Pictures of You (21 page)

O
N THE WAY HOME
, in the car, Sam kept studying his fingers. Charlie felt his stomach roil and there was a dark, sour taste in his mouth. “I’m so sorry the extra key wasn’t there. From now on, I’ll double-check.” Sam nodded but still wouldn’t look at Charlie.

“Why did you go to that woman’s house?” he asked carefully.

Sam looked out the window, as if he were considering something. “I remembered her from the accident,” he said haltingly.

Charlie suddenly felt sick. Of course. Isabelle was the only other person who had seen what Sam had seen that day, who had been there. Sam probably felt some weird kinship with her or maybe it was a way he was processing his grief, to go and seek her out. He glanced over at his son, and he looked so fragile that it was all Charlie could do not to stop the car and take Sam in his arms.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said.

Charlie turned the car down their block. “Listen,” he said carefully.
“You don’t have to, but I think it’s best if you stay away from her.”

“Away from her! Why?”

“She’s a stranger and you don’t talk to strangers. She shouldn’t have approached you. That was a very wrong thing to do. You tell me if you see her again.”

As soon as they got home, Sam stormed into the house, marched into his room, and firmly shut the door. What was he supposed to say to Sam? Charlie wondered. That if it wasn’t for Isabelle, Sam’s mother would be alive? That if Isabelle had gotten better directions, she might not have been on that road, might not have struck his wife? The papers said she was local. That was what really bothered him. After such an accident, why hadn’t she moved away? Why did Isabelle have to live here, where they both would see her and be reminded of what had happened? He didn’t even want to breathe a mouthful of the same air she was breathing.

T
EDDY DIDN’T COME
back to school all that week. Sam tried calling him the next few days, but the line was always either busy or no one bothered to pick up, and they didn’t seem to have an answering machine. Once, after school, Sam even gathered up his courage and biked over to Teddy’s, praying the whole way that his terrifying mom wouldn’t be the one to answer the door; he positioned his bike for a quick getaway, just in case she was. He kept remembering the narrow slit of her eyes, the pinch of her mouth when she looked at him. He rang the bell three times, then four, standing at the door so long, a neighbor finally came out next door and yelled at him, “Go away! They’re not home!” She shooed at Sam with her hands like he was a stray dog.

S
AM BEGAN TO BE
a target at school for bullies. Before he had been friends with Teddy, no one had really paid him much attention. But once the kids knew he was hanging out with Teddy, there had been that sudden burst of respect. Kids made way when
Sam passed. No one mocked him when he began to cough and wheeze in class and had to ask to be excused, because if they did, Teddy would shoot them a threatening look.

Now, Sam felt punished for his friendship, like the kids knew that without Teddy, he wasn’t so big, certainly nothing to be afraid of. A spitball pinged against his back, but he couldn’t risk turning around. He brushed at the back of his shirt, ignoring the titters, and when the lunch bell rang, he took his time getting up. He was starving, but the thought of going to the cafeteria for lunch was terrifying, especially since yesterday Bobby Rocket had stolen his sandwich and thrown it in the trash, giving his friend a high-five after he did it. So Sam crept to the art room and shut the door, slowly eating his baloney and mustard sandwich until he heard the bell.

The longer Teddy was absent from school, the worse it got for Sam. “What are you going to do about it?” Billy Adams sneered, tearing Sam’s homework out of Sam’s hands. When Sam raised his hand because he knew what the periodic table was and proudly gave his answer, he heard muttering behind him, dry and hot on his neck like a heavy wind. There were repeated kicks to the back of his chair. “You think you’re so smart,” someone hissed.

He stopped doing his homework, because then it couldn’t be taken from him. “See me,” Ms. Rivers wrote on his papers. She called him to her desk, which made the kids snicker. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” she probed, and he shook his head, keeping his eyes down, focusing on the red laces of his sneakers. When Miss Rivers called on him for an answer later, he stopped saying it because then no one would kick his chair. He made his mind shut like a slammed door.

“Sam,” sighed Miss Rivers. “Are you with us, Sam?”

“Asthma Boy,” someone whispered, loud enough for the whole class to hear, but he didn’t turn around. He squinched his eyes tightly shut.

