Circa flipped quickly to the last piece of paper in the folder and was thrilled to find that there was indeed a newly Shopt photo. She was surprised to discover that it was the Linholt Reunion pic. “You did a Shopt version of that one!” she said with delight.
“I had to, to keep my sanity,” he said. “It was good therapy to be able to goof on that family while dealing with crabby Mrs. Linholt.”
Circa’s eyes darted all around the picture to find what Dad had snuck into the new version. She called out to him every bit she discovered, and each new thing gave her a sharper thrill inside. There was a huge stern-looking potato peeking out from behind a tree, a pocket watch big as the sun on a chain entangled in the branches behind the family, and, of all things, a beaver playing a bugle right into a Linholt’s ear. When she thought she’d discovered all there was to find, Circa started to restack the pics and stuff them back into the folder. But then Dad interrupted her.
“Hold up,” he said. “I think you may have missed something.”
Circa flipped back to the Shopt reunion pic and scanned it slowly, glancing up at Dad’s screen again and again to compare it to the original version of the picture. It took her three solid looks before she noticed.
“Dad, are you kidding me?”
“You found it,” he said.
“A baby?!”
“Diaper and all,” said Mom.
“He’s pretty cute, don’t you think?” said Dad.
Sure enough, right there in the front row of the family picture, Dad had Photoshopped in a baby so real-looking, you’d never know it wasn’t really part of the Linholt festivities. Circa could hardly believe what she was seeing, and how very real he looked.
“I told your mom we needed to celebrate the arrival of a new little bundle of Shopt joy,” said Dad.
Circa looked across the studio. “Mom, you saw this?”
“Pretty amazing, huh?” Mom said with a grin. That was another powerful thing the Shopt could do. They could always make Mom smile.
“Dad, how did you sneak a whole ’nother person in?” asked Circa.
“It took a while to get it right,” he said. “But get this. I copied some features from our own family pics and pasted them in. Then I just blended and tweaked until I’d built a little baby.”
“Unreal,” said Circa as she studied the chubby Shopt infant, plopped right there at the feet of an unsuspecting Linholt.
“Convincing, no?” said Dad.
Sure enough, the baby did bear a strong Monroe family resemblance.
“So what’s the story?” Circa asked. “About the baby, the potato, and the big watch? Oh, and um, the beaver with a bugle?”
“Yes, do tell us,” said Mom. “I’m particularly curious about the baby. I dearly hope he didn’t ride in on the back of that beaver without wearing a tiny Shopt helmet.”
“Or maybe he swung in on the watch chain,” said Circa, focused so intently on the little Shopt guy, the harsh ring of the studio phone almost startled her off her stool. Dad pulled the phone from under a stack of papers.
“Oh boy, that story’s a real doozy,” he said. “Hang on a minute.”
“Hello? Studio Monroe,” Dad answered. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Linholt.” He rolled his eyes when he said her name.
After that, it seemed he wasn’t given the opportunity to squeeze in many more words at all. Beyond a couple of No’s, a couple more Sorry about that’s, and a Just give me some directions, Dad remained silent, looking quite huffy.
“Dad, someday will you teach me to do that? To put a baby in a picture?” Circa said once he’d hung up.
“Sure,” Dad said as he clicked to save the changes on the non-Shopt Linholt photo. “Just bear with me for a bit, if you will. Mrs. Linholt claims, and very harshly I might add, that I was supposed to deliver the prints to the reunion. Apparently, she’s three counties over pacing ruts in the grass waiting for me.”
Dad clicked FILE: PRINT and typed 30 in the quantity field, as Mom took a fretful look out the studio window.
“Like I’d ever promise to drop off a stack of photos two hours away,” he said irritably. “But I guess they say the customer is always right, huh?”
“Unless she’s way wrong,” interjected Mom.
“Let’s just say the customer is always right when that customer threatens to not pay you for the umpteen hours you’ve spent on her project,” Dad said. “And especially when said customer keeps throwing around that she has some important government job.”
“But seriously, Todd, with all this crazy weather?” said Mom.
