Through the open closet door, I could see three shirts hung up, and on top of the dresser, a neatly folded pile of laundry, tilting slightly to the right. The only thing that was slightly messy were two button-down shirts that were laid out on top of the dresser. I couldn’t help but wonder if Clark, like me, had gone through several outfits, trying to find the right one for our date.
I turned away, ready to leave his room. I really didn’t want to be in there any longer. It wasn’t that I felt like I was invading his privacy—it felt like the opposite, like it was invading in on me, showing me a side of Clark that I felt like I shouldn’t be seeing, not yet—or maybe never. I never really wanted to know these things about the guys I’d dated—their fears and insecurities. I didn’t want to know that Clark had spent time worrying and getting ready for our date. And I didn’t want to ask myself why the sight of his neatly folded T-shirts was making me feel something I didn’t even have words to express.
I was almost to the door when something on an end table caught my eye. It was a picture in a small silver frame, showing a little boy, around five or six, sitting on the shoulders of someone who was probably his dad. At first I assumed that it was a picture that belonged to the house, family or friends of the couple in all the pictures downstairs. But as I looked at it for another moment, I realized it was Clark. He looked basically the same, just without the glasses. The man—his dad, I was guessing, based on their resemblance—was looking up at him and smiling, while young Clark, midlaugh, stretched his hands up to the sky like he was trying to touch the stars.
I caught my eyes reflected back to me in the glass and suddenly realized what I was doing. I turned off the light and closed the door firmly behind me as I went. I walked back to the laundry room, tugging at the hem of the shirt, feeling weirdly exposed, even though the sweatpants and T-shirt covered more than my dress had.
“Hey,” Clark said, giving me a quick smile. “Are the clothes okay?”
“Fine,” I said, nodding, wanting to change the subject. I tucked my wet hair behind my ears, wondering why it suddenly felt like I had my armor down. That like this—in his clothes, without my makeup and with my hair sopping wet—Clark could see more of me than I wanted him to. “How’s he been?” I asked as I looked at the dog, who appeared not to have moved since I’d been gone.
“The same,” Clark said, patting his back gently. “I got him to drink a little more but didn’t give him any more of the soup. I didn’t think we should risk it.”
“Probably wise,” I said as I crossed over to sit on the other side of Bertie—and then, just to be safe, moved a few inches farther away. “So no change?” I asked, picking up my phone and pulling up the Internet, ready to go over the dangerous symptoms once again.
“Wait . . . ,” Clark said, starting to reach toward me, but not before I realized that I had actually picked up his phone—and on his screen, I was looking at the last page he’d had open. I blinked as I stared at it. My dad’s official portrait looked back at me from his Wikipedia page. “Sorry,” Clark said, and I could hear the embarrassment in his voice.
I nodded. I knew I should give him his phone back, but I kept looking down at the screen, at my dad’s factual information. I was there, under the personal-life section—Daughter Alexandra Molly Walker, 17. Wife Molly Jane Walker (deceased). “So did you learn anything?” I asked, looking at the photo at the top of the page. It was the one that always seemed to accompany any article about my dad—though I had a feeling it might soon be replaced by the press conference on our front porch. It was a picture of my dad taken five years ago. He was wearing a dark suit, and the president walked next to him. On his other side was Governor Laughlin. You could see me, a few steps behind him, in a black dress, my hair pulled back with a black velvet headband that had made my head feel like it was on the verge of exploding. I’d never worn it again after that day. The picture had been taken by the press that were waiting on the steps of the church after my mother’s funeral, and it had made the front page of the New York Times above the fold the next day. It was hailed by pundits and journalists as a seminal moment, a return to decency, people reaching across the aisle even in the middle of a campaign, putting aside differences in times of crisis, etcetera. It was seen by almost everyone as a symbol. And almost nobody who talked about the picture mentioned my mother, except in passing, like her funeral was just the setting for this larger, more important moment.