The Photographer, Mary Carter [the best novels to read .TXT] 📗

I sat down next to him on the sofa, analyzing the various ways in which I might be able to neutralize the situation.

I took his hand in mine and closed my eyes. “I do have a son.” Tears spilled down my face. “His father took him to California when he was six months old, and I haven’t seen him since.” My whole body shook with heaving sobs. “I don’t know if he’s safe. I don’t know if my little boy is OK. When I met Jasper at his birthday party, he looked like I imagined my son might look. It was comforting to me, just to tell myself that someone was looking after him.” I folded onto Ian’s shoulder. He pushed me back and stood up.

“Get away. Get away from me.” In a moment he was out the door.

May 18: six days left.

Natalie arrived at my apartment in blue jeans and a thin almost transparent T-shirt that highlighted her skinniness. It said Normal people scare me. It was an indication of low self-esteem. She wore high-heeled wedge sandals. It was essentially the same outfit she’d worn the previous day and the day before that. She was pushing the envelope in her sophistication and maturity and had turned up the volume abruptly. But her personality was still vulnerable.

I consciously chose not to discuss my potential pregnancy, unless Natalie brought it up—though not a minute passed that I wasn’t thinking about it, analyzing every physical sensation in my body, every twinge, every cramp, hoping for clues. I’d been having little conversations with the baby, alone in my apartment, and I believed the baby heard me.

Natalie pulled her Sony out of the camera bag. She turned it over, setting and resetting the dials. “In seventh grade, photography’s one of the electives at my school.”

I detected a hint of enthusiasm, which was unusual for her these days.

“I’ll definitely take photography when I’m in seventh grade.”

“What kind of photography subjects interest you the most?”

“People.”

In the background, we could hear the peaceful hum of the dryer. I’d never had laundry in my own apartment before.

“There are all the pictures where someone says ‘smile’ and everyone smiles,” Natalie said. “But I want to take pictures of people acting like they really act. When they’re sad or angry or scared. Sometimes I look at my mom and I want to take a picture of what she looks like when she’s not performing. She’s performing most of the time.”

Natalie was looking to unmask. It was dangerous to take a photo of someone without their permission, with the intention of catching them unaware and exposing something inside them that they never intended to show to the public. Natalie didn’t seem to care.

Later that day I received a text from Ian: Tell Amelia and Fritz the truth.

I wrote back: give me time.

May 24: The implantation failed as a result of poor embryo quality. When I learned the news, I felt a heavy weight bearing down on top of me, almost as though I might have trouble staying aboveground. It was Amelia’s failure. Not mine. It had nothing to do with my uterus. I was angry with Amelia. But, even so, I worried that she would find a way to blame me.

So I was surprised at her reaction to the news. “Delta, darling, please, please, please … Please try again. I know we can do this.” She shone all her light on me.

There was no recrimination. No criticism.

“Of course, Amelia.”

“I love you,” she said.

Even if I’d wanted to, there would have been no way to resist her entreaty.

I called Ian’s mother that evening. We had spoken a few times since she’d moved to Florida. She said the recovery from her hip surgery was slow and painful.

“I’m just pathetic, Delta.” Paula laughed. “I still can’t drive, not even to the grocery store.”

“Tell Ian you need him there to help you.” I waited for a response. “Paula?”

She sighed. “OK. OK, fine.”

“If you were to fall and no one was with you, Ian would never forgive himself.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I gathered that a second IVF cycle was going to be a financial strain for the Straubs, but they didn’t hesitate. We scheduled another embryo transfer for mid-July.

The eight weeks passed as if in slow motion, as did the ten-day wait after IVF.

I didn’t talk to the baby this time.

On Day 10, I was pregnant. I belonged to the Straubs. We belonged to one another. If the pregnancy were successful, I saw a joyous future with all of us, Amelia, Fritz, Natalie, and me, raising the child together.

In one single bound, I had catapulted myself into another life, another social stratum. I had power now. I was carrying a baby in my womb, living in the home of artists, in a rarefied neighborhood, and it followed that I had status myself.

I walked to the grocery store nearby, and looked around at the customers and the people who worked there. I practiced looking down on these people and speaking to them with a tone of superiority. I purchased groceries and asked that they be delivered, saying my address loudly and repeating it, so everyone around me could hear where I lived. I walked into a café. The barista did not make my drink correctly. I had the right to complain. My voice mattered. My pregnant body demanded respect.

Some people live their whole life just waiting for the moment when they have the power to scorn others, as opposed to being the object of scorn themselves. Now I could assert my superiority with confidence, knowing that I belonged to a family of means. Fitting in with my clients and their friends had always seemed to be just out of my reach. Now I would seize a place at the table and make sure the rest of the world understood my position.

I was going to partner with Amelia and Fritz as parents. I believed that Amelia was sincere when she talked about my shared participation