Darkroom (12 page)

“How do you mean?”

“I saw an image of Stacy lying face down in the pond, before I called the police.”

“So you have a photo of that.”

“No, you don’t understand. I saw the image, but it wasn’t really there. I mean, when I turned on the light, the photo of the pond was there, the way I shot it. But the image was gone.”

He rubs the whiskers on his chin, and it makes an abrasive sound that I find strangely irritating and comforting. “Interesting.”

“You think I’m lying.”

“Or crazy?”

“Take your pick.”

“Neither. You’re sincere. Now, was it the same with the blog? Another vision?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m sure it’s real. And you confirmed it by finding the deleted blog entry. Kyle, what’s going on? Am I having some kind of memory lapse? Could it be that I really did meet her and have forgotten everything?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what is it?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. The question sinks in deep, and I can tell he’s very careful about what he says in situations like these. Finally, he turns to face me. “Can you do it again?”

26

“Do it again? You mean, reproduce the experience?” I can’t believe he’s asking this.

“Can you make those images appear again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Can we both fit in your darkroom?”

“It’ll be tight, but yes.” Actually, it would be great to have him see this. I can’t bear it alone much longer.

In the narrow confines of my darkroom, Kyle has to squeeze past me to get in place. My cheeks burn as his firm musculature presses against my arm and back. But his demeanor, as far as I can tell in the dimness of the safelight, is strictly professional.

After four or five tries on the same duck-pond photo, nothing turns up. I let out a frustrated breath and try some other shots. “Oh, come on.” Still nothing.

“When exactly does the special image appear?”

“After the real image comes up, like a reflection in the solution, but more real.”

I try a few more negatives, but to no avail. “It’s not happening.”

“Maybe it’s me.”

“All right.” I reach for the doorknob and let him out. “Give me a few.”

“Take your time.”

“I swear, I’m not making this up.”

As the door shuts, he says in a calm voice, “I keep telling you I believe you. When are you going to believe
me
?”

Without much hope for a different outcome, I slide another negative into the enlarger, expose the print. This time I try a higher contrast filter, though there’s no particular reason it should make a difference. Developer, stop bath, fix.

Kyle is right outside the door. “Anything?”

“Don’t nag.”

The print’s image in the tray is coming up now. This one is from Bình Sơn. The remains of an abandoned hut, the open dirt area in the center of the village. To my surprise, something appears on the ground that I know hadn’t been there when I took this picture. “Oh … Oh my—”

“Xandra?”

“Not yet! Do not come in!”

I know how this will go—the moment I turn on the lights, the image will disappear. I’ve got to remember what I see, though. There’s an old notebook in the drawer under the enlarger that I used to use as a work journal. At least I can write it down, maybe even draw some of it.

Except there’s no pen or pencil to write with! “Never one around when you need one!”

“What’s going on?”

“You got a pen, Kyle?”

He does, and slides it under the door. Then I record what I see. To my utter amazement, just about every subsequent print I develop has some kind of foreign visual artifact floating about it. And they only appear once. If I try to expose another copy of that same picture, nothing.

Kyle knocks on the door. “At least tell me if you’re getting anything.”

I’ve seen about four images now. “You would not believe …”

“Can I see them?”

“Afraid not. Give me a few more minutes.”

“You’ve been in there for twenty minutes.”

My mouth fills with imaginary cotton as I continue to write and describe these visions. The same horrific dread I felt the first time this happened encroaches upon my mind. My scalp, spine, hands, and feet are cold and numb, as if they all fell asleep at once, but it almost hurts.

The spectral reflections have stopped. I’m not imagining it. To the best of my abilities, I’ve written down what I saw. When I turn the lights on, all the prints appear normal without the ghost images. I can’t say the same for my mental state.

It’s not much, as far as Kyle can tell, but the notebook in my hand is all I can provide. And if the visions I’ve just seen are anything like the previous two, there’s a good chance they will have far-reaching implications.

“You okay?”

“I think so.” I hand him the book. His concern is genuine, not a bit patronizing. “You’re shaking.”

