We Are All That's Left

by Carrie Arcos

  Dad’s always trying to fix things. It’s part of being a surgeon, I guess. Wanting to help and heal are hardwired into who he is. But sometimes I just need him to listen before he goes right to the solution. I’m not even sure what’s going on with me can be solved so easily.

  But I want him to be right; I want to feel normal. So I say, “Okay. I’ll try.”

  He takes my hand, and we head back toward the house. He’s satisfied with my response. I want to tell him to stay home tomorrow, that Benny needs him, that I need him. But I know he needs something else. He needs me to be okay. He needs to think he’s fixed me so he can go back to focusing on Mom.

  I don’t say anything more.

  We walk along in silence; I lean into him like I have so many times before. My body a perfect fit alongside his.

  July 9

  IT’S SATURDAY, THE second week of class with Mr. Singh. The first time I’ve held my camera, taken it anywhere, in almost a week. I set it on the desk and try to hide in the back of the room, but it’s impossible. I’ve got this huge wound on my face, and even with the bandage on, they can tell I’ve been through something awful. They must know that I was there. That I was a victim of a terrorist attack. Their eyes keep darting to my face. I hear their unspoken questions. Did it hurt? Did I see anything? How do I feel?

  How do I feel?

  Dad encouraged me to attend the class like I would have before the attack. Since Mom’s condition hasn’t changed and he doesn’t know when it will, he figures I should do normal things. As if those even exist anymore.

  Being in this class, ignoring all the silent questions and sideways looks, is not normal.

  Dread creeps along my spine, and my stitches start to tingle. I feel myself begin to sweat. The doorway looks like it’s narrowing. I take a breath and touch the prayer beads around my neck. There’s something in the wearing and feel of them that comforts me a bit. I eye the door again, remind myself I can leave anytime I want to.

  Mr. Singh acts like there is nothing strange about me. He treats me like I’m any other photography student, and for that I’m grateful.

  We have a discussion about the rule of thirds. Well, the rest of the class talks, and I listen. I have to work extra hard to pay attention, which is weird for me. Normally I’m very focused. But I keep getting distracted by the tiny dust mites that float in a shard of light as they come in from the window. Mr. Singh shows a couple of photos, explaining how the rule works. How where we position our subjects will affect the mood and the story we’re trying to tell.

  “Okay. I’d love to hear from each of you what ideas you have for your story sequence. It’s okay if you haven’t decided yet, but I think we’d all benefit from hearing from each other. Let’s start with you.” He points to someone in the front row, and I’m relieved again to be sitting in the back.

  The first student has this cool idea of taking photos of people right as they are given good news or as they finish opening a present. She’s calling it Surprised by Joy. Of course Mr. Singh loves it.

  I don’t even remember what my plan was. It seems like years ago. Something about Benny? I sink in my seat, feeling stupid, and feeling pain too, because the seat back presses against me.

  I hear Dad’s voice in my head—something he’s always told me. Someone else’s success doesn’t have to be your failure.

  Sometimes, it does, I respond.

  The more people share, the more I realize my idea sucks. The more I realize that taking this class right now sucks too. I don’t even know why I came. When class ends, I wait in my seat until everyone has left. Then I pick up my camera for the first time since I set it on my desk, and I approach Mr. Singh like I would a sore tooth—slowly and afraid that I’m going to feel some sharp pain.

  “Mr. Singh?”

  He looks up at me from his desk. “Yes, Zara?”

  “Um, I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep taking this class.”

  “Oh?” he says, and just stares at me like he’s waiting for me to continue.

  What, does he need me to spell the whole thing out?

  “Yeah, it’s just not really the best timing. You know”—I point to my face—“with everything that’s going on. It’s probably better for me not to waste your time and mine.”

  He leans forward in his seat.

  “I have a friend who documented every phase of his partner’s cancer. Everything. He was obsessed with remembering all of it. His pictures were his way of saying good-bye, and they became a kind of love letter. Yes, they were sad and painful, but they were also lovely and true and hopeful. And they preserved something forever that he knew couldn’t possibly last. Sometimes our art is the only way out of the dark.”

  I can feel myself staring at him, but I don’t know how to respond.

  “I’ll see you next class,” he says. It’s not a question. He goes back to writing in a notebook.

  I back away, completely at a loss.

  Before I’m out the door, he calls to me, “Just start taking pictures, Zara. Start with what you know how to do.”

  I nod once, and then I’m gone.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  I head straight to the hospital. I’m actually a little hungry after class, so I get a protein bar out of the first-floor vending machine. Gramma would be so proud.

  Up in Mom’s room, I study her. The usual worry lines around her eyes and mouth have disappeared in this deep sleep. Her natural eyebrows are so light, but I can already see them beginning to grow in. She has twenty-three freckles. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at my mom as much as I have this past week.

  Wait.

  Was it really only a week ago? Less—six days? It already feels like a year. So much has changed. The way she lies there so still and peaceful, something cracks through, and I tumble into memory.

