the You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby studio easily enough. Parents pretty much told you what they wanted, and creativity usually wasn’t a big factor. She had called Chuck, her boss, and told him she’d like to come back. “Good, we can use the help,” he said.

“Isabelle!” Emma, another photographer, who often complained that Isabelle got all the good jobs, gave her a brief hug. “Let me get you coffee.”

“Isabelle!” Ted, the lighting guy, strode toward her, crushing her in a hug.

Isabelle stood around while Ted fixed the lights. “You wouldn’t believe the weeks we’ve been having,” he said. “A woman wanted her poodle’s portrait done. When I reminded her we only photographed children, she huffed that her poodle was her child.” He winked at her. “Guess what, we did it for her.”

She laughed halfheartedly. “There,” he said. “All done.” He tipped an imaginary hat at her and left the room, and then she realized that neither he nor anyone else had asked her a single question about the accident or about Luke.

By early afternoon, customers began trickling in. This was easy, by-rote work. She was brisk and efficient and it made the hours fly. Only one person seemed to know who she was, a mother in a powder blue dress with a freckle-faced little girl. She frowned at Isabelle and then said, “Maybe we won’t get our picture taken today,” and left. Isabelle saw her leaning across the counter, arguing with Rick. She heard her name. She heard. “It’s not right. Kids are involved.”

Isabelle moved deeper into her studio, away from the door, and away from Chuck. She shut the door so she wouldn’t hear any more, but truly, all she could hear was the sickening thud of her heart.

I
T WAS THE FIRST
week of October and Sam was finally going back to school. He had just started his first week of fourth grade before the accident, and now he had to go back, start a routine again, pretend to be normal. Sam felt disoriented. He had been in his new classroom, but now everything looked different, as if there had been a time warp. The soft red couch that had stood below the window was now against the far wall. All the tables were separated and put in the corners and the red and purple braided rug that had covered most of the floor was gone and the wood had been painted deep blue. The map of Native American Tribes that had been on the back wall was gone, along with the Make Your Metaphor worksheets. Instead, there was a big wall map of China and Sam hadn’t the foggiest reason why. There were reports on the parts of a cell hanging up, and every name was up there but Sam’s.