“Of course not. Quite the opposite.”
“Throw them out! I don’t want those Polaroids, which I can’t believe anyone kept.”
I said, “I really don’t think I should throw them away.”
“It’s not your decision!”
“But what if they’re some kind of evidence?”
“For what? Something they liked doing in the privacy of their own home?”
Was I horrified or just stumped, either of which must have showed, because in a few seconds Nick was holding up a sign that said WTF?
I said, “Is it possible that we’re talking about totally different photos?”
“I’m talking about pictures of my mother that no daughter would want to see!”
Was English suddenly a language I didn’t speak? “Pictures of your mother?” I repeated.
“Naked! What else would I mean?”
Naked pictures of Mrs. Lavoie, who only existed in my mind’s eye as a nonagenarian on her deathbed? What had I ever said other than “Polaroids” that invited such an unbosoming? “Why would you think that?” I asked.
“What else am I supposed to think? Disturbing photos? Or did you say disgusting? And I wouldn’t be surprised if he used a Polaroid because Kodak certainly wasn’t going to develop nude photos. Everybody knows that.”
All I managed to say was “I’m a big believer in artistic freedom—”
“It was their own business. If it’s your own husband, and he’s not sending a roll of film to the local drug store, what’s the harm? It doesn’t make you an exhibitionist.”
Now reduced to babbling, I said, “I know we tell the girls at school—never, never, never let anyone take naked pictures of you because it’s going to end up on the Internet.”
“That’s now! This was between a married couple. Just like you said, it’s art.”
Thus I found myself discussing Polaroids I’d never seen, which might never have existed. “Do you know for a fact that your father or a stepfather photographed your mother naked?”—winning Nick’s full eye-popping attention.
“Of course I didn’t know. Okay, maybe I found one in a drawer after he died. Certainly not porn. I wasn’t shocked! Looking back, I think they had fun together. It was a small house, and I slept directly across the hall from them. She was proud of her body—I’m sure you knew girls like that in college. You can just tell—the way they parade around. She was in great shape, even after having three kids.”
Three. Babies. I’d done it. Unknowingly I’d forged a path that led us back to my starting point. I said, “Three babies?” And even more disingenuously, “So you weren’t her only child?”
“Well, I kind of was. She was pregnant, but the babies didn’t make it. I don’t remember that much, and I didn’t know anything about the birds and the bees. I was only six or seven. Later, much later, I asked what happened. Like, hadn’t she gone to the hospital and had a baby?”
“Did she tell you?”
“She told me it was the Rh factor. A blood thing. She was Rh negative, and the babies triggered some fatal allergic reaction. They’ve figured it out since. I lived because I was the first baby. After that . . . well, look it up. It’s about antibodies. Now it’s fixable—they give the mother a shot or two, and it’s all fine.”
What does one say except “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been a terrible thing—to grow up under the shadow of that.” And then, as if I weren’t trading in make-believe: “If posing for photos gave your parents some solace or enjoyment . . . who is anyone to judge?”
“PTSD,” she stated. “You know what that is?”
I said I did, yes.
“Plus my father’s sudden death, and then the stepfathers. One day they’re there, and the next day they’re gone. Believe me, it’s all taken its toll . . . Do you have a shredder? Because I don’t want these photos. I don’t even want them thrown out, lying around the dump.”
I said, “I have a shredder at work. So sure . . .” But without conviction, as I considered telling the truth about the photos—that “disconcerting” did not apply to her mother posing naked. Would she want a photographic record of the true subjects, her departed siblings?
Then I heard “How’s Mrs. Strenger? Still next door? She used to babysit me before she had her own kids.”
I said, “Mrs. Strenger? Is she on my driveway side?”
“Yes, that’s her. She had this amazing red-gold hair. They were newlyweds when they moved in and he worshipped her. Even as a kid, I could see that. She was a knockout, but he was nothing to look at. It’s funny, isn’t it—the way that can happen? They had two boys, who are probably in their fifties now. I babysat for them. I forget their names, but neither one got the mother’s hair color. I wonder if they’re on Facebook?”
What does one say besides “Thank you for calling back. I’ll take care of everything.”
Was there a name for this detached conversational hopscotching? Next time I saw Everton’s school psychologist in the lunchroom, I’d ask.
21
Team Turpentine
“RH FACTOR?” MY MOTHER REPEATED. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re not a doctor!”
“No, I meant I should’ve thought of that because my blood is Rh negative! They gave me a shot during the pregnancies and then another after I gave birth. It’s no big deal now, but in the old days . . . well, never mind. You were never in danger. The good news, in its own horrible way, is that we know for sure that your house wasn’t a crime scene.”
Knocking against each other in my increasingly inefficient brain were these thoughts: A. Why hadn’t this occurred to her earlier? And B. If it weren’t for medical science, I’d be dead, too.
“Of course,” she added. “It still doesn’t answer the question why someone took pictures of those poor babies.”
I said, “I’m at work, Ma. I can’t really think straight now.”