“Yeah, well,” said Dad. “What is it that supersmart guy that we know always says? That sometimes doing the right thing is prickly?” He gave Circa a wink, and she promptly closed up the Shopt folder and returned it to its spot. She had a feeling the new story would have to wait awhile.
As the thirty prints rolled out into the tray on Dad’s big printer, he said, “Circ, if you want to, while I’m gone, you can tinker around with making your own addition to the Shopt family.”
“For real?” she said. “Like a baby?”
“Why not?” he said. “You know, I’ll venture to say that the day you can seamlessly add a fresh person into a pic, then you can do just about any kind of photo restoration.”
Dad clicked down into a couple of folders and found a file called DONE AND DELIVERED. Within two more clicks, he’d located a black-and-white picture of a big group of soldiers from 1942.
“Here. These guys look like they could use a baby around,” he said. “Just be patient with yourself, and practice using some of the techniques I’ve taught you.”
Dad stacked up the reunion prints and slid them into a big padded envelope.
“And don’t be scared to experiment,” he added. “You know you can always click ‘undo.’”
“Got it,” said Circa.
“And hey,” he said. “If the weather does get worse and your mom says it’s time to hunker down, then no arguing, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.”
Circa was no stranger to hunkering down. The year had so far brought with it the worst storm season that Wingate, Georgia, had ever seen. In fact, the Monroes had sat in a dry bathtub surrounded by pillows so often that spring, they’d nicknamed the downstairs bathroom “Hunkerville.”
Dad already had his keys and wallet and a wrinkled plastic poncho gathered when another call came in on his cell phone. He groaned when he saw that it was Mrs. Linholt’s number again.
“Studio Monroe,” he answered flatly.
Circa stopped and listened intently, hoping Mrs. Linholt had changed her mind and that Dad could stay home. Mom got still too. But Dad didn’t look relieved by the call at all. He didn’t even make googly eyes. He just kept saying “Who is—” and “What are—” and being interrupted. The only complete thing he got out was a quick “I’m on my way.” And that was it. When Dad hung up, he looked to be shaking some kind of weirdness from his head.
“What was that?” asked Mom.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know who that was,” Dad said. “But I’ve really got to go.”
“Well, just make sure you get back soon as you can,” she said as she gathered cushions for Hunkerville from off her studio couch. Circa and Dad exchanged a look. They were always making fun of Mom for setting up Hunkerville way too early.
“And Todd, please, whatever you do…” Mom began, looking at Dad so seriously. “Don’t sing to them,” she said with a grin.
“Yes, ma’am. You got it,” Dad chuckled. He gave Mom a big hug all the way around both her and the cushions.
“Have fun with the Shopt, and we’ll exchange baby stories soon,” he said to Circa. “But don’t stay up past your bedtime, young lady.”
Circa pretend-snarled at Dad as he smooched his finger and touched it to the tip of her nose. Then
he tucked the puffy envelope under his arm and dashed for the door.
“Taxi’s coming…nothing I can do…” he wailed into the murk of the afternoon.
From her stool, Circa saw the incoming wind whip Dad’s hair into a total mess as Mom crossed the room with another load of cushions for Hunkerville.
It was their first time to climb Umbrella Rock, and the family was having second thoughts about trusting a gorilla as a tour guide. Little did they know, the silverback and his fearless assistant Elaine had a very balanced approach to their work.
Three weeks, three days, and nine hours later, Circa stood barefoot on her own driveway with a sleeping bag in her arms and her face to the sky. She had never seen a night so dark. She grabbed the handle on her rolling suitcase as Mom rattled the doorknob at the entrance to Studio Monroe. It seemed like ages since they’d slept at their own house.
“I could have sworn I locked this,” Mom said, pushing the door open so easily she almost stumbled over the pile of mail at her feet.
“Must not’ve,” mumbled Circa, remembering that she herself had forgotten to lock it the last time she’d snuck away from the Boones’ for a good cry in Dad’s chair.
Mom gathered up the mail, took one step into the studio, and flicked on the overhead light. It buzzed out dead instantly.
