BLAIR
It’s the stones, the box, the letter, that make Blair decide to develop the photos. She takes the film from the bag while her father is in the shower and Iris cooks eggs for her and her brothers downstairs.
She stares at her mother’s back while Iris stirs the eggs in the pan. She sings a little as she works, turns over her shoulder with a bright smile for Blair. How to reconcile this woman with that letter she found? That crazed, confusing ramble ofI’m sorry’s andforgive meandI think of you every day. But there was no name at the top, no clear recipient, and even after reading the pages three times over Blair had no idea what Iris was apologizing for. Only that she was sure she had caused some kind of horrible hurt.
The clerk at the film store is a thin, pale guy in his thirties. Blair feels his eyes sweep over her. It is something she is learning, a difference between men and women. The girls she knows are always calibrating themselves in relation to boys, trying to temper their desires, to assess whether they are hot enough to want someone, usually selling themselves short. Men just want, bluntly, openly, without any of that painful self-assessment. Want like a dragnet cast wide, ready to catch whatever gets tangled within.
“Can I help you?”
“I want to develop this.”
“Cool.” He palms the canister. “Vintage.” She nods, pretends to study the cameras and lenses on display in a glass case to her right. “What’s your name?”
“Jamie.” The lie slips out of her mouth, but she doesn’t like the way the guy is looking at her. Doesn’t want to give him any part ofherself. He scribbles it onto a yellow pad on the countertop, rips a sheet off and hands it to her.
“I’ll call you in a few days.”
She hopes hermother won’t be there when she gets home but Iris’s car is in the driveway. She’s in the kitchen when Blair steps into the hall. She can hear her stirring something, the clang of the wooden spoon against a pan, onions simmering.
“Blair? Come in here! I have something for you.”
Iris has her apron on, gestures at Blair to sit at the island. Her mother beams at her. It’s a feeling Blair has had before, that it can be painful, to be so loved, just for existing. On a day like today, when she knows she hasn’t acted her best, it can feel like a kind of burden. She wonders what it would be like to have grown up the way her mother did—or at least what she’s been able to piece together from her father. Unsupervised, unloved, untethered. Her father always says how hard Iris had it, but Blair wonders if there must have been some freedom in that.
“We had some extras of these from the library bake sale fundraiser. I thought you’d want some.” She tosses Blair a cellophane bag stamped with snowflakes. Inside, chocolate cherry cookies. Iris’s specialty. Blair’s favorite.
“Thanks,” Blair says. She doesn’t take one out yet. She is torn between flares of guilt and anger.I don’t deserve this. I’m a traitor.And:Who are you, and what have you done?
“Of course.” Iris turns to the stove, turns down the heat, walks to the island and puts a hand on Blair’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“You’re so busy lately, with soccer and school. I feel like we hardly got to talk this week. Nothing’s on your mind? You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
She wants to crumble before Iris. Beg her to explain what she’s found, what she’s seen. But she can’t form her mouth into the shape of the words. The possibilities she’s come up with seem wild andsilly out loud. Are you having an affair? Are you leaving us? Instead she leans into her mother, her warmth. The material of Iris’s blouse is thin and Blair can feel the scar underneath her sleeve, where her mother was bit by a dog as a girl. When Blair was young she used to trace her fingers over the ridged, raised skin. She didn’t understand what a scar was, confused by an injury that didn’t heal completely but also didn’t hurt anymore.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Okay. Everything good with your friends? With Henry?”
“Yeah.”
“You promise nothing is wrong?” Iris holds her gaze.
“I promise I’m going to do some homework. Calculus.”
“Okay. Dinner at seven.”
Blair turns the corner when she hears her mother call out for her again. She turns around, expecting her mother to proffer a box of tissues to restock the upstairs powder room, a laundry basket to heave up.
“Listen to your gut, okay? With Henry. If it doesn’t feel right… it probably isn’t right for you. If it makes you happy… well. Happy is a good sign. I know you have a good head on your shoulders. But I just wish someone had told me that when I was younger. To trust myself and to ask for help if I needed it.”
“Okay,” Blair says, a little taken aback. Iris never talks about being a teenager. The timeline of her mother’s stories, references, memories, all seem to start after she met Blair’s dad.
Henry is the easy thing in her life right now. What feels murky and confusing is Iris, and whatever secret she is tending to just beyond Blair’s view.
A voicemail, Thursday,in the middle of AP World History. She checks it in the bathroom—the photo guy.Um, yeah. I’m looking for Jamie? This is the number I have for you. Your pictures are ready.
She listens three times, trying to discern some kind of reaction in his voice. Is he titillated? Disgusted? But his affect gives nothingaway. Most of all he sounds confused that the name on her voicemail doesn’t match the one she gave. Rookie mistake. But who even leaves voicemails anyway?
