The Stranger in the Mirror(28)

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 ma?tre 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.