The stranger in the mirr.., p.9
The Stranger in the Mirror, page 9
“Okay,” Gigi says, “let’s get cooking. We’re having breakfast for dinner.”
Gigi mixes up the pancake batter while Ed lines the bacon up in a baking pan, and I crack the eggs into a large glass bowl. I love how Ed always pitches in, even when he’s been on the road for a long stretch. Gigi’s a terrific cook, and he acts as sous chef/comedian/practical joker. She pretends to get annoyed when he’s too rambunctious, but I think she secretly loves it. I set the table while Ed and Gigi stand at the stove together, talking and giggling like kids, and I wonder if the time will ever come when I’m that lighthearted. Theirs is the kind of marriage I so want to have, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to be that kind of partner for Gabriel.
“Bacon’s done,” Ed says. “I’ll do the eggs now.” He pours them into the frying pan and grabs a wooden spoon from the utensil holder.
Gigi hands me the dish with bacon to take to the table. As she brings over the pancakes, Ed’s phone rings.
“I’ll get this in the other room,” he says, looking at the number. “You want to take over, sweetie?” He tosses the wooden spoon to Gigi before he turns to go.
It’s like the spoon is moving through the air in slow motion. I scream, cowering, and put my hands up to protect my face and head. I see a man in my mind. His eyes are narrowed, his cheeks a fiery red. He’s yelling, his face contorted in rage, just inches from mine, his black eyes blazing as he bangs the spoon on my head over and over and screams, You stupid bitch! How many times do I have to tell you I don’t like runny eggs? Why can’t you get that through your thick head? I don’t know why I don’t just kill you.
“Addison!” Gigi shouts, and I feel her hands on my shoulders, shaking me. “What is it?”
I look at her, and for a moment I don’t know where I am. “I . . . uh.” I drop onto a chair, still seeing that face in my mind. Who is that man?
“Honey?” Gigi pulls a chair out and sits next to me. “What happened? Did you remember something?”
“Oh, Gigi, I’m so scared.”
“It’s going to be okay,” she says, trying to comfort me.
It’s never going to be okay, I think, and look down at my wrists. Is this man the reason I tried to kill myself?
− 23 −
Addison
The closer the exhibition at the gallery gets, the more apprehensive I feel. The photographs I’ve chosen tell the story of where my life has been for the last two years, ever since I came to Philadelphia. The more I explored the city, the more I came to love the grand old buildings and beautiful green spaces. One night, as I strolled through Fairmount Park, I looked up to see the Strawberry Mansion Bridge in the distance, colorfully lit up, its lights shimmering on the waters of the Schuylkill River. It took my breath away, and all I could think of was how I wished I had my camera with me. The very next night I set up my tripod and with my wide-angle lens began my nighttime odyssey, over the next month moving on to other bridges that span the Delaware River as well. I titled the exhibition Journey into Light because crossing a bridge is a journey from one shore to another, and if you’re traveling in the dark, you can’t know where you are going or what is on the other side, but the lights—the lights are what keep you safe and show you the way. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the bridges are a metaphor for my life—traveling from an old shore to a new one. One day, I hope, I’ll remember how to make the return trip.
I recently read an article about the great photographer Dorothea Lange that described so perfectly what I want people to see when they look at my photographs. The camera is an instrument, she said, that teaches people how to see without one.
Gabriel and I have made plans to meet for lunch at the country club, and I arrive first. The maître d’ seats me at a table by the window, overlooking the golf course. I order an iced tea and look around the room. The dining room is almost full, and there’s a loud buzz of conversation. When I see Gabriel coming toward me, the familiar fluttering in my stomach reminds me of how attracted I am to him. He smiles as he passes family friends and neighbors at other tables, the epitome of charm and good manners. When he approaches our table, his lips widen in the smile reserved only for me. Leaning over, he gives me a peck on the lips.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he says.
“Hello yourself,” I tease.
