by Hilary Duff
Rayna’s an expert at glossing over bad moments like that. She always knew when my name was in magazines. She loved that I got to travel the world with my parents, and squealed with glee whenever I told her I went to some celebrity-laden event. She’s never been jealous over any of it. And even though she’s been around that stuff all her life, she never got jaded about it. She’s always excited when she comes with me to a party, or an exclusive club, or an exotic vacation spot … or something like this winter break trip, where we got to do all three.
I didn’t even realize I was dancing with my eyes closed until I felt a hand grip my arm and they snapped open.
“Clea!” Rayna shouted over the music, her eyes shiny from the drinks and the excitement of a new love of her life. “Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est très bon, non?”
Rayna clearly thought it was très, très bon, so I had to agree. “Oui,” I said, smiling. “Just be safe. You have his address?”
Rayna nodded, and I pulled out my phone so she could type it in.
“Pepper spray?” I asked.
Rayna rolled her eyes and pulled the cylinder from her purse. I nodded approvingly.
“Anything feels wrong, you call me. No matter what. And if you don’t text me within twelve hours I’m calling the SWAT team.”
“We’re in France. There is no SWAT team,” Rayna reminded me. Then she leaned close, touching our foreheads together and looking me straight in the eyes. “I will be fine. You will never lose me.”
For the past year she’d been saying that almost every time we separated. Much as I appreciated the sentiment, I always winced at the “never.” It seemed to be taunting fate. I’d told Rayna this, but she only laughed at my “crazy superstitions.” Apparently it was fine to believe in fate delivering you a soulmate every night, but crazy to believe fate might chafe at being told what to do. I believed Rayna gave fate far too much credit for benevolence.
I stayed at the club only long enough so Rayna wouldn’t see me leave. She’d feel bad if she thought I’d gone out only for her benefit. Back at the hotel, I dove greedily for the room safe and unlocked it to grab my camera.
For as long as I can remember, photography has been my escape. My father gave me my first camera when I was only four. “Remember, Clea,” he told me, “taking pictures is a huge responsibility. Many cultures believe a photograph can capture one’s soul.”
As always, I’d listened solemnly to him, hanging on every word and believing it without question, even when Mom laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Grant, look at her,” she said, her voice filled with adoration for us both. “Her eyes are saucers. Tell her it’s not true.”
“It’s not true,” Dad agreed, but his back was to Mom and she couldn’t see what I did: He was crossing his fingers. I grinned, thrilled to be Dad’s co-conspirator.
From the minute Dad gave me the camera, I couldn’t get enough of it. He loved that. He was also a photography buff, and he was proud that I could always hang for the long hours in his basement studio. Both he and Mom claim I was very mommy-oriented before I got into photography, but I don’t remember that. In my memory, it was always Dad and me, talking, laughing, and sharing everything as we worked together to turn our pictures into art.
Rayna laughs at me. Given my antipathy for the paparazzi, she thinks it’s hysterical that I’m so attached to my cameras. But to me, what I do is the anti-paparazzi. TMZsters want to capture surface. If a picture’s in focus, it’s great. My goal is to capture what the surface is hiding. There’s a story behind every face, every landscape, every still life. There’s a soul in every subject, and when my camera and I are really speaking, really working together properly, we can capture it.
In my hotel room, I placed the camera gently on my bed so I could pull on extra layers and brave the cold. I’d brought my favorite camera along for the trip—a DSLR my dad had bought me just before he left for his final GloboReach trip. Newer and supposedly better models have come out, but this one feels tailor-made for me. Quickly I yanked off the cocktail dress and heels and pulled on a pair of silk long johns, my favorite jeans, a turtleneck, a thick pullover sweater, a hoodie, and a knit beanie hat. No gloves—gloves form a barrier between me and the camera; they break our connection.