He knew that sometimes, what you didn’t see couldn’t hurt you.

R
IDING THROUGH TOWN
on her bike, Isabelle thought about what a mess she had made of things. She told herself it was over. She had tried her best to do the right thing, but look how terribly that had all gone.

She swerved, heading for the park. She didn’t have to be at Beautiful Baby for another hour, to photograph newborn triplets. Imagine being that lucky, she thought.

She took her camera from her bike pack. She snapped the front of the local deli, which was being torn down. She loved the sign:
FRESH SANDWISHES. GET THEM WHILE THEIR HOT
. She was angling for another shot and, to her surprise, saw Sam in the lens.

Isabelle lowered her camera. A raw pang traveled up her spine. He had appeared out of nowhere and he looked so skinny and pale, as if someone had rubbed him with a gum eraser. His hair was too long and shaggy, falling past his collar, and he had faint purple circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping. But when he saw her, his face lighted up. “Hey, kiddo,” she said, trying to sound casual, not to let him know how upset she felt at seeing him

“Is your father here?” she asked, and Sam shook his head. He kicked at a stone in front of him, once and then twice. She wanted to stroke his hair back, to give him her scarf, to feed him the package of butter cookies she had in her pocket, but she kept her hands on her camera. He’s not your child, she told herself. Not your responsibility.

“You aren’t supposed to be with me,” she said simply. “You know your dad wouldn’t like it.” He kept staring at her, and she began to fiddle with the lens setting, rotating the lens aimlessly.

“I’m in the park. I’m not with you.”

“That’s a technicality.”

Sam studied her camera. “What were you taking a picture of?”

Isabelle pointed to the sign.

“Why?” Sam asked.

“The sign’s funny. Sandwishes. I want to remember it after they tear it all down.”

“Wishes,” Sam said abruptly. “My parents used to hug me and call it a Samwich.” He moved closer, peering at her camera. “The camera looks cool.”

“It’s a Canon.” She showed it to him. “Film, not digital.”

“How come it’s not digital?”

“I like shooting with a film camera. It’s richer,” she said. “It shows more, I think. Plus, I’m stubborn and old fashioned. I just like it better.” She showed him how the lens could turn. “This is for focus. You turn this focusing ring here for the aperture and it lets in more or less light,” she said. She noticed his lashy eyes, the splash of freckles on his cheeks, and she suddenly wanted to touch every one. She felt her eyes watering and had to lift the camera to hide her face. She turned her flash on. “You want the flash in the daylight because it actually opens up the shadows.” She took his picture.

Sam grimaced. “I hate the way I look in pictures. I always look like I’m sick.”

Isabelle lowered the camera again. She studied him. “I don’t think you look sick at all,” she said. “Sometimes photographs show things that aren’t there. You have to learn to look deeper, to see what might be hidden.”

He looked at her, considering. “Can I take a picture?” he asked.

“Sure you can.” She handed him the camera. “Brace it with one hand on the bottom, and then use your index finger and your thumb to focus it.” She moved his arms close to his chest. “That’s to keep it all steady, so your movement won’t give you a blurry picture.” She showed him how to look through the viewfinder, how to see the needle in the middle. “That’s your light meter. Today you probably want it right smack in the middle.”

“I see it!” he said, his voice rising in excitement. “But it’s to the right.”

Isabelle pointed to the aperture scale. “You want to change your
f-stop then. Go to, oh, f-eight, I would say. In the business, we say f-eight and be there!”

“Is that, like, photographer talk?”

“It is indeed.”

He changed the f-stop and then peered through the camera, holding it gingerly. “Okay,” he said. “Now what do I do?”

“It’s okay. Don’t be afraid of it,” she told him. “What do you want to take a picture of?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, take your time. See what catches your eye.” Isabelle had no idea what Sam might take. You could never tell with kids. She had once taught a kids’ photography class at Beautiful Baby. She’d spent hours gathering interesting things she thought they might like to photograph: stuffed animals, bags of candy, even a rubber chicken she had found in a joke store. To her surprise, the kids had ended up taking pictures of their own nostrils or their feet and one little girl had taken nothing but shots of her own hair that she was holding out in front of her. Isabelle was amazed by their creativity, and the kids had been thrilled with their pictures.

