Shutter

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “My dad. He wants to show me his new place. I guess it’s really happening.”

  “And the ‘it’ in that statement would be…”

  “Permanent separation, imminent divorce.”

  “Well, there’s a sobering thought. Of course, there’s no point in hitting fast-forward. Let the movie of your life play out on its own.”

  “Okay, you’re starting to sound like Tori.”

  “Guilty.” She raises her hand. “I stole that line from her. Scary?”

  “A little.”

  “Okay, but stolen lines aside, maybe your dad and you will have an even better relationship now that he has his own place. That happens, you know. In the book I’m reading, Charlotte and her mother couldn’t even stand to be in the same room together without throwing sharp objects at each other, but after Charlotte moved out, the two were like best friends.”

  “Except my parents and I already were like best friends. Ugh,” I grunt. “I can’t even stand listening to myself anymore. Seriously, how do you do it?”

  “Earplugs,” she jokes.

  “I really wouldn’t blame you.” It feels bratty complaining about my parents’ problems after hearing about Julian’s upbringing.

  Jeannie gazes out at the stretch of lawn in front of the school—all the fallen leaves. “I feel like everything’s changing.”

  “That’s because it is.”

  “Including Josh’s death.”

  I look over at the maple tree, planted in Josh’s memory. It’s about three feet tall now. “Color me confused,” I try to joke. “But last I checked, death was a permanent condition. Curable only by reincarnation.”

  “Okay, so maybe the memory of his death, then. It feels different now that I’m the same age that he was when he died. I can’t stop thinking about that—about how he never got to go to prom, or graduate, or even get his driver’s license, and how I’m getting to do all of the above. In some way, I feel like I’ll be doing those things for both of us now.”

  “Which may seem sad on the surface, but in another way it’s kind of amazing. I mean, if you’re crossing these milestones for the two of you, it’s almost as if he’s still right by your side.”

  “I’d like to do something in his memory,” she says. “Like maybe set up a scholarship or something. Remember how much he loved track? Maybe I could organize a marathon. People could pay to run a certain number of miles, and all proceeds would go to a scholarship fund.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “I just want to do something more meaningful…not that working at the soup kitchen or any of my other volunteer pursuits aren’t. It’s sort of hard to explain.”

  “I get it. It’s like that for me too—with the whole PB&J thing. It’s not that the mission wasn’t needed or worthwhile, it’s just—I don’t know—not what I’m feeling driven by at the moment. I guess when I really think about it, none of my past projects have been about passion. They’ve always been the product of brainstorms I’ve had: causes I thought might impress my parents or help me make my mark. That probably sounds pretty selfish, right?”

  “It actually sounds pretty deep.”

  “And my name isn’t even Bojo,” I joke.

  “You and I are so much alike.” She smiles. “While you play superhero to try to impress your parents, I play it to try to get into the Ivy League.”

  “Okay, well, I’m done trying to impress my parents.”

  “And how’s that mentality working for you so far?”

  “Actually”—I smirk—“I’ve never felt more confused in all my life.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

  “It’s just one of the many things we have in common, along with our mutual interest in Max.” I give her a pointed look. “And before you try denying it yet again, I’ve seen the way you light up at the mere mentioning of his name—his first name, anyway.” I laugh. “You’re like my great-grandma’s birthday cake with all ninety-seven candles.”

  “Okay, but you’re the one that Max is crushing on.”

  “Crush-smush. If Max is half the guy I think he is, he’d be an idiot not to see what an amazing person you are.”

  “So does this mean you wouldn’t be terribly upset if I still wanted to go to the party with him on Saturday?”

  “I’d only be upset if you didn’t go because of me.”

  “Well, thanks,” she says, giving me a hug.

  It feels really good to hold her like this and to have this chat—so much so that the thought of visiting my dad at his new bachelor pad almost seems like a fun idea.

  Almost.

  I knock lightly before edging the barn door open. Julian’s sitting in the corner, writing in his journal.

  “Mind a little company?” I ask.

  He flips his notebook shut, and I sit down on the floor beside him. He smells like strawberry soap.

  “Writing anything good?” I glance at his notebook cover, wishing I could read the pages inside.

  “Depends what you consider good.”

  “Something funny or insightful?” The key to breaking this case, perhaps.

  “I mostly like to write about stuff that’s already happened. It helps me understand it more.”

  “I do the same thing—not with writing but with pictures.” I pull my laptop out of my bag and go into my virtual gallery. I show him a bunch of stills I’ve done—of seashells, beach rocks, willow trees, and birds—before revealing my latest album. “I haven’t given the project a title yet, but I have eight pairs of photos so far.” I arrange them on the screen starting with a snapshot of a woman I spotted at the bus stop months ago. She’s wearing a short sequined skirt paired with a white tank and stiletto heels. From the back it looks like she might be a model in the midst of a fashion shoot. But in the next photo, from the front, she’s at least eight months pregnant. “I thought it was interesting.” I shrug. “That moment of surprise…just not what you’re expecting. And this one’s my favorite.” I point to a picture of a father and son holding hands on a walk. It’s a sweet shot on the surface, but a close-up of the boy in the very next photo shows the tears running down his face.

