Darkroom (6 page)

In this historic election year, Washington’s talking about bailouts, corporations are laying off employees by the tens of thousands, and people are committing suicide because they’ve lost jobs, homes, face. But I’m emotionally disconnected from these troubled economic times. Mom’s death has eclipsed it all.

For now, the only thing I can focus on is getting my inspiration back. Something I had hoped would happen back in Bình Sơn. While Mom’s ashes had remained in Dad’s house in Del Mar, I held on to her presence, if only spiritually. Now that they’ve been scattered, it feels like she’s truly gone. I never expected to feel so empty.

Even here in my apartment, the slightest hint puts me in tears—a framed picture, the gold cross that once belonged to her
brother, a chipped coffee mug she gave me three years ago for Christmas that reads,
FAITH: THE EVIDENCE OF THINGS NOT SEEN.

Bình Sơn was supposed to bring me closure. But closure is a process, not an event. Perhaps the few photos I took there will help me to connect with my inner feelings. I’ll develop them after breakfast.

There’s great comfort in routine. A bowl of cereal, a hot cup of coffee, checking my email as I turn on the radio and read the headlines on my laptop: Colson Crosses Party Lines, Gains Ground in Swing States. Vietnam Vet Dies After Falling Asleep at the Wheel in Boston. Foreclosures Scale Record Heights.

The radio announcer reports that a dance student from Juilliard has been reported missing for three days. “Dellafina was last seen wearing faded jeans and a white sweatshirt. Authorities are asking anyone with information on her last known whereabouts to contact the Missing Persons Squad, or the 20th Precinct at …”

With a sigh, I shut off the radio. Bình Sơn and New York: both jungles, one of bamboo and earth, the other of asphalt and concrete. Manhattan is where a wide range of humanity, eight million plus, compresses into thirty square miles. These are the harsh realities to which I’ve returned. I feel as though I’ve left part of my soul behind under the emerald palms of Vietnam.

My Outlook inbox bulges with months-neglected messages. Reflexively, I delete all the spam and junk mail that has accumulated.

Then, without even looking at the subject line, I notice the sender’s name on the next email. My innards knot up. I’m tempted to delete the message without even looking.

It’s from Ethan.

He only emails me for a couple of reasons: to borrow money or to brag about the new girl he’s dating.
I really don’t need this now.

Never before had I given my heart to anyone. And the first one I felt safe enough to do so with breaks up with me because I wasn’t ready to sleep with him.

In retrospect, the signs were painfully obvious—his wandering
eyes, hopeless flirting, and vehement denial thereof. He’d been cheating on me from the start. Mom had a feeling about him and was right. She was always right, when it mattered. If only I’d listened.

But I really loved him. And that is perhaps what made the pain so acute.

I suppose I’ll open the message. Curiosity, it’s a masochistic habit I must break. This time, however, the entire look of the email is different. It’s formal, not filled with ’netisms.

In the spirit of decency, I’d like to call a truce and share some good news. On December 25, 2009, I’m going to marry Felicia, the love of my life. And I’d love for you to be there.

The pen I forgot I’m holding drops to the floor.

Why would he do this? No, I’m not upset. I’m really quite over him now. Yet the walls are closing in around me and the air is being sucked out of my apartment. I’ve got to get out. Walk it off. Take some pictures.

I throw all my gear into my backpack. The Graflex is coming along, too, because I’m going to show the world that it’s the photographer, not the equipment, that matters.

As usual, Frank, the doorman, tips his hat. “Lovely morning, Ms. Carrick.” I walk right past him. “Have a great day, ma’am.” Rudeness isn’t my way and I regret it. I’ll apologize later.

While crossing Central Park West, I nearly walk into a moving bus. The driver leans on the horn. I don’t even flinch. He’s got his destination and I’ve got mine: the old bench by the pond.

The sun doesn’t even attempt to peek through the clouds, which cast sackcloth and ash over the city. Thick morning air fills my lungs as I jog over puddles from last night’s thunderstorm.

Out of breath and with my thinking bench in sight, I’m doubled over, resting my hands on my knees, backpack hanging from my elbow.

Breathe.

