Right Where You Left Me Read online

  I stop myself from examining any more of the pictures, working just hard enough to produce decent prints. Nothing more. I can’t think of Dad, not now. I’m barely hanging on right now. If I’m going to make it through a day of school, I have to push my feelings down, swallow them, hide them deep inside my body. It’s the only way.

  Still, after I finish developing both rolls, I don’t leave. I welcome the darkness—a sudden necessity. Things are too real in the light. Too exposed. I wonder how long I can stay in here. I’m sure I have another roll of film in my locker. Maybe two. Megan would probably write me a pass to skip my next class.

  Megan knocks. “Safe to come in?”

  “Yes,” I holler through the door.

  She enters and turns on the light and evaluates my photos, including some random shots of students around school. A sly one of Josh. She points to one of Isaac and Emma working together.

  “This would be good for the yearbook.” She supervises one extracurricular activity, yearbook. I’m the photo editor for that, too.

  “Yeah.”

  In addition to the winter dance pictures of guys in jackets and girls in dresses, the faces of my friends hang in a straight line. Megan fiddles with a shot of Josh standing next to one of the computers. I’d taken it through the doorway, covertly, seduced by his profile. The sun shone through the single window, as small as a jail cell’s, illuminating him, but the background looked yellow and orange with a streak of red. I’d caught the light in a strange way, almost overexposed, making him clear but the rest of the photo waves of color.

  “He looks like he’s in the middle of a lava lamp,” Megan says.

  “I know,” I say. “I totally messed up the lighting. I thought the sun would look good, but the curtain and walls made it look all distorted. Not what I was going for.”

  She follows the row of pictures and pauses at one of Emma, unclipping it, holding the corners, careful not to smudge.

  I walk over to see which one she removed. Emma in Chinatown.

  Some weekends, Emma and I play tourist, spending the afternoon blending in with the throngs of visitors. To get to Chinatown, with its lanterns strung high over narrow streets, we boarded a busy bus, clinging to handrails and avoiding the crush of bodies. Emma covered my hand with hers. I remember trying to block out the stench of the man standing next to me. He reeked of a combination of cigarettes, malt liquor, and what I assumed was food rotting in his pockets. I didn’t dare look at his face.

  Racing cable cars up and down steep hills, we watched the buildings transition from pale colors to a vibrant red. We didn’t have an exact destination in mind, since we were there to poke around and people-watch. The squeaking brakes preceded a violent lurch as the bus came to a stop. We ducked under a gaggle of tourists and jumped onto the curb, never so grateful for fresh air. I pointed down the street, and we strolled past the bustling markets to our favorite shop. If you ignored the picked-over souvenirs, you’d find some real gems like wooden clogs, velvet beaded slippers, and slim journals with elegant cloth covers. I’d once bought a Lucky Cat figurine for Mom there to bring good fortune to the kitchen.

  Outside, a cluster of parasols hung from the awning. The sun streamed through the fabric and illuminated the patterns of flowers and birds. Camera raised, I took a step back, and the colors filled the frame.

  Megan yanks me out of the memory. “You really have a good eye with portraits. You’re able to capture the moments of emotion that are more complicated, when someone feels conflicted. Look at Emma. She seems happy, but she’s sharing the sidewalk with all of those other people. Her shoulders are hunched. She’s trying to take up as little space as possible, but she’s giving us that big Emma smile.”

  Megan puts down the photo and reaches for another. “This one is amazing, Charlotte. Your portraits are haunting, but this is excellent. Much more abstract. You should be very proud of this.”

  “That was a mistake,” I say with a laugh. “I tripped when I took it.”

  “But look at the angle.”

  I’d meant to shoot the store’s exterior, but instead I shot the sidewalk, captured in a blur, and the scuffed shoes of fellow pedestrians. I take a closer look.

  “I think that’s bird poop.”