  I’m a little girl, and we’re in some field.

  No, that’s not right—we’re in the backyard. It’s night. The stars are out. So are the fireflies. They blink on and off like tiny traffic signals. There’s music coming from inside the house. And I’m cold, so I snuggle into Mom’s side. I can tell she’s crying, and this makes me feel scared, like I’ve upset her somehow. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. I try to get as close to her as I possibly can.

  I tell her, “Mom, I love you as big as the sky.” I point to the stars. This is something a teacher has read to us, I think—a story about a mother and daughter, and it stayed with me because that’s how I wanted to be with her. But even then, I kind of knew that something was wrong; there was this distance between us. We weren’t like the mothers and daughters I saw in picture books. There was a part of herself she kept from me.

  Mom reaches her hand up next to mine and says, “I love you bigger.” Then she laughs and tickles me, and I laugh. She laughs at my laugh, and her laugh is so loud, and suddenly we are in the book. We are the main characters.

  I haven’t heard Mom laugh like that in a long time.

  Now we’re in a different kind of story.

  It’s a story I wouldn’t have chosen for either of us. Because I love yous have been quiet for a long time here. Here there is maiming and pain and things that I don’t know how we can come back from. I want to believe that our story will end well, but sitting with her, coma stricken, it’s hard to see beyond the now. And each breath in, every moment of silence just reminds me of all the ways we aren’t close. Of all that we’ve already lost.

  I think of the others. The people who lost limbs. Those who died. Why did I survive? Why did Benny? Or my mom? Nothing makes sense anymore.

  I think about what Dad said. Just do something that makes me feel like my old self. I think of what Mr. Singh said about his friend who photo-documented his partner’s battle with cancer. How he told me to start with what I know how to do. My camera still feels awkward in my ha
nds, my fingers less certain than before. But maybe I can give it a shot.

  I bring the viewfinder up to my eye and take my mom’s picture, zooming in on where they shaved her head and operated. The staples make her look like something out of a science fiction novel. They look painful. I wonder how she’ll feel when—if—she wakes.

  If.

  So many unknowns. But suddenly, I know I can’t stay here looking at my mom for one more minute.

  I leave her room and walk quickly with my head down, taking deep breaths, until I get to the elevator.

  “Hey, girl from the chapel,” someone says when the door opens.

  “Oh, hey,” I say.

  He steps out, and instead of getting inside, I stand there awkwardly. The elevator door closes. I miss my chance to escape.

  “Zara,” I say. He clearly doesn’t remember my name. Now that I’m getting a good look at him, he’s actually really cute. I notice he’s holding the same journal he had with him the other day. His black tee has a huge white question mark in the middle. I brush my hair over my cheek to cover the bandage on the side of my face.

  “That’s right,” he says, and puts his hand on his chest. “Joseph.”

  I nod and push the button again. Now I have to wait for the elevator to come back up.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m just leaving.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “The same.” Just watch the numbers, and you’ll be fine. Better yet, change the subject.

  “How’s your grandmother?” I ask. She’s sick with something. I can’t remember if he told me what it is or not.

  “She’s actually perking up.”

  “That’s good.” I push the button for the elevator again. Why is it taking so long?

  “Yeah. Just on my way to see her, actually, so I should probably go.” He begins to walk away, but then stops and turns. “How good are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He points to my camera, slung across my shoulder. “At photography. That looks like a professional’s. Are you good?”

  I shrug. “Pretty good.”

  He walks back toward me. “Can I see?”

  The elevator is stuck on floor three. “Um, okay. I guess.” He looks over my shoulder as I scroll back, quickly skipping over the recent photo of my mom plus the one I took of my back, to find the shots that I took at Baker’s Beach the other night.

  But the farmers market photos assault me first. The ones from just after the bombing. The frenzy, the hazy pictures of people running. Dust everywhere. Bodies on the ground. My mom’s feet poking out from underneath the rubble. A little girl sitting, crying in the middle of it all. The back of a man digging.

  “Wow,” Joseph says over my shoulder.

  My hands are shaking a little. I don’t even remember taking those photos. I keep moving through them, unable to stop myself. Back and back, to the tomatoes. The vendor. My mom’s blurry profile.

  Before.

  I lower my camera. I think I’m going to be sick.

  Joseph gives me a look of concern, and I can’t stand here another moment.

  “I have to go.” Quickly, I move away from the elevator and speed up as I reach the stairs.

  “Wait.”

  I stop, turn back around.

  “Do you think . . .” Joseph says, then he puts his hand on the back of his head and leans the other one against the wall. “Could you take a picture of me and my grandmother?”

  I stare at him.

  “I don’t have any good ones with her, I mean professional quality—just from my phone. It’s her birthday this week, and there’s nothing really that I can buy her. But I know she’d love a picture of the two of us. And I can totally pay you for it.”

  “You don’t have to pay me,” I say, touched that he would want to take a picture with his grandmother.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  An anxious feeling rises in my chest, something that I didn’t have before the bombing. I think of what Dad, and Mr. Singh, said again. Just take some pictures. I suck in my breath.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Okay, great. Come on.”