I straighten up, and a boy on a bike speeds by, splashing frigid water all over me. “Hey!”

He doesn’t even turn around.

Dripping and cold, I am nevertheless determined. Not even this shall deter me from the sanctuary. I wring out my sleeves and take my place before the pond.

Denn alles Fleisch
from Brahms’
Ein Deutsches Requiem
flows through my iPod. A bit too brooding for me, so I shuffle the tracks, and in a moment I’m listening to the latest NPR podcast.

“… are aware of the fact that Senator Colson is a twice-honored veteran of the Vietnam War. He’s no stranger to the difficult choices and the importance of strategy. This seems to engender a sense of trust with the conservatives in regards to his foreign-policy plans. But at the same time, his plans for middle-class tax breaks resonate with liberals and those who make less than two hundred thousand dollars a year.

“Experts predict a huge upset on November fourth. Both the Democratic and Republican parties have expressed concern because they are so polarized on the issues and have taken such a hard line in order to maintain a distinctive platform. Now, Independent Colson is poised to snatch the election from under them.

“Reporting from Independent Richard Colson’s campaign headquarters in Sacramento, this is Joshua Sanford, NPR News.”

Unlike his opponents, Colson’s got his finger on the nation’s pulse and is ready to jump-start it back to life. If only I could do the same with my own life. For the past year, my entire existence revolved around Dad. Seeing to it his bills were paid, calling the insurance company to file death-benefit claims, making sure he was eating. Depression struck him hard, and for the first five months, he could barely get out of bed. Thank God he’s better now. Maybe now that he’s fulfilled Mom’s final wishes, he’ll be able to move on.

I, however, have grown acclimated to a life where my own needs are so foreign, it requires a passport to even think about
them. It’s time to get back into photography. If what Doug and the critics say is true, I’m closer now than ever to reaching my lifelong goal. Even Dad had once alluded to it, especially with my work in Fallujah. I can just feel it. That’s why I’m aiming for the Marbury Award for Outstanding Photojournalism. The fifteen thousand dollars is nice, but really, it’s the prestige and the doors this prize will open that motivate me.

But can I even approach Dad’s level of achievement? If I could just prove myself, exceed his expectations … It all comes back to him, doesn’t it?

Enough.

Time to take some pictures. Visual free association: I aim Dad’s Graflex at the first thing I see—a gray-brown mallard waddling through a puddle and into the pond, three yellow ducklings in tow. Dad’s Graflex has traveled the world and captured events of historic significance.

Now I’m using it for ducks.

At the most inopportune moment, my cell phone rings. Quacking in surprise, the web-footed entourage scampers away. It’s Doug, likely calling to beg me to return to work. Eschewing the appearance of desperation, I let it ring a couple more times before answering.

“Doug who?”

“Very funny. How are you, Xandra?”

“Tired.”

“Things go well in Vietnam?”

Filial piety precludes me from regaling him with the eminent Peter Carrick’s capricious antics. “Smashingly.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.” A strange pause. “Look, Xandra, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Is this a good time?”

“For you, Douglas, any time is.”

“Okay then.” He lets out a tense breath. “You know how much I love your work, don’t you? And beyond that, my admiration for you personally?”

“Yes, yes. You worship the ground on which I walk.”

He chuckles dryly and draws a long hissing breath through
his teeth. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s the last thing I would have imagined, though I guess I should have seen—”

“Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Right. Of course.” A pause, a sigh, it’s taking every bit of patience to conceal my annoyance. “Xandra, management has been forced to make some changes due to the recession. They’ve cut over fifty percent of middle-management positions globally. The budget for our department has been impacted severely.”

“But we’re okay, right? Our positions are secure.”

“I’m sorry, Xandra.” Reading from a canned script: “I regret to inform you that due to corporate restructuring, effective immediately, your position has been terminated.”

It’s unreal. Like watching myself from outside of my body. “I … I’ve been laid off?”

“Stinks to high heaven, I know. It’s hell for me too—I had to let Greg and Martin go as well, and they’re not exactly spring chickens. They’ve got families and—”

“Oh my—” After a yearlong sabbatical, I was so looking forward to getting my life back on track.

