Rule of Thirds, The (13 page)

22 HOURS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

“Yes,” Glenys says, when I pitch her on my idea for the theme. “I think it’s wonderful, Pippa.”

And I’m off to capture in a few hours what my dad never got the chance to do in his lifetime. Documenting the hospital, chronicling its stories, the symbols of hope made all the more powerful because they’re set against a backdrop of pain.

Lightness in a dark place. Light in dark.

Glenys has given me free rein to shoot wherever in the hospital I’d like. At first I just wander the halls, looking for inspiration. Then I get an idea—the pond. The hidden oasis for those who are sick. A retreat where they can forget about their illness, if even for only a few minutes. Framed against the tall reeds, the empty bench at first seems like a symbol of death. The way I first saw it. But now, I see it as possibility, as hope. As good will. A perch that offers respite to those who are sick, and those who are here visiting, loving them, for as long as they possibly can.

The crunch of gravel startles me.

“What are you doing?”

It’s Ashley. You’d think the two cameras around my neck might be a dead giveaway. But I stifle a sarcastic response when I notice the green tint to her face.

“Are you OK?”

“No. Pretty much the opposite of OK. My friend had a party last night. Epic. But now I’m epically hungover. Can you take Mr. Winters to chemo?”

“I thought you loved doing chemo trips.”

“Any day but today.” She thrusts a clipboard at me then grabs her stomach with both hands and rushes down the hall.

Mr. Winters. Chemo. Again. Seriously? But I kinda owe Ashley for the panic-attack-in-storage-closet-with-Dylan day.

Mr. Winters is waiting in the chair at the end of his bed. I help him stand, making sure his tubes don’t tangle, and we set off on the long walk from his room to the cancer center. I try to ask him questions as we’re walking, to take my mind off things.

“Do you hate going for treatments?”

“No,” he puffs. “It’s not so bad. Only twice a week. And so far my white blood cell count has been pretty good. Only missed one treatment. At this rate I’ll be done in two more weeks.” His courage reminds me of Dad’s. I guess he has to believe. What other choice is there?

The cancer center is eventually inevitable, a mere
10
steps away. The place I’ve managed to avoid for the past two weeks. Until now. Breathe in one, two, three, four, five. Out, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Close my eyes. Then open them. That’s when I notice how different the room looks. Not dark and cold and depressing, the way it used to be when Dad would come here, the few small windows on one wall the only source of natural light. Now, the room is bright, almost cheerful. I look up. Sunlight streams through three skylights, making the room come alive.

“Hang on here for a second.” I put the clipboard down on the table inside the door to free up my hands, then aim the camera up, focusing on the bands of light streaming into the room, the background a haze. The perfect transition between light and dark. I come out from behind the viewfinder to appraise the rest of the room. Soft music plays. Not Pachelbel’s Canon. Some music I’d expect to hear in a spa. Still
totally
inappropriate—since they’ve probably ruined aromatherapy massages for everyone in here for life. But at least it’s not Pachelbel.

Oversized leather chairs still line the walls, their occupants hooked up to IV tubes, some of them with hands and feet in ice—to prevent their fingernails from falling out, I know. Lots of blankets, toques and scarves to keep their bodies warm. And an arrow at the end of the hall: radiation. That’s all familiar. But the mood feels different. Or maybe it’s just me. A new perspective? Who knows.

The nurse points us toward an empty chair near the back and Mr. Winters settles in. He mumbles something, and I have to lean close to hear him. “The knitting basket,” he says. “Can you get something for me?”

“The knitting basket?” I say, then try to mask my surprise by coughing.

“Yes, I know how to knit. My wife taught me years ago—she wanted us to knit each other slippers as a Christmas gift. I don’t think she ever wore the pair I made her—making a pair of anything the same size is harder than it seems.” He looks off in the distance for a moment, then snaps back to the present. “Never thought this would be the reason I picked it up again. Anyway,” he sighs. “It’s a communal basket. You just pick up where someone left off.”

“Like, when they
die
?”

He just looks at me, the way people who say insensitive things tend to get looked at.

“Between treatments,” he says. “Everyone shares in making the items—scarves, mittens, hats. Everything we make goes to help homeless people. Lets them know that someone’s looking out for them.”

