15
new Hampshire
I sat on the vinyl seats at my gate. Detroit Metro Airport bustled around me, but the tall, airy halls and the departure boards full of exotic destinations failed to spark any enthusiasm in me. In truth, I still hung onto the tiny fantasy that somehow Niklas would show up here. Somehow we would work it all out so that I could break into my new career and live happily ever after with Niklas, too.
But this time, he wasn’t coming. The discussion about his father had probably shut the door on any hope for that possibility. The other passengers began boarding, but still I hung back. I watched the boarding line grow shorter. I scanned the approaching passengers but found no large, blond athletes.Final boarding. I picked up my camera bag and my purse and got in line.
I had accomplished what I had set out to do so many months ago when I left Detroit. I was officially on my own, with my life completely in my own hands. The feeling was real and vibrant and much, much worse than I had dreamed it could be.
*
As it turns out, New Hampshire is colder than Michigan in early fall. Not a lot colder, but after ten days of freezing during early-morning photo sessions, I had given in and bought a new, heavy down jacket. I had thanked myself for this spurge every morning since.
On this brisk northern New Hampshire morning, I found myself on a riverbank in the middle of the woods, looking up at an old stone bridge. The rough shapes of the rocks suggested that they had been cut before machinery took over that line of work. The guard rails were nothing but a few taller stones, hooked together with iron chains. All around the old, grey bridge, the bright oranges and reds of fall clamored for attention. But it was this monument of a forgotten time that I wanted to capture.
I squatted down on the riverbank for a better angle. I wanted the bridge to rise up into the photo, equal to its surroundings. To capture that, I needed the right vantage point.
This is what I had learned these past weeks in New Hampshire: how to make inanimate objects come alive. At first, I had been disappointed to find that my new assignment focused more on places than people. But the shift had allowed me to grow, and my best shots so far used elements from both portraiture and landscape photography.
I moved a little closer to the bridge and looked through the viewfinder. Yes, I had found it. The magical balance between the rough bridge and the singing fall colors came together in the tiny frame. I snapped photos using two different lenses before stepping a few paces forward for more shots. I straightened up and replace the lens cap before stuffing my camera back into its bulky black bag.
Inhaling the crisp morning air, the wet decay of the leaves, heavy in the dew, filled me. I stood still, letting the colors and sounds of the forest sink in. I wanted this feeling to last through the drive back into town. I could stop in the diner for some coffee before meeting with the little town’s mayor.
Jess had been right. This job was definitely an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.
*
The little bed and breakfast was dim and silent, even though the clock only read 7:16 pm. The window in my room faced a cascade of fall leaves still clinging to the trees that sloped down the mountain, so close.
I didn’t bother to turn on my light. Instead, I opened the window to the sharp cold of the air and aimed my camera at the hillside, where the last of the sun’s rays still shone. I breathed in the scent of the dewy evening, bolstering myself for the night to come. The night was the hardest.
The woodsy hills of the state came alive in the sun, but the last few days I had caught myself turning to a phantom Niklas to point out an interesting pattern on a leaf or a bird that hadn’t yet left for warmer climates. The narrow roads wound through towns and over slow-moving rivers, and I found myself storing away details to share with Niklas,just in case. But all of these thoughts of him were bearable. Daytime was filled with distractions.
It was the dull ache of Niklas’s absence every silent night that wouldn’t leave me alone.
I walked over to the little desk in the corner of my room and turned on my computer. The evenings were easier if I uploaded the day’s photos and worked as late as I could keep my eyes open. But as I waited for my computer to come to life, my eyes fell on my phone. I only allowed myself to listen to his message once a day. Night was the safest time to do this. If I was tempted to call Niklas after hearing his voice, the time change meant that he would be fast asleep.
By now, I had heard his message enough times to know every intonation of his voice as he spoke. The message itself was depressing:Please don’t call, Caroline. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to talk.
The two short sentences were meant to push me away, but instead I held onto this last connection between them. I used it to feed my hope. And hope could spark action, though I didn’t know if I could find a way to close the rift between us. I had the rest of the month to figure it out.
So tonight, I simply pushed play and let Niklas into my room once more.