“I feel like crap. We all should’ve seen this coming. That’s what happens when they turn the reins over to the freakin’ bean counters. Nothing matters but the metrics, the bottom line. Wasn’t always like this, you know.”

“What am I going to do?” And the more ominous question, what will I tell Dad?

“You’ll be getting a decent severance package. But you need to sign and return a form with an NDA—boilerplate, of course. Any questions, I’m here.”

“Oh, sure. You’re there.” A wave of bitterness crashes down over me. “Good to know you’re sitting there, in your corner office, feet up on your desk, while people like me, Greg, and Marty—”

“They’re letting me go too. A week after you guys, after I’ve cleaned up the carnage. Handed me an ax, and then a shovel to dig my own grave.”

I swear silently. “Doug, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Should have heard what I said to
my
boss. Lucky for me he’s a forgiving man.”

“Yeah. Lucky.”

“Anyway, like I said, call me if you need anything. Really, anything at all. Carol and I are here for you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Good luck, Xandra.”

10

RICHARD COLSON

Mercy Hospital
Napa Valley, California

Was it worth it? After all the sacrifices we’ve made, is this what it all boils down to? I take a deep breath and enter the room. “Suzanne! Oh, you poor thing.”

IV drips connected to her arms, she turns her head, winces, and opens her eyes. “There you are.”

“I’m so sorry. The flight got delayed, ice in Chicago.”

“It’s all right, honey. You’re here now.”

“I wanted to call off the—”

“No. That would have been—” She grimaces and sucks in a thin breath. “Can I have some ice?”

I reach over to the beige plastic tumbler, place a chip between her lips, and kiss her on the head. “One to ten.”

“Better now.” She kisses my cheek. “Before the morphine, it was a twelve.”

It kills me that I wasn’t here for her. “You’re more important to me than any blasted speech, than this whole campaign. You know that?”

“Come on, how much time would you have saved? An hour?”

“That’s not the point. When it comes to priorities, I don’t flounder. But this time, I did.”

“You made the right choice.” A weak slap on my hand. She
smiles. “But you know, Rick, if you’d dropped the ball in New York on my account, I’d have to kill you.”

“I left Karen behind at the Waldorf Astoria to field residual questions with the CIBV and the press. As soon as I stepped off the stage, I rushed to Newark and took the first flight to Sacramento. Would have been a lot quicker if I’d taken one of those CEOs’ corporate jets.”

“And violate your own travel policy? What are you thinking, sweetie?”

“When it comes to you, all bets are off.”

Suzanne tries to turn on her side, but it’s too painful. Instead, she points to the control dangling from the bed. “Sit me up?”

“How’s the pain right now?”

“Comes and goes. I’m at a steady six or seven. Sit down, Rick. You look tense.”

Obedient as a school boy, I pull up a padded chair and lean my elbows on the edge of her bed. “Suzie, I’d never have made it this far without you.”

“Same here.” She gives my hand a loving squeeze.

“But seeing you like this, I have to wonder. How am I going to take care of you if I get elected and—”

“
When
you get elected. Honey, listen. I don’t know how much longer I have. Sometimes it gets so bad, I just want to give up.”

“Don’t ever talk like that.”

“But I go on because of you. You’re what this country needs right now. What the world needs. Don’t you see? The role you’re going to play is historic. It’s much more important than either of us individually.”

“But—”

“Don’t throw it all away because you’re afraid of what might happen to me.”

These are the times—those rare times—that truly bring me to my knees. I gather up her cool, dry hands and press them to my lips. “I don’t deserve you.”

She laughs, coughs a little, then sighs. “For better or worse … we deserve each other.” Her voice trails off and she shuts her eyes. The monitor’s continual beeping fades. Exhausted, I put my head down on the bed. I could use some rest as well.

This lasts for all of thirty seconds.

A knock on the door, and the doctor comes in carrying a clipboard. “Oh, excuse me, Senator.”

“Quite all right. She’s asleep.”

“Finally.” He extends a hand. “I’m Dr. Choi. Since your wife got here, she’s refused to sleep or increase her morphine drip regardless of the pain. She was waiting for you.”