Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  Around dinnertime, as I walked toward the cafeteria, someone tapped my shoulder. It was Peter! At first I was elated. But I quickly restrained myself, lest I appear inappropriate. “I thought you had evacuated.”

  “I probably should have. But you know, I was feeling sorry for you.” He says this with such a big smile, I know he is joking. The American way of being so forthright was jarring.

  “You are teasing me.”

  “Of course I am. I brought you something.” He held out a silk covered box. Very traditional, except for the clumsily tied ribbon and bow.

  “But I have no gift for you.”

  “A peace offering.”

  “It is not necessary, Peter.”

  “Just open it, please. You know you want to.” Again with the forthright speaking. But he was right. I was desperate to know what he considered a peace offering.

  “Thank you.” As soon as I opened the box, a familiar aroma rose up. In that instant, so many memories came to mind, most of them surrounding phở and family. I unwrapped the tissue paper and there lay a bundle of cinnamon bark.

  “It’s Quế Thanh Hoá. Or Cinnamomum loureiroi, whichever you prefer.”

  “Saigon cinnamon is fine.” I shut the box and bowed.

  “Ironic, I couldn’t find it here in Saigon. Had to get it farther north. They told me it’s an important ingredient in Phở Ga.”

  Impressed, I admired the intricate pattern of the silk outer lining. “Why?”

  “To remind you of our first date.”

  “You mean our first fight?”

  “Let’s not remember that, okay?”

  I brought the bark up under my nose and took a deep breath. Without warning, I became emotional. “It reminds me of home.”

  Later that evening, Peter took me to dinner at Pho Hai, one of his favorite restaurants. “It’s not overrun with tourists, and the food is more like home cooking,” he said as we ate.

  “That is true. But my cooking tastes better.”

  “Perhaps one day, you’ll prove it to me.”

  “You have something on your chin.” Though I was pointing straight at the broken-off piece of noodle, he could not find it with his napkin. “Here, let me.” With my fingertip, I wiped it off, as I would for Huynh Tho when he was a child.

  Neither of us felt embarrassed. The mutual recognition of this fact caused our eyes to meet. He took my hand gently and caressed it in a way that no one had ever done before.

  “Grace, listen. The Communists will be here any day. I don’t have any choice but to leave Vietnam and return to the United States. You need to think of a way to leave as well.”

  I was not going to argue or become offended. But still, I wished to know. “You never told me why you’ve stayed.”

  Now he held both of my hands. So warm and strong was his touch that I felt it through my entire body. “I stayed because of you. Since I met you, I felt something special, something that doesn’t come but once in a person’s lifetime.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “A connection. It’s a sense that we share a common destiny, that I’ll never be complete without you. That we should start a new life together, grow old together.”

  A million thoughts intermingled in my head. Never did I imagine that through this forthright manner, he would profess his feelings for me thus. “I am without words.”

  “Then let me tell you something else. It wasn’t a coincidence that you happened to step into the woods of Bình Sơn and I was there to protect you. And it wasn’t a coincidence that after three years in Vietnam, you are the only person I feel at home with. Is it any wonder I can think of no other woman but you? We share a bond, though tragic in its origins.”

  “Peter, if you have something more to say …”

  He drew a long breath. “Come to America with me. Like you said, there’s no more family for you here now. And your friends are leaving as well. Don’t be alone. We can start a family of our own.”

  My breath grew short. This sensation was quite foreign to me. “But I cannot come with you to America unless—”

  “I love you, Grace.”

  The very sound of those words sent a tingle through me. “Don’t say that. Please. I am not comfortable with those words.”

  “How about it? We can go back to California, get a house by the beach, settle down with two children, a big yellow dog. You can do anything you like. Drive a car, go to a baseball game, eat hamburgers, get a job, anything. And we can do it all for the first time, together.” Peter then did something I’d only seen in old black-and-white American movies. He took a tiny box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a diamond ring. Then he got out of his chair to kneel before me on one knee. “I guess what I’m trying to say is: Grace Th’am Ai Le, will you marry me?”

  13

  RICHARD COLSON

  Colbert Estate

  Napa Valley, California

  Suzanne’s discharge from Mercy Hospital brought little comfort, what with her diagnosis. In two hours I’m supposed to fly back to New York, where Karen Lassiter and the rest of my staff awaits, and from there, jump right back on the campaign trail.

  I haven’t yet told Suzanne about her diagnosis. How can I?

  She sits up in the bed, gazing out the french windows at our ten-acre property. Before we were married, she’d inherited all this from her father, the late Lawrence Colbert, billionaire media mogul with whom I’d never been all that impressed.

  But this house—or mansion, rather—makes Suzie happy and that’s what matters. Privet hedges, century-old flowering crab-apple trees, incense cedars and redwoods around the outskirts surround the expansive front lawn. The yard itself is Suzanne’s pride and joy, which she lovingly cultivated by her own hand, until the MS struck. And even now, from her mobile throne, she directs her staff to plant and care for dozens of species of trees and Mediland roses, all framed by boxwood hedges.

