Love, Hate and Other Filters(45)
In autumn, the street is ablaze in the reds and oranges of the leaves. When I was a kid, I would gather the brightest reds of the fallen leaves and tie them with scraps of ribbon into little bouquets for my mom. She would always feign surprise and delight and place the leaves in a vase in the middle of the table. Maybe the delight was genuine? All I know is how happy it made my seven-year-old self. I would add water to the vase to make the leaves last longer. Even knowing that no matter my efforts, the leaves would eventually dry and curl in on themselves.
I wave to Officer Jameson as he steps back in the car after taking a look-see around the property. He’s here to protect us. I clench my jaw, realizing we might actually need the protection. The vandal has our address. He knows where we live. I don’t know if my mom will ever sleep well again. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again, either.
I sigh.
Alone in the house with my mom is the last place I want to be. I fold my hands across my body, grip my twisting stomach, and scan my memory for a moment of reprieve. My mind’s eye comes to rest on Phil and us floating together in the pond under the warm sun and the delicious graze of his fingertips on my skin as he helped me relax in the water.
Inside the house, my mom stands at the kitchen counter. She winces while she stirs her tea, as if holding the spoon pains her. I shrink into myself. In a single afternoon my mom has aged. She seems grayer, her movements older and labored.
She opens her mouth. It takes a few seconds for the words to come out. “It’s too dangerous—”
“The police are outside. We’re safe.”
She talks past me. “It’s too dangerous for you to be far away. You can’t go to New York. You need to stay close to us. It’s decided.”
She betrays no emotion as she says this. She turns her back to me and continues stirring her tea.
Tears flow down my face. My mom sits down at the kitchen table and takes a sip from her cup. I’m a ghost in the room.
I run up the stairs and slam my bedroom door. I don’t even make it to my bed. Instead I collapse to the floor, sobbing for Phil, for New York, for the dead, for everything we’ve lost. And for what I’ve learned: that hope is just a million shards of broken glass.
At a church a few blocks from the site of the bombing, the residents of Springfield create a makeshift memorial. Pictures of those lost, flowers, teddy bears, candles flickering in the quiet night. People stand, some huddled in small groups, others alone, softly crying.
The mayor of Springfield, gray-faced and somber, speaks to the group from the church steps.
Springfield, Illinois, is a small city and a great one. As we mourn, America mourns with us. We will give aid and comfort to those who have been injured and to those who have lost loved ones in this tragedy. We will find our strength in our faith and in one another. We will emerge stronger. We will rebuild. We will dedicate ourselves to the unfinished work of those who have perished here. And through us, through our memories, their spirits will live.
He pauses, clears his throat. God bless Springfield. God bless Illinois. God bless America.
I try to keep my head down at school, but the vandalism at my parents’ office, combined with my friendly police escort, make me an attention magnet. And by attention, I mean openmouthed you’re a freak stares or puppy-dog eyes and shoulder pats. I want to disappear, blend into the throng of students scurrying to class. But you can’t blend in when you’re the only brown kid in a swell of white students.
I can’t remember a single thing from any class. Except that Brian was absent. Suspended. Small blessings. The day ends with me at my locker, sighing heavily as I fill my backpack. When I stand, Phil is beside me. He leans forward, like he wants to whisper something, but my withering glance holds him back. Apparently I have the power to freeze-frame people midstep.
A single kind word from him and I will fall utterly to pieces. What I want is for him to flash me a brilliant smile, to take determined strides toward me and kiss me in front of everyone. What I really want is to do that myself. I block the scene so when we kiss, faces around us blur, a filtered lens diffuses the light, and a smoke machine blows gauzy wisps of gray across the floor. And when we stop, I tell him my parents have changed their minds. I’m going to film school. I’m leaving for New York, and he’s coming with me. Then he draws me close, and we kiss again as “The End” flashes across the screen.
In real life, he turns and walks away.
Violet agrees to join me at my parents’ clinic so I can document the aftermath of the crime. Filming calms me. I said before that my camera is my shield, but when I’m hiding behind it, I’m also in control.
There are a couple police cars in front of the office along with a brown van with white letters reading GLASS DOCTOR parked at the curb. The large plywood board that last night covered the broken window now leans against the brick wall.
I hand Violet my mini-cam. “I’m going to take my good camera. Maybe you can help me get a few establishing shots?”
Violet nods. I wait for her usual comment, something pithy or flirtatious. I mean, the handsome, gum-chewing, Captain America-esque Officer Jameson is just feet away. But nothing. A nod is all I get, then a slight smile that doesn’t find its way to her eyes. Violet rubs my shoulder, then turns, camera in hand, to quietly honor my request.
I raise my good camera to my eye. From a distance, I film my father speaking to the window repairman. He slumps as he talks. The gray hair at his temples seems more prominent.