The waiter takes Gabriel’s drink order, and he leans back in his chair and sighs. “Busy morning. I was barely able to get away. How’s your day off been?”
“Productive. I finished my last piece for the show . . . but I actually wanted to talk to you about that.”
The space between his brows creases as he waits for me to continue.
“I’m not sure about the show, Gabe. All these people looking at my work, judging me. And putting a price tag on my work feels odd. I should have thought it through before I agreed to do it.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “Babe, I get it. But most artists I’ve worked with feel that way before their first show. Even the ones who were dying for a show get the jitters beforehand. It’s natural.”
I shift in my seat, anxious to get all my thoughts out. “It’s not just the jitters. I never wanted a show. I mean, I was perfectly happy just having my photos hanging in the shop. I don’t need to sell them.”
“Addy, I know that. But art is meant to be shared. You have an amazing talent—a unique eye. Don’t you want others to be able to enjoy that?”
I feel myself getting annoyed. It’s not like I’m withholding the cure to a disease. “Are you saying I have an obligation to share my work? Those photos are a part of me. Maybe I don’t want to trade them for money.”
He puts his hands up. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s easy for me to sit here and tell you what to do when I’m not the one putting a piece of myself out there. All I’m saying is that having cold feet is normal, and I’d hate for you to lose the opportunity to share your work because you’re afraid.”
I think about that for a moment. Maybe he’s right, and this is just jitters. “It might just be fear. I don’t know.” An idea comes to me. “What if I donate part of my sales to the homeless shelter on Prince Street?”
His face lights up. “That’s a great idea. I’ll talk to Mom and Dad and see if they’ll donate part of the gallery’s commission as well.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that. The gallery has costs—this is just something I want to do for me.”
Suddenly a shriek pierces the room, and I startle. I turn to see a little girl trying to pull a stuffed animal from another child’s arms, yelling “Give it back!” Her mother jumps from her chair and takes them both by the hand and leads them out of the room. My heart begins to race, and I feel like I can’t get a deep breath. A little girl with dark curls flashes in my mind. She’s holding her arms out and asking for her stuffed Ellie. Who is she? A sense of despair overcomes me—a feeling of longing and loss. I try to remember, thinking, thinking, but her face fades and she’s gone.
“Addison, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”
I take a large gulp of water. “Fine. I’m just hungry,” I sidestep, unsuccessfully trying to retrieve the girl’s face. “Haven’t eaten all day.”
For the first time, I feel sure that I’ve left people I love behind. I have to find out who I am. Florida is the only real clue I have. I’m going to have to go there myself and see what I can turn up. Even if the bar where I supposedly worked is gone, if I lived there once, there must be other people who know me. I would have had an address somewhere, gone to school, eaten in restaurants, had friends.
When I was first examined, the doctor told me that there was no evidence that I’d ever been pregnant or given birth, so I never worried that I’d left a child. But now I wonder. Am I remembering someone? Maybe I adopted or had a foster child or stepdaughter. Either way, I need to know.
An idea starts coming together in my mind: I’ll do the show next week as planned, and leave for Florida the next morning. I look across the table at my sweet Gabriel. Should I tell him what I’m thinking? A little voice warns me to wait.
− 24 −
Julian
The flight from Boston to Philadelphia had given Julian ample time to go over his notes for the next day’s symposium, and he grabbed a taxi outside the airport and directed the driver to the Warwick Hotel in Rittenhouse Square. It was a sunny October day, and not as chilly as it had been at home. Good weather for strolling around, and from the hotel he’d be able to walk the mile and a half to the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Barnes, the reason he’d chosen the Warwick in the first place. That and the fact that he never stayed at the conference venue. It was one thing to spend his daytime hours with so many humorless and puffed-up colleagues, but quite another to subject himself to their pontifications over a scotch and soda in the evenings. No. If he hadn’t had a paper to present, he wouldn’t have come at all. He hated leaving his daughter with the nanny overnight. When Valentina cried and asked him to promise he was coming back, it had broken his heart.