  Megan smiles. “I don’t care what it is. They look like they are walking on a cloud. See?” She runs her finger along the bottom. “You can’t tell it’s a hard surface. The legs and feet are clear, but the ground isn’t. Mistake or not, this is exceptional.”

  “It wasn’t intentional. How can that be exceptional?”

  “Experiments and mistakes produce some of the finest work. If I saw this photo anywhere else, I would know you took it. You have a very distinct style. You should show this to Mr. Donoghue. I know you’ve never taken art with him, but I think he’d appreciate your work and would have some helpful insight about colleges.”

  She evaluates the rest of my prints, mostly of the winter dance and a few more of Emma, Isaac, and Josh.

  “I’m glad you’re relying on your friends. No one can go through something like this alone. I know from experience. I saw some terrible stuff when I was in the Peace Corps.” Megan winces as she says this. “Trust me.”

  “You know how you told us at the beginning of the year that it’s never been a more dangerous time to be a journalist?”

  Megan nods, but in the dim light, I can barely see her face.

  “He may not come home,” I say.

  She steps closer, and I see her eyes, hesitant and sad. “I’m not going to lie to you. He may not, but he probably will. Most do. Don’t give up, and don’t forget you’re not alone.”

  She taps one last photo from the dance. A girl and her date wear matching white. The snow queen and king. I remember how they danced like no one else was there. I don’t know either of them, just that they’re shy and smart and inconspicuous. That night, everyone noticed them; everyone paid attention.

  Sometimes the loudest noise comes from a quiet source.

  I think of Josh’s words: a video for a video. I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do, but I know I need to do something. We’re not the FBI, but we’re not helpless. We have brains and computers and determination. And one another.

  Nineteen

  Emma fills the house with warmth. She’s incapable of silence. She laughs easily, even at the most inappropriate times. Mom remarks that Emma’s more like Dad than me, and even though I wish it weren’t true, it is.

  Even with Emma here, our apartment feels gloomy and freezing. I open all of the curtains and turn up the heat, anything to bring in light and warmth. Ever since Dad was classified as officially missing, I feel like the fog follows me home, permeating the apartment with darkness, thick and cold.

  We camp in my room, pulling blankets onto the floor to create a nest. Emma examines the additions to the collaged wall, and I tell her vacation stories. We both marvel at how Mom is a different person with Dad around, evident in the photos. She looks younger and more carefree. Almost happy.

  I show Emma my desk drawer full of canisters of film. I’d have to spend three days straight in the darkroom to develop all of them. I explain how I’ll bring in a few canisters a week to get them all developed before graduation.

  Emma stands and taps a photo I took of my parents in Italy. “Why do you think your dad’s gone so much, you know, if it’s hard on your mom?”

  It’s hard on me, too, but I don’t say this. It’s a selfish thought not meant to be spoken out loud. “Don’t know. After I was born, he changed beats and didn’t travel. He covered the city council, and Uncle Miguel jokes that he’s never seen my dad more miserable. He used to pace during the meetings because he was so bored. He switched back to international stories when I was old enough for preschool.”

  “I always wondered about that,” Emma says.

  “My mom calls him restless.” I stop and look at Emma. She smiles, waiting for me to continue. It’s hard, though, putting this into words. I h
ear the worry in my voice when I finally speak. “I wonder if he’ll want to keep traveling if he comes home. Do you think we can get him to stay?”

  Emma returns to the bundle of blankets on the floor and puts both hands on my shoulders. “When, Charlotte. Not if.”

  “Okay,” I say, and give her the latest update about Raj Singh’s evasive answers to our very direct questions, and then his forceful threat to take away our passports. Emma and I conclude that he’s in over his head. A little patronizing. Undoubtedly unqualified.

  Emma grabs my laptop and looks him up. “Holy crap, you didn’t tell me he’s gorgeous. Look at him.”

  “I’ve seen him enough, thanks,” I say.

  Emma laughs. “Well, I haven’t.”

