Black & White by Dani Shapiro

middle batch for the moment and flips all the way to the last folder, the final series of images. She has a hunch, a quick flood of feeling—terrible, foreboding, but also impossible to stop now that she has begun. She is shaking—the paper itself is shaking—as she opens to the final picture, Naked at Fourteen.
    Naked. Ruth had used the word purposefully when she titled the photograph. Not nude —an artist’s word—but naked. Stark and absolute. No bullshit about it. As if to say, Let’s call this what it is.
    Her own eyes stare back at her, angry, vulnerable, accusatory. How could you? Her pubescent body, breasts already forming above the rib cage, a shadow darkening between her legs. Arms crossed defiantly, hips cocked to one side. Clara reaches back—she grasps at the past—but it is like she is in a free fall, clutching at the air. There is nothing to hold. No memory. Only this.
    “What time is it?” A hoarse voice—Ruth’s voice—nearly makes Clara jump out of her chair. Her mother has rolled over and is now lying on her side, facing Clara. How long has she been watching her?
    “Tell me about these,” Clara says quietly.
    “Sorry, dear?”
    Clara holds up a few of the photographs.
    “Careful with those—my God, Clara, your fingerprints!”
    Ruth’s all there, all right. Plenty of compos in her mentis. Over the past few days, Clara has wondered if her mother has started to mentally lose it—but no. Clara is overtaken by a violent, intense desire to rip the pictures in two, all of them, one by one—as Ruth lies there, a prisoner on her bed. She wants to do it—but she is paralyzed. She feels as if she’s floating, hovering above herself and Ruth. Are the photographs hers to destroy? Her mother’s days in the darkroom are over. Each of these prints are the last ones in Ruth Dunne’s possession. The last that will ever be made.
    “Why are you looking at these, Mother? Why has Peony taken them out of the archives?” Clara asks. She sits on her hands—literally sits on them—to stop them from shaking, to stop herself from doing something she can never take back.
    Ruth flinches slightly. Mother. Clara has spoken with such disdain, such sarcasm, after these weeks of increasing kindness and sympathy. The old feelings rush back—nothing has changed between them.
    “Would you mind calling Peony, darling? I need some help—”
    “That’s no longer Peony’s job, remember?”
    Ruth’s nose wrinkles.
    “But these women from the agency are so…I don’t know…I can hardly carry on a conversation with them,” she says.
    “They’re here to help you, not to provide intellectual stimulation.” Clara finally snaps. “Stop avoiding my question.”
    “What question is that?”
    Is Ruth messing with Clara’s head? She is capable of many things, but has never been capable of guile. With Ruth, what you see is what you get—so what’s this? She seems to be wavering in and out of focus. Sharp, then blurry, then sharp again.
    “The photographs. They’re all here—every single one of them, as far as I can tell. All your photographs of me, even ones I never knew about.”
    “Of course.” Ruth struggles up on one elbow. “For the book.”
    “What book?” Clara’s voice is raised. She hears a shuffling outside the doorway. Is Peony standing there? Or Marcy? Or some other person from the phalanx of Ruth’s helpers?
    “Kubovy is helping me put it together,” Ruth says. “I’ve wanted to do it for years, and now—”
    “Jesus Christ,” says Clara. It dawns on her in an overwhelming rush, a shock so profound that it actually feels electrical. Her spine is on fire. She understands now. It has taken longer than it should have—but now she understands.
    She thumbs through the folders resting on her lap. She feels reckless. Nothing she discovers could possibly make things worse. She opens one that appears to be slightly smaller than the rest and finds a mock-up of a book jacket inside. There she