“Oh baby, I just don’t know about this.” Mom put her hand across her chest and faltered in the doorway. Circa knew that Mom had been psyching herself up to come back to the house all day long. Up the street, the Boones had already fed them dinner, dessert, and even a bedtime snack.
“We couldn’t stay at Nattie’s forever,” said Circa, bumping her suitcase over the threshold, gently nudging Mom in. The room was so very musty, the thick air smelling of dead flowers and things left behind in the kitchen. The scene made Circa feel like faltering too. Maybe they could stay at Nattie’s just a few days longer.
“Hold on,” said Mom, putting her arm out in front of Circa. “Do you hear that scuffling noise?”
Circa sure enough heard the scuffling noise. In fact, it had been cutting her secret visits to the studio supershort, even after Nattie had theorized about the noises at the Boone house one night, suspecting that a fat raccoon was hopping from garbage can to garbage can all the way down Delp Street.
“Just a raccoon,” said Circa. Dad’s desk was already calling to her.
Mom began to make her way slowly around to turn on the lamps, stopping short of Dad’s side of the studio like there was some kind of force field dividing the room. Circa went straight to the dark end of the room and settled into the dents of the big office chair. She turned on Dad’s iPod, which still had his favorite song displayed. Circa pressed play. It’s way past midnight. That’s how the song began. Circa stared at the glow on the little screen. The music was so full of bittersweetness. Even so, she let it go on, like there was a sore spot on her soul she just couldn’t stop picking at. It actually was past midnight, a part of Sunday morning that eleven-year-olds and their moms don’t often see together. But Circa had hardly even noticed the time. What did it matter anyway, the knowing whether it’s 12:06 that your heart is breaking, or 12:07?
Circa swiveled the chair around slowly. In the generous lamplight, she could see the same familiar features of the room. Unbroken walls. Undamaged furniture. Unleaky ceiling. Unwobbled pictures. Slow-motion mom. She thought about how Studio Monroe and their home—the whole town of Wingate, for that matter—had miraculously been spared from destruction. And yet somehow, this room was totally different than before, completely drained of its comfort and charm. Photographically speaking, Studio Monroe had become a low-contrast, monochrome version of the room it was just three and a half weeks ago. Weeks ago, before most people knew what “Category EF5” meant. Before towns like Smithville, Mississippi, and Tuscaloosa, Alabama, had almost left the map. Before countless Hunkervilles had saved countless lives, but couldn’t do anything for one very important life.
Circa found herself longing for a thinnest-ever apple slice to look at the studio through. The only moving part of the scene was Mom shuffling from one corner to another, stacking and restacking pictures and papers, like mindless tasks were the glue that kept her from crumbling into a heap on the floor. Circa considered how Mom hadn’t really even had to be a mom for the last three weeks. Mrs. Boone had been mother enough for them both while Mom lay in the bed and Nattie entertained Circa with an endless string of board games, craft magazines, and nature shows. But now here Circa and Mom were, just the two of them, fumbling around in a half-lit room full of smells that didn’t belong.
Circa turned back toward Dad’s computer and gazed at the picture that was taped to the edge of his screen, the one of Dad and Mom and baby her. Then her eyes traveled to the carved wooden box full of ashes sitting on top of the monitor. She thought of all the undeveloped memories that must be inside there, and it made her chest ache with sorrow.
She pulled out the Shopt folder and laid it open across her lap. Starting at the beginning, she looked at every fanciful picture, lingering on her favorites. The basketball team with elaborately styled mustaches. The bride and groom squeezed together by a plump, green octopus tentacle. The Grand Canyon, flowing with alphabet soup. Each one had a short story scribbled underneath in Dad’s messy handwriting. And each one was its own much-needed spark of joy.
Once Circa made it to the Shopt version of the Linholt Reunion picture, though, the sparks fizzled. At first, she could hardly stand looking at that place, possibly the very same place her dad was killed. She was tempted to tear the paper into tiny pieces. But then, for some reason, she just couldn’t bear to get rid of it. She suddenly felt connected to all the good things Dad had added into that picture and again longed to know their story, the story he’d never gotten to tell her. About the watch, the potato, and even the musical rodent. But mostly, about that baby.
