You Have Seven Messages (25 page)

“I’ve gotten you a meeting with Annie.”

Oh my God. Annie Leibovitz?
I almost spit out my chocolate cake.

“What?”

“She read your
Times
article. She called me at midnight.”

“Wow.”

“She’s a great person to know. And basically the most legendary photographer of her generation. Any generation, really.”

I remember when I was a kid, cutting out her photographs and making collages of them. Her portraits are like windows inside people.

“Duh. She’s so amazing. I actually want to start doing portraits.”

“Well, you’ll be able to pick her brain. We’ll drive out to her house in the Hamptons.”

“Cool!”

As we leave the restaurant, he puts both hands on my shoulders.

“By the way, Moon, I was the one who put Oliver’s flyer in the package. So it didn’t surprise me that you went to Paris. I just hope Richard accompanied you.”

“He did.” Then I add, “To the train station.”

He laughs and ruffles my hair.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

I can’t ask him about the actress. Not now. Maybe Beetle was right—some things are better left unsaid. I know my father, and I’m sure it was just a regular kiss. I’ll ask him about it someday, but I’m learning when to filter.

When we get home he puts on a movie that he claims he’s never shown anyone. He shot it with a Super 8, on
one of the first weekend trips he took with my mom. There are rays of sunshine shooting into the frame.

“Heaven’s fingers,” he says.

They’re at a cabin near a lake, and my mother looks really young. She dances on the dock, and my father laughs offscreen. Then he pushes her in, dress and all, and she looks really afraid for a minute, but then realizes it’s deep enough to ease her fall. When she surfaces, hair slick and nose dripping, she looks even more beautiful. You can hear my father sigh, as well as some birds singing. Then it cuts to total darkness except for a single candle. My mother smiles at the camera, lips stained red with wine. Then a shot of my father, half of his face, which looks wild with happiness. The last series of shots is of my mother in the car, singing along to the radio, the trees blurring by in the background.

When it’s over, we sit in silence and stare at the black screen until my father says, “That was quite a weekend.”

For the first time in a long while I see light in my father’s eyes, as though in a flash he became himself again.

We say good night and hug extra-long. I’m happy to be in my own room again. As I close my eyes I hear the faint sound of Oliver practicing. This time I know he’s playing for me.

In the morning, Oliver’s on his stoop waiting for me.

“Fifteen!” he yells, and stands up.

He looks different. Could he have gotten taller in two
weeks? I realize my shoes don’t really go with the dress I have on, but who’s perfect?

“Hey there.”

I am trying to play it cool, as he still hasn’t really told me about Rachel One. As if reading my thoughts, he says, “You know, I had a huge crush on her when I was thirteen. Our parents knew each other in the Hamptons. She was so mean to me.”

We head east and get sodas at the little cart. Oliver tries to pay but only has English pounds. All I have is enough for one so the guy gives us the other for free.

“And then, right before my recital she starts calling me, saying she misses me. And she must have said something to her parents, because even my father was trying to push it. But then I heard about her whole bet with her friends, and I felt so played. It was even worse than her dissing me when I was thirteen. I just got caught up in her game, but only for a couple days. She is so fake. It’s over now. You are the one I always wanted to hang with. And I felt your presence, just before I played, in Paris. This is going to sound cheesy but I imagined … I imagined it was only me and you in the whole theater.”

I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. We stare at each other, and our eyes water with affection.

On our way back to his house he says, “Oxford was pretty cool, but really intimidating.”

“Yeah, and performing classical solos at sold-out concert halls in Paris is such a breeze.”

He smiles and motions for me to follow him inside.

We go upstairs to his room. He walks up to the window facing my house, and when he turns around, his smile seems so real, his eyes shining with truth. There are long angles of sunlight shooting over each of his shoulders. He moves out of the way and the rays blind me for a second. We both move into the shadow of the room and slowly walk toward each other.

He puts his arms out, and I let myself sink into him.

For the first time since my mother died, I don’t feel the giant hands pressing around my heart. Instead, I feel weightless, as if someone has untied a knot inside me and I am slowly unfolding.

Stewart Lewis
is the author of the novels
Rockstarlet
and
Relative Stranger
. He is a singer-songwriter and radio journalist who lives in New York City and western Massachusetts. For more information, visit
stewartlewis.com
.