looking straight at the camera with a great smile on her face. Tables were set up in thegarden with food and pitchers and bowls of flowers.
“This was taken on a long-ago Fourth of July.” Grandma closed her eyes. “Nineteen thirty, I think. The day I met your grandfather.”
“You look happy,” I said. Grandma nodded and looked at the picture.
“The camera knows,” she said.
“The camera knows what?” She turned more pages.
“And here is your mother, same age, same day, but many years later. Grandpa took that picture. He didn’t have so fine a camera as now, of course.”
In the picture the girl who was my mama sat behind a table, her face in her hands, looking far off in the distance. All around her were people laughing, talking. Lancie, Mama’s sister, made a face at the camera. Uncle Minor, his hair all sunbleached, was caught by the camera taking a handful of cookies. In the background a dog leaped into the air to grab a ball, his ears floating out as if uplifted and held there by the wind. But my mother looked silent and unhearing.
“It’s a nice picture,” I said. “Except for Mama. It must have been the camera,” I said after a moment.
Grandma sighed and took my hand.
“No, it wasn’t the camera, Journey. It was your mama. Your mama always wished to be somewhere else.”
“Well, now she is,” I said.
After a while Grandma got up and left the room. I sat there for a long time, staring at Mama’s picture, as if I could will her to turn and talk to the person next to her. If I looked at the picture long enough, my mama would move, stretch, smile at my grandfather behind the camera. But she didn’t. I turned away, but her face stayed with me. The expression on Mama’s face was one I knew. One I remembered.
Somewhere else. I am very little, five or six, and in overalls and new yellow rubber boots. I follow Mama across the meadow. It has rained and everything is washed and shiny, the sky clear. As I walk my feet make squishing sounds, and when I try to catch up with Mama I fall into the brook. I am not afraid, but when I look up Mama has walked away. Arms pick me up, someoneelse’s arms. Someone else takes off my boots and pours out the water. My grand father. I am angry. It is not my grandfather I want. It is Mama. But Mama is far ahead, and she doesn’t look back. She is somewhere else.
I walked to the window. Birds still sang, flowers still bloomed, cows still slept in the meadow, and I ate soup—now cold—as if my mama hadn’t ever gone.
Chapter Three
Cooper appeared, as he always did, through my bedroom window, this time carrying his baby brother close to his chest in a sling, like a chimpanzee carrying its young. Cooper’s face was round and smooth, his brown hair cut even around his face as if his mother might have placed an aluminum bowl over his head. Cooper’s face grew even fatter with love when he saw my sister. Cat, sitting on my bed, looking through the photograph album, smiled back atCooper. She liked him even though he was
my
best friend. She liked him even though he was, in my grandfather’s words, “besotted” with her. Almost every year since he was six Cooper had proposed marriage to my sister.
“So?” Cooper raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head. Cooper knew that Mama had gone, but he wouldn’t ask questions. Questions like Where is she? Why hasn’t she written a letter? Why did she go?
Who’s to blame here?
I looked up, startled at my own thought, half afraid I’d spoken out loud, but Cat and Cooper were looking at the baby.
The baby, Emmett, reached his small hand out to Cat, the movement jerky, as if his head wasn’t telling his hand how. Cat, smiling, put out her finger, and the baby took it, a sudden contented look settling like silk over his face.
Cooper smiled down at Emmett.
“I’ve got him for a whole hour while Mama weeds the garden,” he said, happily untangling Emmett from the sling. “To shape or ruin his lima-bean brain.
“This was taken on a long-ago Fourth of July.” Grandma closed her eyes. “Nineteen thirty, I think. The day I met your grandfather.”
“You look happy,” I said. Grandma nodded and looked at the picture.
“The camera knows,” she said.
“The camera knows what?” She turned more pages.
“And here is your mother, same age, same day, but many years later. Grandpa took that picture. He didn’t have so fine a camera as now, of course.”
In the picture the girl who was my mama sat behind a table, her face in her hands, looking far off in the distance. All around her were people laughing, talking. Lancie, Mama’s sister, made a face at the camera. Uncle Minor, his hair all sunbleached, was caught by the camera taking a handful of cookies. In the background a dog leaped into the air to grab a ball, his ears floating out as if uplifted and held there by the wind. But my mother looked silent and unhearing.
“It’s a nice picture,” I said. “Except for Mama. It must have been the camera,” I said after a moment.
Grandma sighed and took my hand.
“No, it wasn’t the camera, Journey. It was your mama. Your mama always wished to be somewhere else.”
“Well, now she is,” I said.
After a while Grandma got up and left the room. I sat there for a long time, staring at Mama’s picture, as if I could will her to turn and talk to the person next to her. If I looked at the picture long enough, my mama would move, stretch, smile at my grandfather behind the camera. But she didn’t. I turned away, but her face stayed with me. The expression on Mama’s face was one I knew. One I remembered.
Somewhere else. I am very little, five or six, and in overalls and new yellow rubber boots. I follow Mama across the meadow. It has rained and everything is washed and shiny, the sky clear. As I walk my feet make squishing sounds, and when I try to catch up with Mama I fall into the brook. I am not afraid, but when I look up Mama has walked away. Arms pick me up, someoneelse’s arms. Someone else takes off my boots and pours out the water. My grand father. I am angry. It is not my grandfather I want. It is Mama. But Mama is far ahead, and she doesn’t look back. She is somewhere else.
I walked to the window. Birds still sang, flowers still bloomed, cows still slept in the meadow, and I ate soup—now cold—as if my mama hadn’t ever gone.
Chapter Three
Cooper appeared, as he always did, through my bedroom window, this time carrying his baby brother close to his chest in a sling, like a chimpanzee carrying its young. Cooper’s face was round and smooth, his brown hair cut even around his face as if his mother might have placed an aluminum bowl over his head. Cooper’s face grew even fatter with love when he saw my sister. Cat, sitting on my bed, looking through the photograph album, smiled back atCooper. She liked him even though he was
my
best friend. She liked him even though he was, in my grandfather’s words, “besotted” with her. Almost every year since he was six Cooper had proposed marriage to my sister.
“So?” Cooper raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head. Cooper knew that Mama had gone, but he wouldn’t ask questions. Questions like Where is she? Why hasn’t she written a letter? Why did she go?
Who’s to blame here?
I looked up, startled at my own thought, half afraid I’d spoken out loud, but Cat and Cooper were looking at the baby.
The baby, Emmett, reached his small hand out to Cat, the movement jerky, as if his head wasn’t telling his hand how. Cat, smiling, put out her finger, and the baby took it, a sudden contented look settling like silk over his face.
Cooper smiled down at Emmett.
“I’ve got him for a whole hour while Mama weeds the garden,” he said, happily untangling Emmett from the sling. “To shape or ruin his lima-bean brain.
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