home.” She gestured toward the interior like a game-show hostess indicating a prize. The door banged shut behind her.
The room was small and disheveled, the scattered furniture mostly obscured by clothing and towels. An empty pizza box lay open on the floor in front of the TV. The ripe odor of garbage wafted in from the kitchen.
I went the other direction, toward the bedrooms. There were two, side by side, both equally chaotic—beds tousled, floors strewn. I stepped into the first and gingerly picked up a sweatshirt, then a pair of surfer shorts. They might have belonged to anyone. I opened the top drawer of the dresser, but found only some tattered issues of Road & Track and several unmatched socks. I understood that it was hopeless. I would learn nothing there, and there was no way to know when Patrick might return.
I felt myself slipping into sadness, and I realized then how much I had invested in our reunion. When I was growing up, Patrick’ssudden arrivals had rescued me from my own dark thoughts. Was I counting on him to do that now? Surely, given all that had happened, it was too much to ask of anyone.
I went back down the stairs to the car. I put the key into the ignition, but when I felt the upholstery warm against my back, my arms dropped off the steering wheel. I hadn’t slept much the night before, just short periods of unconsciousness bracketed by uneasy dreams.
I woke to find a man leaning in the window. At first I thought it was Patrick, and my heart leaped. But his face was clean-shaven, the skin ruddy and unmarked. There were no scars on his hands or arms. Then I thought it might be Lowell Morgan, until I realized he was too young.
It has been said that any use of the camera is aggressive. Without thinking, I reached down, picked up my Leica, and pointed the lens at him. At the sound of the shutter, he drew back until he stood at least ten feet off, where I could see him clearly. There was nothing threatening about him. I lowered the camera.
“Ma’am,” he said, “you think you could move your vehicle? So we can get by?” I looked beyond him to where his wife stood, her hand raised, shielding her eyes. Two small children in bathing suits, a girl and a boy, clung to her thighs. Folded lawn chairs rested against the walls and stairs. A tricycle lay overturned in the grass near a barbecue grill.
I saw that I’d partially blocked what was in fact a sandy driveway. “Of course,” I said. I pulled out and watched the car dipping and swaying along the road.
I tried not to think about Bailey, but it was too much for me, the deserted yard with its scattered reminders of family life. I began to cry.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually I shook myself and pushed my hair out of my face. I put my hand on my Leica and it steadied me.
The sky had clouded over, conditions were good. I told myself that since I’d driven out, I might at least photograph some of the beach houses. I recalled one that was perfectly round, like a cookingpot, its sheet-metal walls pocked and stained. The front door, eight feet aboveground, was padlocked. An experiment that hadn’t quite worked.
The house stood forlornly in a field of tall grass. I got out and walked around it, pressing the shutter now and then, without ever feeling I’d captured anything important.
It was almost too easy. With Bailey in tow, I’d had to photograph in a new way. I had to manage her things—the diaper bag, the one gluey pacifier she couldn’t do without—as well as a camera and lenses. I made shorter trips and sometimes took the stroller. And I learned to wait for the moment when I became so much a part of my surroundings—just another young mother with messy hair and food stains on her clothes, riding the subway, or sitting on a bench—that I was forgotten while people’s lives unfolded in front of me.
I wondered where the family I’d talked to had gone. Probably to one of the pocket parks, where there would be
The room was small and disheveled, the scattered furniture mostly obscured by clothing and towels. An empty pizza box lay open on the floor in front of the TV. The ripe odor of garbage wafted in from the kitchen.
I went the other direction, toward the bedrooms. There were two, side by side, both equally chaotic—beds tousled, floors strewn. I stepped into the first and gingerly picked up a sweatshirt, then a pair of surfer shorts. They might have belonged to anyone. I opened the top drawer of the dresser, but found only some tattered issues of Road & Track and several unmatched socks. I understood that it was hopeless. I would learn nothing there, and there was no way to know when Patrick might return.
I felt myself slipping into sadness, and I realized then how much I had invested in our reunion. When I was growing up, Patrick’ssudden arrivals had rescued me from my own dark thoughts. Was I counting on him to do that now? Surely, given all that had happened, it was too much to ask of anyone.
I went back down the stairs to the car. I put the key into the ignition, but when I felt the upholstery warm against my back, my arms dropped off the steering wheel. I hadn’t slept much the night before, just short periods of unconsciousness bracketed by uneasy dreams.
I woke to find a man leaning in the window. At first I thought it was Patrick, and my heart leaped. But his face was clean-shaven, the skin ruddy and unmarked. There were no scars on his hands or arms. Then I thought it might be Lowell Morgan, until I realized he was too young.
It has been said that any use of the camera is aggressive. Without thinking, I reached down, picked up my Leica, and pointed the lens at him. At the sound of the shutter, he drew back until he stood at least ten feet off, where I could see him clearly. There was nothing threatening about him. I lowered the camera.
“Ma’am,” he said, “you think you could move your vehicle? So we can get by?” I looked beyond him to where his wife stood, her hand raised, shielding her eyes. Two small children in bathing suits, a girl and a boy, clung to her thighs. Folded lawn chairs rested against the walls and stairs. A tricycle lay overturned in the grass near a barbecue grill.
I saw that I’d partially blocked what was in fact a sandy driveway. “Of course,” I said. I pulled out and watched the car dipping and swaying along the road.
I tried not to think about Bailey, but it was too much for me, the deserted yard with its scattered reminders of family life. I began to cry.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually I shook myself and pushed my hair out of my face. I put my hand on my Leica and it steadied me.
The sky had clouded over, conditions were good. I told myself that since I’d driven out, I might at least photograph some of the beach houses. I recalled one that was perfectly round, like a cookingpot, its sheet-metal walls pocked and stained. The front door, eight feet aboveground, was padlocked. An experiment that hadn’t quite worked.
The house stood forlornly in a field of tall grass. I got out and walked around it, pressing the shutter now and then, without ever feeling I’d captured anything important.
It was almost too easy. With Bailey in tow, I’d had to photograph in a new way. I had to manage her things—the diaper bag, the one gluey pacifier she couldn’t do without—as well as a camera and lenses. I made shorter trips and sometimes took the stroller. And I learned to wait for the moment when I became so much a part of my surroundings—just another young mother with messy hair and food stains on her clothes, riding the subway, or sitting on a bench—that I was forgotten while people’s lives unfolded in front of me.
I wondered where the family I’d talked to had gone. Probably to one of the pocket parks, where there would be
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