Sam held up the camera in both hands and peered through the lens. He was facing her and she heard the shutter click.

“Wow, that was fast.”

He nodded, happily. “Go through the whole thing again,” she told him. “Cock this lever to get to the next frame. Then check the light meter.” She watched him fumble with the rings and then he held the camera up and snapped another picture of her. “Don’t you want to take anything else?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“When you develop the picture, can I have prints of the ones I took?” Sam asked. “Can you mail them?”

“Sure. I print them myself.”

How would she manage mailing him pictures when Charlie had asked her to stay away, Isabelle wondered. She glanced at her watch. She couldn’t believe she was here with Sam. She wanted to
call Beautiful Baby and tell them she’d be late or that she wouldn’t be there at all, but she knew she couldn’t. “I’ve got to get going,” she said, holding out her hand for the camera, and for a minute, her hand touched his; then he turned and took a picture of the street, and then gave the camera back to her.

She took off on her bike, looking back as she turned the corner. Sam was already gone.

A
S SOON AS SHE
got to work that day, Isabelle went to see Chuck. He had his feet up on the desk and one hand was buried in a bag of chips. There was a spot of grease on his tie. “Oh, hi,” he said casually, motioning to the chair with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

“You could give me a raise,” she said. Chuck took another chip and then laughed at her, as if she had told him a hilarious joke. “Oh, sure, how about a million more dollars?” he offered. The chip crunched. “Maybe I’ll give myself one, too.”

“I’m serious,” she said quietly. “I haven’t had a raise in over a year. I deserve one.”

“Excuse me, you deserve one?” He frowned and sat up straighter. “You don’t have a college degree.”

“Give me time off and some financial help and I’ll get one,” Isabelle blurted, but he lifted his hand.

“Let me refresh your memory, Isabelle. You weren’t here for three weeks of our busiest season. We had to really scramble to get things done.”

She looked at him, astonished. “I was in a car accident.” The words wounded her. She didn’t like saying them.

“It’s not so busy now. Do you see people lining the streets to get in here? Do you even see them in the waiting room? Tourist season’s ending. Beautiful Baby’s going to get slow. You know that.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “Besides,” he said. “People aren’t crazy about you taking their kids’ pictures anymore.”

She flushed. “That’s ridiculous. Who told you that?”

“Is it ridiculous?” He picked up a potato chip and gestured at her. “I may think it is, and you may think it is, but if our clients don’t think it is, then we have a problem. People know you as the woman who killed a mom.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” She tried to stare him down. “Some people don’t even know who I am.”

“Oh, yes, they do. This is a small town with big memories. People believe whatever they want to believe. They do know who you are, because I’ve heard them talking about you.” He leaned toward her.

Isabelle felt a pulse beating in her neck. “I’m the only decent photographer you have here and you know it.”

“How good do you have to be to work here?” he said. He dipped his hand into the bag and pulled out another chip and studied it before popping it into his mouth.

Isabelle got up and walked out of his office. Was Chuck right? Was it the accident? Was it that people didn’t want to be photographed by her because she had killed a mother, because she could have killed Sam?

Maybe I don’t blame them, she thought.

She had wanted to be a photographer since her father had given her her first camera. She was always taking pictures, always reading books about photography and sending her work to magazines. She never got anywhere, but people had told her that she had promise. What did that mean? It was a false word, like
plucky
. How and where did you go with it?

I
T WAS THE BEGINNING
of December, and Charlie was at yet another meeting with Miss Rivers. “I’m still worried about Sam,” she told him, tapping her pencil on the desk. She told Charlie that Sam was a smart boy, but all of a sudden he was doing terribly in school. “He seems to have lost interest in everything,” she said. “He doesn’t turn in his homework, he’s failing his tests, and he doesn’t pay attention. He used to be the smartest boy in
the class and now it’s as if he’s not there anymore. He’s always daydreaming.”

“He does his homework,” Charlie said. He remembered Sam hunched over the table, concentrating so hard that he didn’t even hear Charlie come up behind him.