Bundled as much as I could, I pulled open the door to the balcony and stepped outside. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and ice rimmed the wrought-iron railings and furniture. I gave the skyline a cursory view, knowing I wouldn’t really see it until I looked through the lens. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment, then lifted the camera to my eye. Immediately I started snapping. I could see it all from here: little cafés, markets and libraries tucked in until morning, and above it all, the breathtaking majesty of Notre Dame, glowing in spotlights that brought it vividly to life.
I stayed on the balcony for hours, capturing every tiny intricacy of the architecture, the street, the scattered people walking by. I snapped it all, and kept the Latin Quarter company until sunrise broke over the city and everything warmed just enough for me to realize my fingers had gone completely numb.
A perfect night; and I didn’t have to sleep.
I walked back into the room, felt immediately blasted by the heat, and silently thanked myself for the foresight to turn up the thermostat before I started shooting.
My hands were too numb to dial the phone at all successfully, but after two failed attempts I managed. I asked room service for a hot cocoa, their largest pot of hot tea, and a chocolate croissant, making sure they’d leave it outside the door if I didn’t answer. I planned to be in the shower until my skin turned lobster red and every bit of the cold was leached from my body.
Forty-five minutes later I was bundled in a cozy robe, sitting on my bed, drinking cocoa and munching the croissant. Heat still radiated from my body after the blisteringly wonderful shower, as delicious as the meal. Perfectly satisfied, I flipped on the news, curious if I might catch a glimpse of Mom. Where was she this week? I couldn’t remember. Was it Israel? Moscow? Could she actually be here in Europe? I leaned back on a stack of pillows and settled in to watch …
… and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by flames.
They were everywhere. I squeezed my eyes tight against the angry orange sear, but it didn’t help. I knew it was there; even behind my eyes I could see it.
And the smell. The pungent odor of toxic chemicals melting out of plastics, rugs, electronics. The sick scent of burning hair. Human hair. My hair?
No. I saw him now. The man staggering around the inferno that had once been a hotel room, flames dancing over his arms, his legs, his hair. He pounded at the flames, but it only fueled them, and as they leaped down to his face, the man turned to me, and I saw my father’s final agonized cry of—
“NO!” I gasped, bolting upright. My heart raced, and tears of despair rolled down my cheeks. Where was I? I clutched for my necklace and found only the thick folds of my robe. Frightened and shaken, I looked around, completely disoriented, my nose hunting for the smell of fire.
My eyes caught on the room service tray lying next to me on the bed. Chocolate croissant crumbs. Specific. Concrete. My ragged breathing smoothed, and I glanced out the window to find the comforting glow of Notre Dame. I focused on the cathedral, taking in longer and deeper breaths.
The therapist had told me the dreams would go away as time passed, but it had been a year since my dad disappeared, and they were still pretty constant. The therapist now claims it’s because of the uncertainty. If I knew what happened, if there were any answers …
But there aren’t. So my mind fills in the blanks with every horrible thing I’ve ever heard, read about, or seen. And since I’ve had the amazing opportunity to work as a photojournalist, I’ve seen all kinds of things.
In other words, my brain has a lot of great nightmare fodder.
I chastised myself over this last one, though. It was ridiculous. If I knew anything, I kne
w my father didn’t die in a hotel fire. He hadn’t been staying at a hotel; he’d been at a GloboReach outpost. So why would I dream about that?
My eyes drifted to the television, and it all made sense. There was a fire on the screen. I must have heard it in my sleep and incorporated it into my dream. I made a mental note not to watch the news when I fell asleep. The last thing I needed was help with my nightmares.
I winced, watching the fire. It was huge, devouring a large, beautiful apartment building that had to have been around since the 1800s. It made me sad to think something could have the fortitude to last over two hundred years, only to be destroyed in no time at all.
I turned the volume up, wanting to know more about the building and the people who were inside. My French was only okay, but it sounded like the fire had broken out somewhere on the upper floors of a building that was much coveted for its views of the Eiffel Tower.