  “Now?”

  But he’s already down the hall.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  When we enter room 572, the little old lady lying in the bed perks right up at the sight of Joseph.

  “Bonjou, my Joseph,” she says.

  “Bonjou, Grann,” he says, and bends down, kissing each of her cheeks. “Are you well today?”

  She touches his face with her open palm. “Kon si, kon sa. Did you bring me something?” Her head tilts to the side, and her eyes are playful when they meet mine.

  He reaches into his pocket and hands her what look like candies.

  She smiles and opens one and pops it right into her mouth.

  Joseph turns to me. “She needs her caramel fix. Grann, this is my new friend, Zara.”

  “Hello,” I say from the foot of her bed.

  She nods in greeting, her mouth still chewing the candy. Joseph places the rest of the pieces underneath her pillow, as if they are in some kind of conspiracy and need to hide the evidence.

  I study some of the photographs she has by her bed. Family members, I assume. Joseph is in one with a couple that could be his mom and dad.

  “Zara,” she says, finally working through the sticky caramel. “That’s a lovely name. What does it mean?” She wipes her mouth with a small napkin.

  I smile and the bandage on my cheek pulls. “Blossoming flower.”

  His grandmother nods. “The name suits you.”

  It doesn’t suit me at all, especially now. But it’s a cool name. I’ve never met another Zara. So I tell her thanks.

  “How do you know my Joseph?”

  “Zara and I met the other day at the chapel,” Joseph says. “Her mother is here. But Zara’s also a photographer.”

  I used to be a photographer. What if I’ve lost my eye? My ability to see the moments?

  “I asked her to take our picture together. That way you can always have a special shot of just you and your favorite grandson with you.”

  She chuckles and points her finger at Joseph. “You are my most political.”

  I take another breath and give in to Dad and Mr. Singh’s advice. I point my camera in their direction, trying to capture them in a candid moment. But Joseph stops me.

  “Not here. I was thinking we could walk to the garden. What do you think, Grann? You up for a walk?”

  “Yes. These old bones need to get out of here before they forget how to do it.”

  I leave the room while Joseph helps her out of bed and fetches her walker.

  We move at a snail’s pace down the hall, his grandmother in between the two of us. She shuffles, a little hunched at the shoulders. A red, orange and white flowered scarf covers her head. Even though she’s old, she’s the type of woman you can tell was once very beautiful. Her deep brown skin is not cracked with age. Her brown eyes are large. She’s wearing a yellow pajama top with yellow and orange and green flowered pants. She’s decked out with jewelry—small gold hoops in her ears, necklaces and gold bracelets that she pushes up every now and again. Nothing like my gramma.

  Because it’s another hot day outside, I position Joseph and his grandmother in the shade, underneath a tree. But I don’t like the shadows the leaves are casting across their faces. However, I also don’t want them to be in direct sunlight. It’ll be too harsh.

  I have Joseph stand next to his grandmother, his arm protective around her shoulder. She only comes up to the middle of his chest. I hit the shutter once. The click is louder than I remember it being, but I try to stay in the moment. I press it again. And again.

  “You going to tell us when to smile?
” he asks.

  “Oh, yes.” I pretend like I haven’t already been snapping photos.

  “Wait,” she says. “I don’t have my lips on.”

  “Grann, you don’t need it. You’re beautiful.”

  She removes a tube of lipstick from her pants pocket and stains her lips a cherry red before smacking them together. “Ready now,” she says.

  “Okay. Joseph, why don’t you sit on this bench with . . .” I realize I don’t know her name.

  “Name’s Flora, chérie.”

  “Flora,” I say.

  They sit and face me, a little stiff.

  “Just act like you’re having a conversation. Like I’m not even here,” I say.

  They turn toward each other and start talking. It doesn’t take long for them to settle into a comfortable mode. I don’t see many people with such an age gap who have this kind of ease with each other, related or not. I love my grandparents, even though Gramma does annoy me sometimes, but we don’t speak like this.

  Joseph and Flora are beautiful together. I move around them and take more photos. It feels good to escape into the moment.

  “How about over there?” I say, asking them to move next to a patch of red roses. The color matches Flora’s scarf, and I take some pictures with just her next to them. She reminds me of an old movie star or singer. Maybe like a Bessie Smith. One of Dad’s old-time favorites.

  “So many photographs,” Flora says. “How many do you want, Joseph?”

  “She’s the professional,” he says, deferring to me.

  “Sometimes we need to take many to find the perfect one.”

  “How about one with just Joseph? I don’t need to be looking at myself.”

  There’s a brick wall, and I ask Joseph to stand in front of it. It’s the perfect backdrop. He holds his hands at his sides and stares at me. I zoom in and see how clear and intense his gaze is and am startled. His brown eyes are striking. I suddenly feel nervous.

  “Okay, give me something different. Not as serious,” I say.