  She pulls up his bio from some conference last year and reads it out loud. Originally from DC, college at Yale, and a master’s from Stanford. On one of those resume websites, we confirm that I was absolutely correct: This is his first job out of school. He’s been at the FBI for only a year. He’s a jock. In his free time, he enjoys travel and skiing. He rows. He plays soccer. On paper, he is worldly and smart. He is young, Megan’s age, but inexperienced. He should join his fraternity brothers and do something else, something that doesn’t involve hostage negotiations and communicating with major newspapers. Maybe he should go to law school or work on Wall Street. Make some money off that Ivy League education. He should leave the serious work of rescuing my father to the adults.

  Emma finds a photo of him at a bar in Palo Alto, where he was crowned the winner of trivia night. Raj, obviously drunk, grins at the camera as a blond girl kisses his cheek.

  “Why’d you get a rookie?” she asks. “Doesn’t make sense. Everyone pays attention to a missing reporter.”

  “Yeah, for a couple of days,” I say. “Dad won’t be in the news next week unless another video is released.”

  Emma nods and keeps surfing. I want to tell her about my conversation with Josh, but I haven’t decided what to do—about the video or anything else. I’m beginning to think it’s our best option. Maybe our only one.

  “His dad worked for the State Department,” Emma says, pointing to a picture of a young Raj with his family. “His mom’s a professor at Georgetown. His dad probably got him the job.”

  “Excellent. Nepotism and no experience. Can’t wait to tell Uncle Miguel.”

  “If anybody is going to find him, it’s Miguel. Put a reporter on it—not the government,” Emma says.

  “You sound like Josh,” I say.

  Emma slides the computer off her lap and stretches. “You’re going to think I’m mean for saying this because you like him so much, and because he’s finally decided to pay attention to you, but I don’t think you should go out with him.”

  I roll my eyes. This again.

  “He’s been suspended twice,” she says. “Not detention. Suspended. He got arrested once at Critical Mass. I know for a fact that he’s barely passing chem. His scores are almost as bad as mine. How is he going to get into college? Did he even apply?”

  “God, Emma, you sound like my mom would sound if she were a normal mom.”

  “You’re too good for him. You’re going to go to school and become a photojournalist for a big magazine or paper or something. What’s he going to be doing—delivering packages on his bike? I don’t get why everyone thinks he’s so great. I really don’t. I know why you like him. He’s hot. Really hot. And, okay, so his films are kinda cool. It’s not like he’s a genius, though. You’ve got to admit that. You deserve someone better. Being hot isn’t enough. He’ll probably end up in federal prison.”

  “You’re a snob, Emma Archer. And harsh. And wrong. I still love you, but you can’t go around calling him an arrogant creep when you’re being elitist yourself.”

  I’m mad. Not super mad, but mad. She can tell, but she pretends she can’t. That’s Emma. So I’m not surprised when she laughs. “Yes, I am. And I’m your best friend. And he’s always been kind of a jerk. Like he’s better than us.”

  I tap her foot with my own. “You don’t like him because he’s not one of us and he doesn’t want to be. And there’s nothing wrong with bike messengers.”

  “Except they get hit by cars and don’t look like they shower regularly. All I’m saying is we’re about to find out where we’re going to school, and now’s the time to care about our futures.”

  Over the last few years, I’ve itemized Josh’s many, many good qualities. I’m not the only girl in school who likes him—I pay close attention in the cafeteria. If I haven’t convinced Emma by now, I doubt I can. She knew I liked Josh when she suggested I go out with Kyle, who was a distraction, someone meant to make me forget about Josh. Not that it worked.

  “Josh is getting an A in English,” I say, and leave it that. I’m not going to debate Emma. She’s relentless and caffeinated. I won’t win, and it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’s going to change my mind about him.

  She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight. Sometimes she feels more like family than anyone else.