Before his fingers even touch the notebook, a heavy knock comes on my door. A black déjà vu enshrouds my heart. Clutching the notebook to my chest, I walk to the door and peer through the eyehole.

“Lieutenant Nuñez?”

“Open the door, Ms. Carrick.”

Confused and more than a little afraid, I comply. “Kyle, what’s—”

“Xandra Carrick,” Detective Nuñez says, a male plainclothes cop at her side. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Stacy Dellafina.”

27

“No, wait. This is a mistake!” I turn to Kyle, but he’s equally confused. Nuñez continues to read me my rights as her partner pulls my hands behind my back and cuffs me. “Kyle, tell them! I didn’t do anything.”

He steps forward and protests. But Nuñez just ignores him and continues to tell me that I have a right to an attorney; if I can’t afford one, the court will appoint one for me … all the words blur.

“This is insane!” Kyle is right in her face now. “Where’s your probable cause?”

Finally, the detective snaps a cold glare at him. “You ought to know, Matthews. You handed it to me.”

“He what?” I’m more addled than ever.

Kyle motions for me to keep quiet. “I’m going to take this up with your chief, the commissioner—”

“You were the one who told me to check Dellafina’s missing blog entries.”

The toxic sting of betrayal rises into my throat. “Kyle, how could you?”

“It’s not like that!” He continues speaking to Nuñez. “That information wasn’t meant to implicate her—”

“Dammit, Kyle!”

He’s facing me but can’t quite look me straight in the eye. “I didn’t mean for—”

“I asked you not to tell anyone!”

The detective’s partner urges me through the door. “This way, ma’am.”

“You might want to remind your frie—the suspect—that anything she says can and will be held against her in a court of law.”

28

GRACE TH’AM AI LE

Saigon: April 21, 1975

I cannot believe it. President Thieu has resigned. Whatever happened during the Paris Peace Accords two years ago seems to have failed. The Americans have withdrawn their troops and all other support. Both the North Vietnamese and the Provisional Revolutionary Government here in the South have been trying to overthrow Thieu and remove whatever is left of the government supported by the United States.

Kissinger and Nixon have abandoned us. They had promised resources to help our military hold off the North Vietnamese forces, which are now approaching and getting in position to take Saigon. I am glad Nixon has been removed. It’s only fair. Look what he’s done to our president and country.

I have been avoiding Peter since he proposed marriage. I could not give him a better answer than, “May I please consider your request and let you know my answer in a few days?” It has been two weeks.

He is a good man, but it is not simply the commitment that frightens me. If I marry Peter, I must leave my home for a foreign country of which I know very little, where I know nobody. It is an entirely new world, and I am uncertain.

Yet, while I deliberate, my own world unravels before me. The land of my parents is no more, I have no living relatives in Vietnam,
and any day now, the Communists will overthrow the government.

At the very least, Peter offers me security and safe passage. What is the matter with me? Why is this so difficult? He is a handsome and kind man. More than capable of taking care of me. Father and Mother would approve of him, as long as he doesn’t force me to relinquish my heritage. Most of all, he loves me. Which is more than my parents had in a time when marriages were arranged at a very young age, like an exchange of commodities.

What shall I do? Is it too late anyway? I only hope he has not taken my silence as a rejection and left Saigon.

Saigon: April 22, 1975

I cannot find Peter. Every time I go to the Caravelle Hotel, they say he is not there. He has not yet checked out, though. I am very concerned. I heard today that the town of Xuân Lộc has fallen to the Communists. This means they have control of the key roads to the capital. I have no doubt Saigon will come under attack. It is just a matter of time.

Saigon: April 25, 1975

There is a tension in the city that is difficult to describe. Many of our troops that fought to defend Xuân Lộc have entered Saigon. While passing through Lam Son Square, I spoke with one who could not help shouting in frustration, with embittered tears. “They have abandoned us. They have all abandoned us!”

“Who, the Americans?”

“Our leaders, our commander-in-chief!”