My blood ran cold.
I had heard something about views of the Eiffel Tower tonight.
No … I was jumping to conclusions … there was no way …
I heard Rayna’s voice in my head. Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est très bon, non?
Still, there were a lot of apartments in Paris with views of the Eiffel Tower. The chances that this building was the same one …
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to where Rayna had written Pierre’s address, then glared at the TV anchors.
“Come on, come on,” I urged them. “Tell me where it is! What’s the address?”
“Le feu est a vingt-quatre rue des Soeurs,” the female anchor finally said.
The world stopped.
The addresses were the same.
“No!” I cried out. “Please, no. No, no, no …”
I pounded out Rayna’s number and waited forever for the phone to ring. “Pick up, Rayna, please pick up.”
Nothing. No answer.
“Shit!” I hung up, yanked on my clothes, and raced out of the room, doubling back for only a second to grab my camera. It was sheer instinct. Whatever panic I was feeling about Rayna, the fire was a news story, and I take pictures of news stories.
“J’ai besoin d’un taxi maintenant!” I snapped to the doorman as I ran outside, then followed it up with a perfunctory, “S’il vous plaît.” But the doorman had heard the desperation in my voice and had already darted into the street to flag one down.
This was taking far too long. Could I run the two miles faster? No, better to wait, but standing there was making me insane. I had to do something. I checked my watch: nine a.m. Three a.m. in New London, Connecticut. It didn’t matter. I called his number.
He answered on the third ring, sounding completely awake and alert, though I knew he had been asleep for hours.
“Clea? Are you okay?”
Thank God for caller ID. Ben knew I wouldn’t call in the middle of the night unless it was absolutely vital.
“Ben! Ben, it’s about Rayna. There’s a fire—a huge fire!”
My voice broke, and I started to sob. I couldn’t keep it together, not if something happened to Rayna. I couldn’t.
“Take a deep breath and tell me. Tell me everything.” Ben’s voice was calm and steady now. I loved that about him; the more difficult and emotional a situation, the more he’d step back and handle it logically and methodically. His voice had been my security blanket a lot this past year.
“I don’t know,” I said. The doorman had finally found a cab and I raced inside, shouting Pierre’s address to the driver. “Vite, s’il vous plaît—vite!” I curled into the backseat of the car, hugging myself as I told Ben what I’d seen.
“Okay.” Ben’s voice soothed me from nearly four thousand miles away. “Don’t panic. You don’t know anything yet. You’re going there now, right?”
“As fast as I can,” I said, reaching into my purse and pulling out a handful of euros, which I held out to the driver. “Plus vite, s’il vous plaît,” I urged.
“Great,” Ben said. “Just talk to me until you get there.”
I have no idea what I would do without Ben. My circle of trusted friends comes to exactly two: Ben and Rayna. Not even enough to make a circle—a line segment of trusted friends.
I spoke to Ben every second of the ten-minute ride. I had to. The sound of my own voice reaching out to him was the only thing that kept my entire body from flying apart and scattering into molecules of panic.
“Arrêtez! Arrêtez!!!” I shouted to the cab driver. Not that it was necessary; road blockades prevented us from going any farther. “I’m here!” I told Ben. “I’m getting out; I’ll call you back the minute I know anything.”
“I’ll wait,” Ben said, and I knew he would.
I shoved another handful of euros at the taxi driver, then ran out and immediately shut my eyes against the acrid air. I yanked my turtleneck collar over my nose and mouth to filter the smoke and ash as I ran the last block to the blazing building, pushing through gawkers at every step. Fire trucks were on the scene, but the water from their hoses seemed like an insignificant trickle, a child’s water pistol in the face of an inferno.
“RAYNA!” I screamed up to the wall of flames. “RAYNA!!!!”
“Clea!”
I spun around wildly, needing to see her face like I needed air, needing to make sure she was okay, that she wasn’t calling to me from a stretcher, gasping out her last—
“Clea … Clea, it’s okay. I’m okay … I’m right here.”