  “These are pretty amazing,” Julian says, pointing to my photos of the beach. One of them depicts a pretty ocean scene. The other shows that same scene but with a wider angle, capturing a trail of strewn trash. “What’s your inspiration?”

  “For as long as I can remember, my parents have taught me to look at life from different angles before forming opinions or making big decisions. And so that’s what I’ve always done. Taken pictures, that is—snapshots of the things that I don’t understand completely in an effort to gain perspective.”

  Julian looks up from the screen. “That actually explains a lot.”

  “Does it?” I ask, staring at the dimple in his chin.

  “You look at me through your camera lens—you’re even using it now—but you don’t pass judgment. You just keep searching for the best angle, going in for close-ups, retreating back to get a broader view, making sure you don’t miss anything.”

  “Am I missing anything now?”

  “Do you think you are?”

  “I’d really like to get to know you better—more about your family, what you write about in that notebook, what you want out of life.”

  “I think that last part is pretty shot, don’t you?”

  “You have to have faith.”

  “Faith that one day I won’t have to run?”

  “Faith that one day your life will be everything you dreamed.”

  “See, that…” He smirks. “That’s the difference with you. You think I have possibilities.”

  “You do,” I tell him. “You still have choices and a long life to live.”

  He smiles, seemingly amused by my optimism. “Maybe I’ve just never been brave enough to dream.”

  “News flash: it doesn’t take bravery to dream.”

  “It does if you know you’ll wind up disappo
inted in the end.”

  I reach out to touch his hand. “Then I guess I’m asking you to be brave.”

  His fingers weave through mine, sending heat all over my skin. He moves our clasped hands against his chest, over his heart. I can feel the rapid beat.

  “I suppose you have more questions to ask.” He lets go of my hand, erecting his invisible wall.

  I take a deck of cards from my pocket. I was going to give it to him for solitaire, but instead I slide the cards out of the box and begin shuffling them. “Do you know how to play gin?”

  “Hell, yeah.” He smiles.

  We spend the next hour or so playing round after round of cards and laughing at stupid jokes. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he were a boy from school, hanging out at my house after a full day of classes.

  But instead I do know better.

  And that’s the hardest part.

  Wednesday, October 21

  Late Afternoon

  In one way, I feel so grateful for bumping into Day at that convenience store, following her home, and getting sick inside her barn. But in another way, I feel so much lonelier knowing that people like her exist and that I found out way too late.

  It’s barely four thirty when my phone vibrates with a text. It’s Mom, telling me she won’t be home for another few hours. I grab my laptop and do a search for Hayden’s Horse Ranch, checking the hours. It doesn’t close until eight.

  Tape recorder in my pocket, I scurry downstairs and grab the keys to Dad’s Scout, hoping he doesn’t take note of the mileage. About an hour later, I pull onto the ranch’s street, passing by a pumpkin patch and a giant corn maze. I turn into the drive and roll down the window. The air smells sweet—like apple pie and maple sugar. Over the years, I’ve had friends who’ve taken riding lessons or gone to summer camp here, but I’ve never visited myself. The grounds of Hayden’s Horse Ranch couldn’t be more beautiful. There’s a giant arena with wide-open doors, and an outdoor corral where horses roam.

  I park the car and get out. A sign points me to the office. I go inside. There’s a woman sitting at the front desk. She’s older, sixties maybe, with a long silver braid that hangs over her shoulder.

  She pauses from a Sudoku puzzle to look up at me. “Can I help you?”

  I push the record button. “I’m interested in taking some riding lessons.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” A necklace of strung horse-shaped beads hangs around her neck. “Have you ever taken lessons before?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “And I’d really like to take them with the owner. I heard he’s really good.”

  “The owner here doesn’t actually give riding lessons.”

  “Really?” I cock my head, feigning confusion. “I’m pretty sure the person I spoke with said she took lessons from him.”

  “What was the person’s name?”

  “Jennifer Roman.”

  The woman’s eyebrows shoot upward in response.

  “Do you know her?” I ask.

  “I do, but Jennifer Roman didn’t come here for any lessons.”

  “Really?”

  “She and the owner knew each other pretty well, if you catch my drift.” She winks. “But that was years ago.”

  “How many years?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She glances back down at her puzzle. “Four? Five? Must be around there, because we now have a four-year-old horse we call J.R.” She nods toward a side window. There are stables just beyond it.

  “Wait, J.R. for Jennifer Roman?”

  “Are you interested in taking lessons with anyone else?” she asks, forgoing an answer.

  “I guess I’m just really confused. Do you think I could meet the owner anyway?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s left for the day.” She pulls at her horse necklace and makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “But let me check. Can you hold on for a few minutes?”

  “Sure.” I nod.

  The woman exits the office, and meanwhile I head for the doorway behind the front counter. I move down the hallway, checking all the rooms: a bathroom, a sitting area, a kitchen, and an office.