Come on. Seriously? People who might not even make it themselves, sitting here, shooting up with near-lethal chemicals trying to kill the cancer that’s killing them, worried about people who don’t have enough money for warm clothes?

“I was working on an orange scarf. Can you see if it’s there?” On the way back from the these-people-are-way-better-people-than-me basket, I remember the clipboard I left at the intake desk. As I’m grabbing it, a chart on the wall catches my eye, a list of patients’ names in erasable marker. Under
Sunday
12
:
30
p.m.
is the name
Dylan McCutter.
And an asterisk.

I scan the board, looking for a clue, something, anything to tell me what’s going on. In the bottom right-hand corner, the words are written like a death sentence:
final treatment.

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6
ONE HOUR UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

Dace and Mom are in the front seat of the Honda, chattering about the latest issue of
Vogue
.

“Are you OK?” Mom calls back to me, where I’m trying to focus on holding onto my display board to make sure it doesn’t get jostled on the ride—but it’s impossible to keep my mind off Dylan. He still hasn’t replied to any of my texts. Cancer? Why wouldn’t he tell me? Of course it makes sense. Why he hangs out in the atrium with the other cancer patients. How he probably really
did
fall asleep that night he stood me up. The bruises on his arms from being poked and prodded with needles. Why he deferred Harvard. How I never clued in to any of the signs. But the thing that keeps running through my head are the words
final treatment
. What does that mean?

When we get to the hall in Niagara Falls where the competition is being held, there’s a lineup of cars outside the door and kids unloading their unwieldy displays from the back seats. “I’ll park and see you two in there,” Mom says as she takes her place in the queue so I can unload. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “You’re going to do great.” They both think I’m nervous about my photos. They have no idea about Dylan.

How I just want to get back to the hospital in time to see him. But first, I have to focus on the competition. I head inside. Jeffrey is already setting up his display. Six mittens: red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. The rainbow effect is impressive.

I pull my board out of the protective plastic bag and set it up on the easel beside him.

“I heard what happened,” Jeffrey says. “You OK?”

“Ask me in an hour,” I say.

“You’ll kick ass, Pippa,” Jeffrey says, eyeing my photos. “You always do.”

Ben saunters in, fancy black portfolio case in one hand, a coffee in the other. He pulls his foam board out of the case and mounts it on the other side of me.

I stare in disbelief at
my
photos.

“What are you doing?” My face hot. “Mrs. Edmonson said we had to start from scratch. That we couldn’t use any of the photos she saw. That
you
couldn’t use
my
photos.”

“She also said she didn’t want the judges to find out. So there’s no way she’ll say anything. And I knew you’d be too chicken shit to take a chance.” He glances at my photos. “You must’ve been busy, starting over. Besides, who do you think she’s going to believe the photos really belong to? Me, who stood by the photos right to the end, or you, who gave them up so easily?”

I remember what Mrs. Edmonson said. If the judges find out about this, we might both be disqualified. And if I rat him out, what’s to stop him from saying I smashed the window of his SUV? “Why would you do this?” I whisper.

“Easy,” Ben says. “The five grand.” But there’s something about his answer that makes me think it’s not actually about the money at all. But I definitely don’t care enough about Ben Baxter to find out.

A voice booms over the loudspeakers. “Welcome to the
15
th Annual Vantage Point Competition.” Cheers sound throughout the room, but I feel a million miles away. I look at the stage, where a man in a brown tweed suit and skinny tie is standing at the podium on stage.

“I’m Saul Ramm, dean of the school of photography at Tisch University at NYU. I’ll also be one of three judges today, along with Gabrielle Brady and Lars Lindegaard, both of whom are professors in the program, and will be instructors at our prestigious camp. I’m thrilled to see what looks like our largest turnout yet from the Western New York region—and I look forward to seeing all of the talent in the room. Now for a bit of housekeeping. We’ll be starting the judging process in
10
minutes, so if you’re a contestant and you haven’t set up your display yet, please make sure you do so,” he says, scratches the top of his head, then turns the mic off.

I fidget nervously as the judges start to make their way around. They reach Ben, and I watch as he explains the meaning behind
his
photos. The Nikon camera his grandfather gave him for his
13
th birthday. The yellowed photo of his father as a young boy. The door to the hospital room he was in for six months after a near-fatal car accident last year . . .