“President Thieu?” I was still accustomed to referring to him as president.

“General Thieu. Have you not heard?”

“Yes, a few days ago. He resigned.”

“No, I am talking of the news today.”

“What has happened?”

“Thieu has fled to Taiwan, and they’re saying he’s taken all the gold reserves of South Vietnam with him.” I stood dumbfounded as the soldier spat and trudged away, cursing Thieu for inviting the Communists to help themselves to our country.

Alain at the Caravelle’s front desk handed me a message today. It was from Peter, who phoned it in. He had been called out on a special assignment out at Xuân Lộc at the time of the takeover and didn’t have a chance to contact me until now. He is safe and will be returning tomorrow.

Saigon: April 26, 1975

Today, with the sympathetic help of the cafeteria staff, I prepared a special meal for Peter—a Western dish that Alain said any American man would surely love. Hamburgers and french fries. The only place I could think of getting ground beef was a butchers market just outside of Cholon, the Chinese quarter.

I left a message for Peter, saying I must speak with him concerning a matter of great urgency, and could he please meet me at my dormitory room. The room gave off an exotic aroma of fried onions and deep-fried potatoes sliced into little strips. Alain wrapped a little good-luck present especially for tonight’s dinner. A red bottle with the words
Heinz Tomato Ketchup
, which is supposed to go with the meal.

I chose to wear my one and only ao dai. The gold silk fit tightly around me and accentuated my figure in a way that made me blush when looking at myself in the mirror. Giselle, the resident administrator, helped me put my hair into a french braid. The entire arrangement seemed strangely decadent and in a secret way sensual.

I have overprepared
, I thought.
He will think I am childish and pretentious. Perhaps I should change out of my ao dai and wear my ordinary student clothes—dungarees and a short-sleeved shirt
. All I
accomplished was to pace around my room for ten minutes and then stare at the wall clock for another fifteen.

At last, at about six fifteen, a knock came at the door. Giselle checked my hair, straightened my ao dai, and beheld me with an enormous smile. “You are beautiful, Grace.”

“I am afraid.”

“You will charm him completely.” She led me to the door. After two deep breaths, I opened it slightly and peered through the crack.

“Peter!”

“Hello, Grace. Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Your note said it was urgent.”

“It is.”

“Can I come in, or should we continue this way?”

I let out a nervous giggle. “Of course. Please, come in.”

As I opened the door and let him in, Giselle rushed past him and stopped for a moment, staring up at his height.

“Hello?” Peter said, confused.

“I’m Giselle.” She offered her hand.

“Peter Carrick.”

“Just leaving.”

Peter removed his hat and inclined his head ever so slightly. Such elegance. “A pleasure.”

As Giselle left, she turned and from behind his back gave me a mischievous look, pointed at him, and shook her hand as if it were on fire. I am not certain what that gesture meant, but I think she approved of him.

“Wow, Grace.” He stood back and looked at me from head to toe. “You look terrific.”

I lowered my eyes to the floor, pretending to be bashful. The truth was, I rather enjoyed his attention. “It is a traditional outfit.”

“Ao dai? Yes. And they are lovely.” His eye wandered to the table by the window and quickly shot back to me, as if embarrassed that he noticed the meal I prepared. “What’s the urgent matter?”

“Please, won’t you have a seat?” I struck a match, lit the candle in the center of the table, then sat down. “First, I wish to apologize for not responding earlier—”

“Oh.” Peter let out a sigh of relief. “I was worried that you might be upset with me because you thought I’d left Saigon.”

“Then you are not upset?”

“Are you?”

“No.” I reached out and touched his hand. At first, tentatively. But when his eyes lit up, I held it tight. “Then we are … okay?”

“It wasn’t fair for me to propose like that, with so little preparation. And even though we’ve known each other for a couple of years … well, I hope you will forgive me if I was presumptuous.”

“No, you were not.” I poured him a glass of Schlitz beer, courtesy of Alain’s friend at the Caravelle’s bar.

“Schlitz, my favorite. How did you know?”