  “Good to see you up and alert.” I place a tray with poached eggs, Earl Grey tea, and croissants with blackberry jam on the bed and kiss the tip of her nose.

  She inhales deeply and beams. “Do you realize that I’ve only lived nine years of my life outside of this house?”

  “Kind of Wuthering Heights, don’t you think?”

  “Have you even read Brontë?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind, you sweet fool.” She kisses me and sips her tea.

  “I’m going to have to leave again.”

  “It was good of you to come back and see me. But promise me you won’t do that again unless it’s a real emergency.”

  “Real? You say tomato, I say to-mah-to.” I pull up a chair, sit beside her, and make a grab for her croissant. That earns me a playful swat on the hand.

  “I’m serious, Rick. Promise me. Life or death.”

  I can feel my smile evaporate. The test results from Dr. Choi weigh heavily on my heart. Even now, I wonder if it’s in Suzanne’s best interest to tell her.

  She touches my arm. “You in there?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I was just thinking.”

  “About?”

  A pause, a smile, then a shrug. “How good it is to see you in good spirits again.”

  “Come on, I know that look. What’s on your mind?”

  She has a right to know. It was wrong for me to think otherwise. But is now the best time? “You know me far too well, I’m afraid.”

  “Is it bad?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me.”

  Just like that? Tell her things are far worse than either of us imagined? “I don’t know.”

  “You’ll have to, eventually. And in my condition, you don’t want to waste any time.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “All right.” I stand, walk to the window where the sun bathes the left side of my face until I commit to the words I’m about to say. “I’m calling it off.”

  “Calling what off?” She puts her teacup down and
pulls her robe tighter around her shoulders as if my words rode on a chilling El Niño breeze.

  “My campaign. I’m not going to run.”

  “Oh, Rick. Why?”

  “I’ve spent the past year living out of a suitcase, traveling all the states, gearing up for the greatest victory of my life. But you know what? That’s an entire year I lived without you. And without you, it’s all worthless.”

  “I’ve never complained.”

  “That’s what makes it harder. You’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me, but I’ve sacrificed you for my career. Why did I ever allow something like that?”

  “I told you to. Rick, this isn’t about me, or even about you. You’re the hope of this nation, don’t you see it? You’re going to turn things around. That’s why we’ve both made the personal sacrifices. It’s your calling. We’ve been through this.”

  “After last night, in the hospital—”

  “Just a flare-up. I told Cecilia not to bother you with it. Look, I’m all better now. See? Now get back out there and win that election.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What do you mean?” She shudders and points to the windows. “Could you shut them, please? It’s so cold in here suddenly.”

  As I swing the windows shut, my heart pounds. “Dr. Choi did some blood tests. And I saw the results.”

  “I’m getting better, right?” Her blind optimism makes this all the more difficult.

  “Not really.”

  “Then what did it say?” She leans forward, away from the headboard, and hugs the pillow tightly to her chest. I go back and sit by her, hold both of her hands, and look her straight in the eye.

  “You’ve got lymphoma.”

  Suzie sits silently, her parted lips trembling. Finally, she turns away. I press my face against hers. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know when I should tell you.”

  Sniffling, she replies, “So that explains it. The loss of appetite, the sudden weight loss, the fevers and lumps.”

  “None of which you told me about.”

  “I thought it was the MS.” She turns to face me with a valiant smile. Her eyes are red, but she dabs them dry with Kleenexes. “How long?”

  “It’s stage four. Dr. Choi says six to eight months. Dammit, if I’d been around, I would have noticed the signs. Might have been able to treat it sooner!”

  “Rick, don’t!” She sobs. After a few slow breaths, she says, “Never second-guess your decisions, not the ones you tortured yourself over. You’ll go crazy looking back at would-haves and should-haves.”

  “I don’t care! I will not make any more decisions that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”

  “Honey, listen—”

  “I’m pulling out of the race and spending all my time with you. You’ll see, Suzie. I’ll get you the best doctors—forget Dr. Choi, I never liked him anyway. You’ll get the best treatments, and if they don’t have anything adequate, I’ll buy a research lab, hire the world’s most brilliant scientists, and create one for you. We’re not going to take this lying down. I fight to win, you know that. We’re going to beat this!”

  “No …” Tears roll down her face.

  “No?”

  “You don’t pull out of a fight. Not when you’re this close to winning. Isn’t that what you always said about Vietnam, we pulled out when we could have won? You’ve never been a quitter, Rick. Don’t start now.”

  “I don’t want to spend another minute away from you. You’ve sacrificed so much for me already.”

  “If you quit now, it will have all been in vain.”

  A strong gust blows open the windows and rushes through, sending the sheer curtains up like white flags. I can’t dispute her logic. The strength of reason returns to vanquish my errant emotions. Still, it goes against every fiber of my being to turn my back on her, especially now.

  “The tough choices.” She lies back down, curling up under the covers. “It’s what brought you to where you are today. It’s why the country needs you. Because you can make them.”

  “What good is any of that, if I have to live the rest of my life knowing I squandered these last few …” Don’t even think that!