I close my eyes, blocking Ben out, and channel Dr. Judy. Breathe, breathe, breathe. There’s nothing I can do. What Ben does is out of my control. All I can do is focus on my own entry.

“Pippa Greene?” The woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail is holding a clipboard. “Are you ready?” The other two judges stand on either side of her.

I take a deep breath. “My theme is Light in Dark.” As the judges examine the board my own eyes flick from image to image. The sunlight streaming through the skylights into the cancer center. Mr. Winters, knitting the orange scarf. The yellow tulip set against the granite of Dad’s gravestone. Howie, skateboard raised above his head—a picture I never thought I’d use, but that reminded me that light was there at the hospital, all along. I just didn’t see it. The bench in the reeds. And lastly, the photo I found on the roll of film when I went to get it developed: Dad. He’s propped up in the hospital bed against a mound of pillows, a container of chocolate pudding and that first copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
on his tray table. Unaware that I’m taking his picture, he’s completely himself. His eyes are crinkled at the edges, and he’s laughing. The last time I saw him truly happy.

“My father discovered he had pancreatic cancer earlier this year,” I tell the judges when they ask me whether I’d like to provide any context to the photos. “He was a photographer too. He received special permission from the hospital to capture the hospital’s stories, but he—” I have to clear my throat. “He died in June. I didn’t deal with that all that well.” I clear my throat again, and cough, then brush away my tears with the back of my hand.

“I basically tried to ignore the fact that he was gone forever. But then I got assigned to do my volunteer hours for school at the hospital where he died. And I decided to attempt to do what my dad started—to show that this place that most people think is just about pain and suffering, is really about hope and having courage in the face of what, in some cases, are the worst possible circumstances.”

• • •

The hour of judging is the longest of my life. Dace and Mom are standing on either side of me, their arms linked with mine. They’re trying to distract me with idle chatter but I can’t focus on anything else. Jeffrey’s parents and his little sister, Rosie, are standing with him at his display. Ben is alone, talking on his phone.

“Are you sure you can’t come?” he’s saying. There’s a pause, then he speaks again. “Yeah, but you could still make it to see the awards presentation . . . no, I get it . . . OK. Bye, Dad.”

Someone taps the microphone and I turn my attention back to the front. Saul is up on stage at the podium.

“I’d like to thank all the competitors, sponsors and judges who have made this year’s Vantage Point possible . . .” he starts, but I tune him out as he rattles off the prizes I know by heart: first place wins $
5
,
000
and a spot at Tisch camp. I’ll settle for second—I don’t even care about the $
1
,
500
as much as I do about getting a spot at Tisch camp.

“This is it!” Mom whispers excitedly in my ear.

“All right, I won’t go on any longer. We’re ready to announce the winners,” Saul says.

“I have chills,” Dace says, unlinking elbows and grabbing my hand. “It’s like the Miss America Pageant.” I squeeze Dace’s hand.

They start with the freshman/sophomore division winners, and everyone claps but I’m not really paying attention. Then finally, it’s our turn. Saul clears his throat and rattles off the honorable mentions: “From Simon Chamberlain High in Buffalo, ‘Transportation’ by Ling Mao. From Westlane in Niagara Falls, ‘Animosity’ by Russell Cromwell. And from Spalding High in Spalding”—I hold my breath—“‘Found’ by Jeffrey Manson.”

Jeffrey’s parents cheer and Jeffrey runs up to the stage.

Either I’m going to Tisch, or I didn’t even place. Ben’s arms are folded over his chest. Will he beat me with my own photographs? The three honorable mentions stand for a photo with the judges, and collect their plaques and checks for $
500
each.

They step away from the stage and Gabrielle steps up to the lectern.

“And now, for the top two photographers, who will be enrolled in the two-week intensive photography camp at Tisch. In second place, from Spalding High, ‘Light in Dark’ by Pippa Greene.” Dace squeals and Mom squeezes me tight. It takes a second to register: I’m going to Tisch.

“And in first place, also from Spalding, ‘Memories’ by Ben Baxter.”

Ben walks past me. “You coming?” he says. I follow him, stunned, up to the stage. But once I’m up there, the fact that he cheated and lied doesn’t matter. I’m going to Tisch. I shake hands in a blur, accept my plaque and check, then beam uncontrollably for the camera.

When I get back to Mom and Dace, they both clobber me. Mom studies my plaque. “I’m so proud of you.”