He had a panel that evening, and his talk was scheduled for the next morning. As soon as he finished the talk, he would fly back home. In the meantime he checked in, deposited his overnight bag and briefcase in the room, and walked along the boulevard to the museum. As he neared the entrance, with its classical Greek columns, his mind went to the visits they used to make to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. He could still hear his daughter’s oohs as she looked up in awe at the imposing building, and then the excitement in her voice as she said “Mommy, look at the big baby heads!” when they showed her the huge sculptures. Julian’s favorites were the old masters, but Cassandra was always drawn to the photographs in the Ritts Gallery. She especially loved the work of Alfred Stieglitz and would stand transfixed before his photos, studying the nuances of light and form.
Julian sighed, feeling the familiar wave of melancholy as he climbed the flights of stairs leading to the Impressionism Gallery. As he stood before one painting after another, all of them slightly out of focus, an indistinct image of the real thing, almost dreamlike, he realized that they were exactly what his life had felt like for the last two years. He sat on one of the long, padded benches in the gallery and let himself feel the genius and pain of the artists surrounding him. Claude Monet, whose wife died tragically young at the age of thirty-two. Edgar Degas, blind and destitute at the end of his life. Sometimes it helped Julian to remember that he was not the only one who’d experienced suffering and heartbreak. They were, after all, hallmarks of the human condition.
Pulling back his coat cuff, Julian checked his watch. He should head back to the hotel for his briefcase if he was going to get to the panel on time. He put his hands on his knees and looked around for another minute before rising and exiting the gallery. As he walked outside, he buttoned his coat and quickened his gait. The wind had picked up. When he reached the curb, he waited for the Walk sign to appear. A young woman approached him and held out a flyer. He shook his head and waved her away, but she smiled and said, “I saw you come out of the museum. Tomorrow is First Friday in the Old City. All new exhibits.” Julian took the paper just to be polite, but after she’d walked away, he crumpled it up and put it in his pocket. He’d throw it away when he got back to the hotel. Julian hated litterbugs.
The title of his panel was Pediatrics and the Well-Developed Child, and Julian had been flattered to be included. Dr. Graham Parker, a brilliant researcher in the field, was the moderator, and the four other panelists were equally respected. The panel itself went well and lasted only fifty minutes, but the Q&A afterward drew it out for another forty minutes, and Julian was getting antsy. All he wanted to do was get back to the hotel and relax before tomorrow’s session. As they filed out of the room, Graham put a hand on his back. “How about a drink at the bar? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
“I have plans tonight,” Julian told him. “Heading over to Old City to check some of the local galleries,” he elaborated, thinking of the flyer in his pocket.
Graham’s face broke into a smile. “That sounds interesting. Mind if I join you?”
Great, Julian thought. He would rather have gone back to his room, and if he really planned to visit the galleries, he’d prefer to do it on his own, but what could he say without sounding like a jerk? “Not at all,” he said.
Julian was pleasantly surprised at the depth of Graham’s knowledge and appreciation of art as they talked companionably, walking from one gallery to the next. After about an hour and a half, though, the events of the day began to catch up with him, and he felt his energy flagging. His stomach, too, was reminding him that he had skipped dinner. “I think it’s time for me to call it a night,” he said to Graham, and they said good night and headed in opposite directions.
Most of the galleries along Second Street were dark as Julian walked past. There were posters in many of the gallery windows advertising the exhibits that would be opening the next day for First Friday. Toward the end of the block and across the street, he saw a large poster hanging in the window of one of the galleries, with a photograph of a woman. He did a double take, squinting to bring it into focus. Finally he crossed the street to get a closer look. As he moved nearer to the window, his heart beat so fast it felt like it would break through his ribs and explode. It couldn’t be, could it? He put his palms against the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. His mouth dropped open. It was her. He had found Cassandra.