  “It’s all right. Like you always say: for the greater good. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. That’s what you and I have always been about. I’d be a hypocrite if I allowed you to stray from that.”

  “Hush, Suzie.” I wrap her in my arms and hold her close, the warmth, sighs, and tears filling that small space between us. I kiss her forehead, her eyes, her lips.

  “You’ve got a flight and another speech to prepare,” she whispers, resting her icy fingertips upon my face. “And I need to rest.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t dishonor our sacrifice.”

  “I swear, I won’t.”

  She drifts off. Wiping tears from my eyes, I rise and shut the windows again. Just as I return to take the tray from her bed and place it on the dumbwaiter, my cell phone buzzes.

  It’s Mark Collinsworth.

  Quickly, I step outside and answer. “This is not a good time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But you specifically told me to update you, regardless of time or convenience. That’s what you wanted from a project manager.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “We may have a containment issue at stage three.”

  “Which one?”

  “Carrick.”

  I scoff. “He won’t be a problem.”

  “Don’t be so certain. I’ve been watching him. He just came back from Vietnam.”

  “To scatter his wife’s ashes, that much I knew.”

  “Something happened, and he came back early. Do you want me to have the subcontractor cover this? Because I can easily—”

  “No. Best if I handle it. Personally.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your plate. Sure you don’t want me to put the sub on this?”

  “Absolutely not. Now listen, I’m flying back to New York in a couple of hours. Keep tabs on the operations and contact me only if there’s a credible threat. Clear?”

  “As glass.”

  “And don’t worry.”

  The call ends. Collinsworth seemed less than convinced. But I can’t risk anything with Peter Carrick. Maintaining his position is a delicate balance, which if tipped, could make the presidential race the least of my problems.

  14

  XANDRA CARRICK

  I’ve always felt that images, as they come up on the emulsified surface, are somewhat phantasmal, but this is the worst possible confirmation of that sentiment. A tingling sensation prickles my scalp, back, and fingertips.

  There, shimmering in ripples of the chemicals, beneath the amber hue of the safelight, something I could not possibly have imagined arises in the photograph of the pond. A figure, face down, her golden hair radiating in all directions, floats in the water.

  She’s wearing a white sweatshirt with a large Greek Beta symbol emblazoned on the back. And she appears to be wearing jeans. It’s that girl on the news. The dance student from Juilliard reported missing.

  But she wasn’t there when I took the picture!

  Without hesitation, I reach back and switch the lights on. This photo has got to—

  Wait.

  On second glance, she’s gone. Not the photo, it’s all still there, the pond, the ducks, the trees reflecting in the water. Only the girl is gone.

  I take the negative from the enlarger and clip it to the wall-mounted light box. Here’s the shot. Identical to the printed picture.

  But there is no girl.

  I’m certain I saw it.

  My mouth is dry, my veins are about to explode. I wasn’t even thinking about her before I developed the picture. I’m choking on the fumes in here. Need some air.

  For the next few minutes, I sit at my kitchen table sipping a mug of coffee and staring at the unremarkable black-and-white photo of the pond. There’s got to be a scientific explanation for this. Perh
aps it was a subliminal thought, some psychological occurrence where you see things planted by the subconscious.

  I wasn’t imagining it, the details were too clear. And yet, there’s nothing in the picture that even hints at the girl now. The darkroom door is still ajar; the overhead fluorescent light flickers dimly.

  Outside, clouds that earlier seemed to be thinning with the pledge of afternoon sunshine have turned charcoal. Peals of thunder rumble in the distance, sending a cold shiver through my body.

  For the next two hours, pacing like a caged panther, I deliberate over going back and making another print. Finally, I decide. I will develop another print.

  This time, nothing happens. The second one is identical. No ghostly images of dead bodies floating in the pond.

  But I’m sure of what I saw.

  The voice of the radio announcer resounds in my head: “… authorities are asking anyone with information on her last known whereabouts to contact the Missing Persons Squad, or the 20th Precinct …”

  15

  “No, I don’t want to give you my name …

  “Right.

  “Because I don’t want to get … Look, I don’t know what else to say; would you please just have them check the pond?” Too nervous to continue, I end the call to the 20th Precinct. The last thing I need is to be connected to this case. There’ll be endless questions: “Why do you think we should trawl the pond?” “How do you know about this?” “What’s your relationship to the victim?”

  Great, I forgot to block the outbound caller ID. All I wanted was to alert them to a possible lead. It was the responsible thing to do. I don’t need a reputation as a crazy prank caller. I should never have called. They’ll surely trace the call back to me.

  But how could I sleep knowing I kept silent, while even the tiniest possibility exists that there was truth in that image I saw.

  It’s probably best to forget it and get back to work. Ordinarily, I’d go to the park for inspiration, but considering what today’s foray yielded, I’ll seek an alternative.

  Though I’m loathe to take on the responsibilities of a couch potato, I succumb to the lure of channel surfing with the occasional break for The Price Is Right, Dr. Phil, Channel 9 News. By the time I get to Oprah, I’ve had enough. I must get out of the apartment. Starbucks sounds good right about now.