Lies We Bury by Elle Marr
For Caden, who took my world from grayscale to color
Unexpressed emotions will never die.
They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.
—Sigmund Freud
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream
One
Secrets never stay buried for long. Photography won’t allow it, for one thing. The shutter of a camera captures moments that would have otherwise gone unseen—like that photo of a lone Jewish woman staving off the Israeli Army before they nearly trample her. Or that shot of a man jumping, falling, from the World Trade Center. If a camera snaps long enough and in the right location, anything can be unearthed, documented, and preserved for all time.
In my case, I needed only seven years before I came to light. Images of me trembling in a torn blanket and too-small shoes were plastered across newspapers, then the internet—hair washed but matted because I had just woken up, eyes wild like the feral animals so many compared us to in the headlines afterward. I had been born in captivity, unbeknownst to our neighbors who, in interviews, said we had the nicest lawn on the street.
Secrets have a way of breaking free. But when they do, their shame lingers—like the smell of rotten meat sauce. Even some twenty years later.
I brush back a strand of hair that’s come loose from my messy bun. Green pine trees in the distance sway against the rolling breeze, creating a natural horizon between Portland’s city blocks and the suburbs over the hill. The trees were the first thing I noticed upon moving here two weeks ago from the flat, dry desert of southern Oregon.
“Claire?” A woman with short, tight curls stands at the double doors of a white brick building, the Portland Post. “Are you Claire Lou?”
I step forward as though I’ve always answered to this name. Cross my fingers that—this time—my secrets might last a while. “Yes, hi.” Claire is my middle name, and I changed my last name to my grandmother’s maiden name when I was eighteen.
Self-inflicted cigarette burns—failed adolescent attempts at exerting control—peek from beneath my pushed-up sleeve. I tuck my inner elbow into my left side to avoid the woman’s notice.
She shakes my hand. Red lipstick amplifies the lines framing her mouth. “Thanks so much for your quick help, Claire. Our regular photog is out on PTO this weekend, and no one bothered to set up coverage for him. I’m Pauline, editor in chief. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
She ushers me past an empty lobby and through another door. Desks with stout cubicles occupy the floor, while two offices and a stairwell line the back wall. Pauline heads into one of the offices. She slides behind a plain beige laminate desk, then motions to the cushioned folding chairs in front.
“I’ll cut to the chase. We’re swamped with local events coming up, and you’ve got an eye for wide shots. The work you did at Firenze Winery in Newberg was good. Think you can manage this list at the Rose City Parade tomorrow morning?” She hands me a sheet of paper.
I nod, reviewing the shots they’re looking for. Pauline expands on what journalistic style the editorial team prefers as a cramp forms in my stomach.
Landing a gig with the Portland Post is a jackpot; I know it. But I’d immediately gotten cold feet after answering their job listing for photographers on a major freelancer website. Pauline must have been desperate, because she emailed me an hour later, ignoring the glaring lack of live-event coverage in my portfolio. A voice inside me insisted that I wasn’t good enough, that I would disappoint this industry professional and burn a potential bridge—but for once I let optimism take over. If I could get in good with a news outlet like the Portland Post and work up a steady income, I might be able to stop sneaking into Costco to fill up on samples with the expired membership card I found behind my apartment.
Pauline leans back and places her hands flat on the desk. Money details are up next; I always recognize when someone is about to stiff me. “Given your limited experience with this kind of event, I’d be willing to offer you a dollar per photo, however many we decide to buy from you. Does that work?”
“I . . . my usual freelance sessions are significantly—”
Pauline clasps her hands together. “That’s the best we can do right now. And I had several photographers respond to my ad. If you want to think about it, I can schedule other appointments—”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll take it.” I plaster a tight smile on my face, then fold up the shot list. A dollar per is so much less than I was hoping for, especially given the scowl that the property manager lobbed at me when I was leaving the apartment complex today. He’s been trying to get the last $200 of my security deposit. I promised I would pony up after I borrowed money from my sister—unbeknownst to Jenessa. We have a coffee date after this meeting, but she thinks it’s to catch up, since we haven’t seen each other in years.
Pauline walks me to the front door. On the way out, we pass a dusty bowl of fruit, and I pocket an orange out of pure habit. Heat flushes my neck as a man looks up from a nearby cubicle; his brow scrunches. I hurry to exit the building before anything else goes wrong, like Pauline offering me less money or this guy recognizing me—if anyone would, it would be a reporter.