Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac(45)

And yet, I wondered…

If I had forgiven Dad for lying to me about Rosa Rivera, why couldn’t I seem to do even half that for Mom?

When it came down to it, I didn’t even know why I was in a fight with Mom. I knew the reasons, yes, but the fight itself was just a story I had been told.

I was thinking about calling Mom again when Dad came home.

He turned on the television and started watching a program about the meerkat. “The meerkat,” said the narrator, “is one of the few mammals other than humans to teach their young. Watch the adult parent show its child how to remove the venomous stinger from the scorpion before eating it.”

“Sweet, right?” Dad said.

“What are you planning to teach me?” I asked Dad.

An ad came on and Dad pressed mute on the television. “Unfortunately, your old man is pretty unskilled. I know a bit about cooking and travel. And a very little bit about writing and animals, but other than that, you’d be better off with a meerkat for a pop, I suspect.”

We watched three more nature programs in a row—one on pandas (cute to look at, but basically jerks), one on eagles, and another on bobcats. The one we were currently watching was called Top Ten Smelliest Animals, which was pretty much Dad’s ideal program, combining list-making and nature as it were.

During another ad I asked Dad, “Is this how you spent a lot of time before you met Rosa Rivera?”

He pressed mute again. “Yeah, I was pretty bad there for a while,” he admitted.

I considered this.

“What’s Mom’s husband like?”

Dad nodded and then nodded some more. “He’s in building restoration. Nice guy, I think. Nice-looking. There’re probably better people to sing his praises than me.”

“And Chloe?”

“Smart, she says, but then you were, too. Cass and I, we pretty much thought you were the best little kid in the world, you know? We always said it was a good piece of luck, you getting left in that typewriter case.”

I nodded.

“Will coming by today?” Dad asked.

I shook my head. I hadn’t told Dad about quitting yearbook or our fight.

“You’re not spending as much time with him these days,” Dad said.

“I think we’re growing apart,” I said.

“Happens,” Dad said. “He’s a good egg, though. Takes care of his mom since his father died. Hard worker. Always been a good friend to you.”

“Will’s father died?” I asked. He had never mentioned it.

“Yes, that’s why they moved to Tarrytown. His mother wanted a good school where she could get free tuition for Will by teaching.”

I nodded.

The program came on again and Dad turned up the volume.

Since it was Thanksgiving, I thought about calling Will on the phone and making up with him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Our fight didn’t even have a scab yet, and in my mind he’d said worse things to me than I had to him.

When James got back on Saturday afternoon, he said he had an idea for my photography project. At his dad’s in California, James had noticed all these old cameras. He asked his dad if he could have them, and his dad said sure, because what else was there to do with a bunch of old cameras anyway. They were a pain really—you didn’t want to throw them out because of their perceived value, so they basically ended up taking up space.

“So, it’s supposed to be a personal story, right?” James asked. “My idea is that we go back to those steps at Tom Purdue with my dad’s old cameras and throw them down the steps, simulating your own journey two and a half months ago. In theory, the camera will take the picture either en route or at the point of impact. It’ll be an exercise in point of view. Does that sound like something Weir would like?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“We’re gonna need more cameras, though,” James said.

On Sunday morning we went in search of cheap cameras to throw down the stairs. The first place we went was the local pharmacy, where we bought five disposable cameras of various makes for around ten bucks apiece and fifteen rolls of film. James tried to pay, but I wouldn’t let him. It was my project after all.

We also went to a vintage electronics and repair store in downtown Tarrytown where we found four cameras in a dusty metal trash bin for five bucks apiece. We hoped they would still be functional, but we wouldn’t know until we saw the film.

The owner of the store kept looking at me strangely as I was paying. James had gone outside for a smoke.

“The record player,” he said finally. “You never came for it.”

“What record player?”

“You paid to get one fixed around the beginning of August, but you never came to pick it up.”

The owner ran into the back room and came out with a record player. The base was cherry with a pattern of swirls carved into the side. It was pretty, I guess, though I couldn’t imagine why I’d been getting one repaired. I didn’t have a single record.

My name was taped to the front: NAOMI PORTER.

Clearly, it was mine. I wondered what it was for.

“Use it in good health,” said the storekeeper.

When I got outside, James looked at me curiously. “Impulse buy?” he asked as he helped me put the record player in the backseat of his car.