  I step inside the office. There’s a desk littered with all sorts of files and equestrian magazines. A calendar hangs behind the desk. It’s covered with marked dates for appointments, horse shows, meetings, programs. I flip back to May 4. The words DAY OFF are scribbled across it. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and take a snapshot of the date, just as a thwacking sound startles me.

  I freeze in place. My chest instantly tightens.

  But the noise is outside—the sound of wood against wood, like the opening and closing of a gate.

  I let out a breath and open the top drawer of the desk. It’s full of junk, including random toys: a Slinky, a yo-yo, Silly Putty eggs, and a few mismatched dice cubes. I close the drawer and open another one; it’s a file cabinet, loaded with folders. I do a quick scan, spotting a tab labeled “receipts.” I pluck the folder out and go to peek inside it, just as I notice something else.

  On the desk.

  A picture of a pony.

  I pick up the frame and turn it over in my hands.

  “Peter?” a male voice shouts.

  I dart out from around the desk, tucking myself behind the door.

  The picture frame is still in my hands. The folder’s tucked under my arm. The calendar’s still set for May.

  “Pete?” the person asks. He’s standing in the doorway now. I can see him through the crack below the hinge.

  I hold my breath, trying to keep from making a sound, but then my stomach growls and I’m sure he can hear it.

  “Hello?” he asks, taking a step inside the doorway.

  Part of me is tempted to come out, but not two seconds later, he turns away; I hear his footsteps move down the hall.

  With trembling fingers, I open the back of the picture frame, thinking how I sometimes like to tuck notes or letters behind key photos. I don’t get the latches undone on the first try. The cardboard’s too thick. I have to pry upward on the latch with my thumb.

  That works.

  The latch slides open.

  I do the same with the other latches. They open as well. I remove the cardboard backing. There’s something hidden behind the horse photo. I take it out—a four-by-six photo of a woman, mid-laugh.

  She’s pretty, with dark hair, green eyes, and a heart-shaped face. I go to take a photo of the picture just as the file folder slips from under my arm. Receipts scatter onto the floor. They’re everywhere—by the door, under the desk, in the far corner.

  I scurry to pick them up, on my hands and knees.

  The main door opens. I can see it from where I’m standing. The woman from the desk is back.

  “Hello?” she shouts.

  My heart pounds. My skin starts to sweat. I still need a picture of the photo. With trembling fingers, I take the shot.

  Something falls; there’s a loud clank sound; it came from another room.

  I return the photo behind the pony picture, place the cardboard back, then fasten all the latches.

  I go to set the photo where I found it on the desk, but it topples over, against the wood, making a knocking sound that echoes inside my bones. Footsteps move across the floor—heavy boots, wooden heels.

  I turn to look.

  No one’s there.

  My pulse racing, I put the frame back before gathering up the remainder of the receipts. I stuff them into my bag, along with the folder. There’s no time to return things inside the desk.

  I move out into the hallway. The woman’s positioned away from me.

  “Thank you,” I say. I’m all out of breath. “I found the restroom.”

  The woman looks me up and down, as if trying to figure me out. “Peter’s already gone for the day.”

  “Okay, well, maybe I’ll come back on Saturday to see him. Does he work on Saturdays? Or maybe he’s only here on some Saturdays,” I say, suddenly remembering that I never
fixed the calendar in his office.

  “He works. On Saturdays.” She goes back to her Sudoku cells, clearly done with me.

  “Well, thanks,” I say, still puzzled as to why he took off Saturday, May 4.

  Coincidence? Or something more?

  At home, I park Dad’s car back in the garage and head straight for the barn.

  “Hey.” Julian smiles as soon as I come through the door.

  “I have something I want to show you,” I blurt, plucking my cell phone out of my pocket. I find the snapshot I took of the woman’s photograph. “Does this person look familiar to you?” I ask, angling the screen so he can see it.

  Julian takes my phone and turns away. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was a photo that I found. I took a picture of it.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  I move to stand in front of him. “Tell me who it is first.”

  “It’s my mother. Now, where did you find it?”

  I nod to the bales of hay, and we sit down beside each other. I tell him about my visit to Hayden’s Ranch, including about the calendar and the pony named after his mom. “I really think this might be a major break for us. I mean, if they were seeing each other even four years ago…that’s a lot more recent than the seven or eight you mentioned before.”

  But Julian appears less than convinced. He takes a deep breath and lets it filter out slowly. “It was a long time ago.”

  “But not as long as you thought. Right?”

  He gives me back my phone. His mouth is a straight tense line. I thought he’d be more excited.

  I look at the picture of his mom—her smiling face, the brightness in her eyes. “Is it hard seeing your mother this happy?”

  “Only because she was capable of such happiness, and because I didn’t get to see it much. Life would’ve been a lot different if I had.”

  I stare toward the side of his face, trying to imagine what this must be like for him, learning that his mom might’ve had this whole other secret life. “It must be weird to think about her being with someone else.”

  “I think ‘sad’ is a better word.”

  “Sad because she was cheating on your father?”