There she was, bundled into sweats and a long wool coat five sizes too large for her, her curls hidden by a massive gray hat with earflaps—a look that could have been pulled off effectively only by someone in 1930s Siberia … or a supremely angular male model.
“Oh my God, Rayna!” I cried, pulling her into my arms and squeezing too hard. I couldn’t help it. I needed proof that she was really there.
“I’m fine. Pierre and I went out for coffee. We weren’t even here when the fire started.” She pulled back just enough to press her forehead into mine and look into my eyes. “I told you you’ll never lose me, remember?”
“Don’t,” I warned, but the panic had already drained enough that I could smile. I hugged her again, and even when we pulled away we kept our arms wrapped around each other.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” she asked solemnly, and I followed her gaze to the apartment building, its entire midsection now engulfed in leaping flames.
I had seen things like it, but that didn’t lessen the impact. Fire is magnetic—an almost illicit combination of destructive force and awe-inspiring beauty. With an effort, I turned away from the dancing slashes of flame to the scene on the street. I saw the grim determination of the firefighters, their faces betraying no emotion. I saw the onlookers, split between the curious and the personally affected—the former gaping upward in a state of exalted wonder, the latter huddled together in frightened groups, or chain-smoking and pacing like Pierre. I saw the dissonance of rainbows as the sun glinted off the water from the fire hoses.
“Itchy trigger finger?” Rayna asked, smiling. I followed her gaze to my right hand, which had already removed my camera from its bag. “You should,” she said. “I’m going to check on Pierre. And if you give me your phone, I’ll call Ben back and let him know everything’s okay. Assuming you called him,” she added with a grin.
Rayna knew me far too well. I gave her one last squeeze, then handed her the phone and disappeared behind my camera, blending seamlessly into the scene. It was where I belonged. It felt right.
I had absolutely no idea I was taking pictures that would change my life forever.
two
BACK HOME in Connecticut, I stared at my computer, poring over the image on the screen. My eyes burned from lack of sleep and four hours in front of the monitor. After a long plane ride, an endless wait at the baggage carousel, and a traffic-filled slog up the highway, Rayna and I had arrived home in Niantic early in the afternoon Easter
n time, but well into the evening Paris time. Exhausted, Rayna and I hugged each other good-bye and split off into our separate houses to crash.
Except I couldn’t. I had a sixteen-gig compact flash card filled with trip pictures screaming for my attention.
I loaded them onto my hard drive and started sorting. It would take me ages to really do justice to every shot I’d snapped over the three-week trip, so I let my instincts winnow them down. I allowed myself the briefest scan of each image, saving the ones that grabbed me to a special file. Again and again I went through the process, giving myself a little more time on each picture with every round, pulling aside the ones my eyes couldn’t stop drifting to, the ones that struck me in a place of pure instinct and emotion.
It took hours, but eventually I narrowed them down to twenty pictures, spanning all portions of our trip: Trafalgar Square at night; a snarling gargoyle leaping off a column at Prague’s St. Vitus’s Cathedral; Rayna with her back to the Trevi Fountain, following tradition by tossing a coin with her right hand over her left shoulder.
But my eyes kept going back to a picture of the fire at Pierre’s apartment building. I clicked it so it took up the whole screen. It was a shot of two firefighters on the ground. The smoke had grown thick by this point, and both wore oxygen tanks on their backs and cone-shaped masks that obscured their entire faces. Their thick black suits, yellow gloves, and yellow helmets covered them entirely, yet their emotion was crystal clear. They leaned back in perfect synch, holding the thick green hose between them, shooting water up at the flames, the very angle of their bodies and faces signaling grit, determination, and hope.
The image was gripping and kinetic, yet as I ran my eyes over it again and again I wasn’t drawn to the firefighters, but to the fire truck far behind them.