“We’re going to New York!” Dace squeals.

I can’t stop grinning.

“Who’s hungry?” Mom says as we leave the building. “Pizza? The real deal, not the frozen stuff.”

My thoughts go to Dylan. I check my phone. It’s
2
:
30
. “Can we stop at the hospital first? There’s something important I need to do.” Mom just nods. For once, she doesn’t ask any questions.

• • •

I take the stairs up to the third floor, too impatient to wait for the elevator. I push open the door to the cancer center, expecting to see him right away, but he’s not there. His treatment probably long since finished. I want to ask at the desk, to see if they know if he’s still at the hospital but there’s a line of patients waiting to be treated. I pull my phone out of my bag.

Me: Dylan! I’m at the hospital, are you here?

No reply. Callie will know. But in the caf there’s another girl on cash. I’m standing there, trying to work out a new plan when Callie comes out of the swinging door beside the hot counter. She’s drinking a Coke through a straw.

“Callie! Do you know where Dylan is?”

She looks surprised.

“I saw the board in the cancer center,” I say. “I know
.
”

She sighs, then nods. “Probably in the recovery ward. Back on the third floor, very end of the hall.”

I race to the stairs, up to the third floor, down the hall, not letting myself think about what it all means. Past the nurses’ station to the end of the hall, then to the end of the next hall. I find the door to the recovery room, second to the end, and push it open, only then realizing I probably should’ve knocked. The room is lined with beds, one after another. I scan the room, not seeing Dylan. Then, I spot him, at the very end, on the left side, by the window. He’s sitting in a chair, reading. I rush over, and he looks up, startled.

“Hey,” I say.

“What are you—”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you OK?”

He puts his book on the windowsill.

“What’s wrong with you? How did this happen? How long have you had cancer?”

Dylan bites his lip, watching me. Then he stands up and pulls another chair over. I sit down. So does he. He pulls his chair close, our knees touching.

“Back in the summer, I found a bump on the back of my neck. It started to swell, so my mom made me go to the doctor,” he says. “They did some tests and figured out it was Hodgkin’s. So since then I’ve been getting treatments. Radiation every day at first, for weeks. Now I get radiation twice a week and blood work once a week to see how I’m doing.”

“So . . . you have cancer?” Tears well in my eyes.

He takes my hand. “It’s a form of cancer, yeah. It’s in my lymph nodes, but they caught it really early. It’s a pretty common cancer in teens. But things are looking good. I didn’t have to have chemo, only radiation, so I didn’t lose my hair or have any of the really bad side effects, which is good, I guess.”

“But on the chart it said today was your final treatment.”

He smiles. “Yeah. Oh wait—not in a ‘lost cause’ way,” he says, laughing, putting a hand on my knee. “Total opposite. They did more bloodwork just a few minutes ago, and I’ll find out soon if I have to do any more treatments at all, or if they’ve gotten rid of all the cancer. I’m pretty optimistic. In young people they say it’s highly curable, and that I could be totally cancer free.”

“So . . . you’re not a volunteer at all?”

He shakes his head.

“But not a deadbeat college dropout either?”

He laughs. “I deferred. To focus on getting better and to stay close to home. My mom was pretty shaken up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I wasn’t telling anyone, really. I didn’t want their tilted heads, their sad, Poor Dylan eyes, you know?” He acts it out, and I let out a small laugh. “And you just assumed I was on the ‘music team’—which by the way, is
so
not a real thing. And I remembered about your dad. And I didn’t want to tell you I had cancer because, well, I didn’t want you to think of me as nothing but a cancer patient.”

“I definitely never thought that. With the bruises and the falling asleep and bringing Callie to the party. I thought you were a . . . slacker.”

“I really did fall asleep. It’s terrible. The radiation makes me so tired.” He shakes his head. “And Callie’s just a friend. Our moms are best friends. And even though she can be a bit
possessive
,
she’s really sweet. She’s one of the only people who knows about the Hodgkin’s, so it’s just easy to be around her. I think I’m making her crazy talking about the elusive Philadelphia Greene, though.” He looks at me.

Neither of us says anything for a minute. There’s so much I want to ask him, but I don’t even know where to start. So instead I reach over, tentatively, and grab his hand, then give it a squeeze. “I get it.”

“I’m glad you know. Though I’m sorry this is how you had to find out.”