Julian fixed his eyes on the poster. The Oliver Gallery. How had she wound up in Philadelphia? he wondered. Had she been here the whole time? What had she been doing? There was no question, however, that the face on the poster was Cassandra’s. Finally the nightmare was over. He’d bring her back where she belonged, and everything would be all right again. He pressed his hand against the glass and stood still, as if letting her know that he was there. And that he would finally take her home.
− 25 −
Addison
After we finish hanging the photographs at the gallery, Gabriel, Hailey, and I sit on the floor, eating cold pizza from Pizzeria Beddia. It’s after midnight, and we’ve been working here four hours. When Gabriel first brought up the idea of the exhibition, I had no idea of all that would be involved. But he and Hailey have worked patiently with me for the last month, choosing the photos, determining the size of each one and whether to frame it.
Gabriel pulls his sweater off and drops it on the floor next to him. “Hot,” he says, and runs a hand through his wavy hair. We’ve kept the door to this exhibit room closed so the light won’t shine into the front of the gallery, which closed at eight.
“Cold pizza and warm ginger ale. That should cool you off,” Hailey says, taking a bite of a limp-looking slice, and we all laugh.
I look at both of them and feel such a rush of gratitude and love that it chokes me. “I can never thank you guys enough for all your help.”
“Of course.” Hailey squeezes my shoulder. “We’re family.”
I look at her—this fresh-faced woman who will soon be my sister-in-law—and think how much like her brother she is. She’s welcomed me without reservation, and I can relax with her in a way that feels so easy and natural. A few months ago we started a new tradition—a girls’ night every Thursday. She introduces me to a different restaurant each week so we can discover what I like. We’ve done Thai, Indian, Chinese, Italian, Greek, Mexican, French, Spanish. I’ve discovered that I actually enjoy all different kinds of cuisine, but my current favorite is Thai, with Indian a close second. Hailey makes it fun to try and figure out my predilections, and never makes me feel odd in any way. She’s one of those people with the rare ability to bring out the best in people, and even though I have missing parts, she makes me feel whole.
We’ve almost finished the drooping pizza when Blythe and Ted come in with two large cartons.
“Wine delivery,” Ted calls out, and Gabriel jumps to his feet and takes the box from his mother.
“This is great. Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. This is the white. Why don’t you take it back to the refrigerator?”
“I’ll put the other one here.” Ted places it on the floor and looks around. “How’s it going? All finished yet?”
“Come on, take a look,” Gabriel says to his dad, and Hailey and I both get up to follow them.
We stand there, the five of us, at the back of the small room and look without speaking. I know Gabriel and Hailey are looking at the exhibit with pride. They’ve both had such a big hand in it from beginning to end that I know it feels like it’s their exhibit too, and I’m glad for that. I’m not quite sure about Ted. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t rush to judgment but takes his time, careful not to jump to conclusions. If he doesn’t know what to make of me yet, I think he is giving me the benefit of the doubt unless I prove him wrong. The outlier is Blythe, of course. She has actually pitched in to help with the exhibit, but without the gusto of the rest of the family. There’s always a little bit she withholds.
“It looks amazing,” Gabriel says, coming to put his arm around me.
Blythe nods. “The photographs are beautiful, Addison. I’ve seen these bridges for years, but your camera has turned them into a thing of wonder. Thank you for trusting us with your work.”
I feel a rush of gratitude. Her approval means more to me than I care to admit. Dare I believe that she’s come a little bit closer to accepting me?
“Thank you, Blythe. It’s really something to see them displayed like this. It’s more than I ever dreamed of.”
“I have a feeling that after tonight your name is going to be spoken of in a lot of art circles,” Gabriel says with a huge smile.
For some reason the thought makes me nervous. I’m comfortable in the small little world I’ve created. I think about the ticket I’ve booked to Florida. Who knows what might happen if that world opens up too wide?