Fighting hard to contain the tears that threatened to stain the image on her lap, Circa tucked the Shopt baby and his family safely back into their folder. As she slid the folder back into its spot, she bumped the mouse and woke up Dad’s computer, where the portrait of Dad that Mom had printed for his memorial service was still open on the screen. Circa knew it was Mom’s favorite picture of Dad, taken at least ten years before Mom got her first-ever good camera. Seeing his face—his crinkly brow, sparkly brown eyes, and broad smile—made Circa feel like she just couldn’t bear to keep the sadness in any longer. But then she caught sight of Mom in the monitor’s reflection. Mom was sitting in the beanbag with a lap desk across her legs and holding her face in her hands. She was silent, but her shoulders shook like she was crying hard enough for the both of them. Circa had just that morning overheard Mrs. Boone tell Mom she was going to have to be Circa’s “rock.” But it looked like the rock was sinking fast.
Circa wondered what to say to Mom, wondered what Dad might have said, what he might have done to help. She looked to his face on the screen for inspiration. Then, without hesitation, she grabbed the mouse and clicked the paintbrush icon on the Photoshop toolbar. She opened up a color palette window and chose a bright purple. Then, as best as she could, she painted some silly purple star-shaped glasses right onto Dad’s face. They were uneven. They were cartoonish. But she felt like they might still do the trick. As she worked to smooth out the jagged lines of the glasses, the song played softly on Dad’s iPod. It was called “A Prayer Like Any Other.” She listened to the chorus: “Oh Lord, keep an eye on this place.” It was the first time she’d ever paid close attention to that part of the song. Three weeks and three days ago, it was just about taxis and guitars and the long, old road. Today, it was being gone and praying and saving grace. She wished that God had listened to Dad’s singing and counted it as a prayer worth answering.
Circa struggled to focus her thoughts on putting some final touches on her Shopt work. Once the glasses were complete, she printed the picture and carried it over to Mom
, who sat writing a check to the funeral home for more money than Circa ever imagined them having. Circa slowly handed the picture to her and said, “Here you go. Dad and I made something for you.”
Mom stopped and gave Circa a puzzled look. She sniffled and took the picture from Circa’s hand. She sniffled again. Circa wondered if she had done the wrong thing. How was she even supposed to know the right thing? Weren’t parents supposed to know all that?
Then, finally, Mom cracked a slight smile. “I should be the one trying to cheer you up,” she said. “Not the other way around.”
Circa couldn’t have agreed more.
“I never knew your father to wear purple star glasses,” Mom said. “But I must admit he does look kind of handsome in them.” She maintained the little smile for a few moments, but Circa could tell it was as fake as the sunshine backdrop pinned to the wall behind her. Dad had once made up a secret code name for Mom when she was trying to fake being okay for people despite feeling miserable. “Sunny Backdrop,” he would say to Circa, as a signal that both of them would do what they could to minimize Mom’s stress.
“You’ve got his sense of humor for sure,” Mom said, handing the picture back to Circa. Then she dabbed her face on her sleeve and turned back to business.
Flipping through the checkbook, Mom let out a sigh as Circa walked back across the room.
“Circ,” Mom said, “I— I mean, things— I mean, well, my schedule is going to have to change a bit now. I’ll need to do a lot more portraits in order to make ends meet, especially since the restoration half of the business will be closed down.”
Circa’s heart began to race. She steadied herself down onto Dad’s chair. That was not a Sunny Backdrop thing for Mom to say.
“That means this space might have to change a bit too.…We may need to sell some of this equipment,” Mom continued, her words soft, but cutting as barbed wire. Circa felt breathless. The big, empty wall at Maple Grove flashed into her mind. The stories out of reach. She gazed at the flaky insides of Aunt Ruby’s once color-filled jars and thought about Dad’s beautiful work drying up just like that.
Circa Now Page 2