  After a few quiet moments, Emma says, “I’m worried about colleges. Really worried. My math and science grades are totally mediocre, and my SAT scores are crap. I don’t want to go someplace without you, but how the hell am I going to get into Berkeley and NYU? I’ll be lucky if I get into my backup schools.”

  It seems inconceivable for Emma not to get in. She earns practically perfect grades in English, history, and any class that requires writing papers. She does more extracurriculars than anyone else. Her family even volunteers on Thanksgiving, serving meals to the homeless. And, unlike mine, her family can afford to send her wherever she wants to go. Grad school, too.

  “I don’t think you need to worry. We’re just stuck in this in-between place,” I say. “It’s going to be torture until we know what’s next.”

  “I’m worried about you, too,” she says. “Your entire life is in-between right now.”

  “I know,” I say, closing my eyes a second to contain my tears. “I think things might be changing with my mom, though. She’s talking to me more. That’s good.”

  Emma says, “That’s really good. I found a book on my mom’s desk called Supporting Your Child’s Destiny: Nurturing Growth While Letting Go. I read most of it last weekend.”

  “What life lessons did you learn?”

  “She highlighted about half the book. Random stuff. But she wrote notes in the margins, and they’re all about me. This book was filled with questions: Is your child a risk taker? An introvert? What motivates your child? Stuff like that.”

  “What’d she write?”

  “She circled things on the lists, like most of the outgoing traits and then half of the introverted traits with notes about how I couldn’t be boxed into just one category. The weird thing was how much she got right.”

  “Are you going to tell her that you looked at it?” I ask.

  “No. She’s talking like the book now, though. She’s asking me more questions about what I want, and she’s being supportive. She said that we all end up at the right place even if it doesn’t seem so at the beginning.”

  We rest quietly for a while, and I assume Emma’s mind is just as full as mine with the images of near and distant cities and how, even alone, we would navigate them.

  I don’t allow myself to think of a future without Dad. He’ll come home, and as a family, we’ll drive to my new school, the car filled with boxes. He’ll haul them up the stairs into my dorm room, which I’ll share with Emma. We’ll unpack and decorate. Whenever I call home, Dad will be the one who answers. Eventually, his voice will sound common again, something I love but take for granted. The voice of someone who is always there.

  Emma hugs me again. “We’ll be okay. My mom and her book say so.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  It will have to be.

  Twenty

  It takes five steps to develop a photograph in the darkroom. Four of those steps require dar
kness. Sometimes when I wash the print, the last step, I leave the lights off, using my hands instead of my eyes, feeling my way through the dark.

  I slept only a couple of hours last night. And then only in the nest I’d made with Emma. After another dream about Dad covered in bruises, I crawled out of bed onto the floor, wrapping myself up in the pile of blankets. I woke up with the image of Dad in the video more vivid in my mind than those now emerging on the photo paper. I rinse and hang, rinse and hang.

  I need to develop those rolls of film, and given how the darkroom is one of the few places where I feel calm, I decided to come in early today to start.

  Now I wish I hadn’t.

  When Tatya Nadine moved out of the flat upstairs and into her Pacifica condo, she left a horde of old furniture in the basement, desks and headboards, and boxes of books. She granted me permission to take a vanity table and chair into the backyard, where, bored during summer break when Dad was on some trip and Mom in one of her quiet spells, I decided to take a self-portrait. Well, really a portrait with Lena. Nothing’s more morbid than taking a picture of photos of your now-dead sister.

  I sat in the chair facing what was supposed to be my reflection. Instead, I’d scanned and blown up a picture of Lena, one where she most resembled me. Russians believe the soul leaves the body and enters the mirror, creating a reflection. I wanted to capture my connection to Lena, how our souls are intertwined and how I couldn’t look at my reflection without seeing her. Or, really, how I believe that Mom probably wishes I were Lena. That Lena had lived. That she never had to have me, her replacement who nearly killed her.