“I know you didn’t mean it as an insult, but think about what you’re implying here. Say you give up photography, which is your right. But . . . then what? What profession are you going to find that would live up to this vision you have of your mother’s?”
I don’t know. I’ve never thought about that. I’ve only thought about how I can’t be her.
Mr. Gerardi keeps talking. “My wife is also a photographer. She takes pictures of babies. That’s it—just babies. Do you think that’s pointless?”
I swallow. “No.” I hesitate. “But it’s not life-changing for anyone.”
“Are you kidding? Have you ever looked at a baby photo? As a parent, I’m telling you that having your children captured in a photograph is a true gift. The time goes so fast.”
Mom’s computer flashes in my mind, her desktop background featuring me as a baby, snuggled into her neck. My breathing hitches.
“I don’t want to upset you,” Mr. Gerardi says quietly.
“No. You’re not.” But he is. A little.
“Wait here,” he says. He disappears for less than a minute. When he comes back, he’s got a photo on his phone. In the picture, a woman is pressing her lips to the forehead of a newborn baby. Light comes from somewhere, and the baby’s fuzzy hair gleams like a halo.
“My wife took this picture,” he says.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The baby died,” he says quietly. “Less than two hours later. They hired my wife to document the birth, but he was born with a severe heart defect.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling my throat constrict. “Okay.”
He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Have you ever heard of Humans of New York?”
I shake my head.
“A man named Brandon Stanton started a website where he’d take photographs of people in New York City and ask them a question, then publish their photo with what they said. Somehow people tell him their darkest secrets, their most painful memories—and they allow him to publish them online. His pictures have been seen by millions of people. Millions, Juliet. Millions of people have been affected by his photographs—and it was all because one guy started wandering around New York, taking pictures of strangers.”
“But I’m not like that,” I whisper.
“Maybe not yet. But you will find your own way to make an impact.”
The timer rings, and he turns away to flick the light switch. The overhead lights go off, replaced by the red lights. He unloads the film and begins unwinding it. “Do you want to start at the end? Maybe do the last five shots?”
My heart is jumping around again, unable to settle after everything he’s said. “Um. Sure.”
He cuts the film and holds up the strip, but it’s impossible to tell what might be on it now. We’ll put the strip into the enlarger, shine it onto paper, then float the paper in chemicals to bring the images out.
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think these shots involve a car,” he says quietly. “It looks like a person.”
My brain starts jumping up and down with maybes. Maybe it’s the person who hit her! Maybe she took their picture! But reality is heavy and stomps on those thoughts. I sigh.
He glances at me. “Do you want to stop?”
“No. We’ve come this far.”
Once we’ve projected the images, we set the photo paper into the baths I’ve prepared. My heart trips along, and I remind myself to breathe.
“You know,” Mr. Gerardi says, “there are some people who might not think your mother’s job is all that brave at all.”
I flash irritated eyes his way. “Like who?”
“Like the soldiers there to fight the wars.”
Oh. I use tongs to make sure the paper is fully submerged. An image is beginning to appear. I know I can’t rush it, but I want to.
“I’m not insulting your mother,” he says. “Not at all. Her work is amazing, and important.”
Yes. It is. There’s no easy way to compare my mother to anyone. It’s like the difference between my mother and my father. The difference between color photography and black-and-white. Vibrant rainbows versus shades of beige.
That’s what makes this so difficult.
Lines begin to appear on the paper. I still can’t make out much of anything.
My throat tightens. These were her last shots. Possibly some of her final moments. It’s a chance to see through her eyes.
I look at Mr. Gerardi. “Can I . . . can I finish developing them alone?”
He hesitates, glancing at the baths again. He’s not allowed to leave me with the chemicals, but I was once a special student with special privileges. I think of his precious Leica. Maybe I still am.
“Please?” I whisper.
He sighs. “Okay. I’ll walk down to the teachers’ lounge and get a cup of coffee.” He hesitates. “Are you sure you want to be alone?”
I nod and swipe at my eyes. The image is becoming clearer. Wild hair, the slope of an arm.
Mr. Gerardi slips through the door, and the latch clicks. I’m alone. Silence presses around me.
My eyes blur, and I blink to clear them. The image has processed.
I have to blink again. My mother smiles up from the photograph, her eyes bright, her hair a wild mess of curls and tangles.
She’s naked. She’s in a bed. An arm covers one breast, but the other is unashamedly bare.
I stop breathing.
The next tray develops. Another of my mother, still naked. She’s laughing in this one, reaching for the camera.
The next tray. A tangle of arms. A blurred neck, some dark hair. The edge of a jaw.
The tears go cold on my cheeks.
The next tray. Mom laughing and struggling, a muscled arm around her neck, trying to pull her into the photograph. An old-fashioned selfie, taken with a camera instead of a phone. The other face is mostly cut off, but my eyes lock on that muscled arm.
It’s not my father’s.
The next tray. This selfie caught them both. I seize the picture with my hands, ignoring the chemicals that drip down my forearms.
It’s Ian. Mom’s editor. He’s shirtless, holding her against him. Her face is turned up, nuzzling into his neck.
I think of my father, moving through a fog for months.
She was cheating on him. She was cheating.