The Effects Of Light Part 4

WE'RE OVER AT RUTH'S HOUSE and we're coloring in the back room when we hear the doorbell ring. We think it might be David, done with his student conferences early, so Myla races me down the hallway toward the living room. I'm saying, "Not fair, not fair," because it isn't; she got a head start and I had to go all the way around the table before I could even start running. But then she freezes and puts her finger up to her mouth and tells me to be quiet. At first I don't know what she's doing and I think it's funny, but then I hear the angry voice and I know it's not a joke.

We tiptoe up to where we can peek in between the cracks in the door, and we watch them talking. We can't see who it is because Ruth's back is in the way, blocking the doorway. But then Ruth says, "I'd like it if you would come inside."

Then she backs up, and we see that Jane's there at the door. She's really angry, angry like I've only seen her get once with Emma when she ran into the street after a soccer ball. I'm glad Jane doesn't get angry at me like that; maybe there are some nice things about having a dead mother.

Then Jane comes inside but you can tell she doesn't want to. "Where are the girls?" she asks, and Myla squeezes my hand hard so it's like I lose all the blood in it.

"Do you want to see them?" asks Ruth, and I can tell she's surprised.

Jane looks at her like she's an idiot. "No. I just want to make sure they won't hear us."

Ruth yells over her shoulder, "Myla? Pru?" and we breathe as quiet as we can and are glad for the darkness of the hallway. After a minute, Ruth turns back. "They can't hear a thing."

Jane says, "Emma told me you took pictures of her the other day."

Ruth says, "Yes, I did. I was over at the house and the girls-"

Jane says, "You had no right to do that."

"Oh, come on, Jane, it was four or five pictures. The girls wanted to play with the camera-"

"I may not be a photographer, Ruth, but I know that the camera is not a toy. It's an incredible invasion of privacy. You're lucky we know you, that we aren't the kind of people who'll press charges-"

"Whoa," says Ruth. "Press charges? I took a couple of pictures of your daughter. I had no idea you wouldn't like that. In the future, I'll make sure she doesn't wander in front of the camera, but other than that-"

"Listen to me carefully," says Jane, talking slow now, like this is the angriest moment she has. "I'll say this once. You can take pictures of whatever you like. It's a free country. David lets you use his daughters-"

"Use his daughters?!"

"-in any kind of pictures you want to take, but Steve and I, that's right, both of us, disagree with the kind of pictures you're taking."

"Ohhhhhhh," says Ruth, like she's just figured something out and it's satisfying. "That's what this is about."

"Let me finish," says Jane, and her voice is getting angrier with every word. "Those girls have been isolated enough as it is. A dead mother, a workaholic for a father, no real routine. And then their extraordinary intelligence-"

Ruth almost laughs. "You make their precocity sound like a disease."

"Certainly not," says Jane. "The girls are extraordinarily gifted, and that's wonderful. But it separates them. It makes them different. The last thing they need is something else excluding them from their peers."

Ruth says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then think, Ruth. Pictures of them? And naked pictures at that?"

"That's what this is about? David showed you some of the pictures? Well, sure, some of the photographs are nude. But there are tons of them that aren't. Besides, that's how the girls live. They have no idea that people like you think they should cover up every time-"

"You know nothing about people like me," says Jane. "And that's not the point. The point is that before you take a picture, you have to think about it. Before you take a photograph of anything, use your brain. Emma's too little to know what she wants, and if you ask my opinion, so are Myla and Pru, but it's been made clear to me that's none of my d.a.m.n business."

Before I know it, Myla is letting go of my hand and walking into the bright room. I want her to come back, but not because I'm afraid they'll know we were hiding. I want her to come back because I'm scared without her. I don't like how anger makes Ruth and Jane different, and I don't like that their anger is all because of us.

They turn and see Myla and she speaks to Jane. "We are old enough. Eleven and six. Old enough to make decisions for ourselves. And even if we weren't, it doesn't matter what you think, because you aren't our mother." Then Myla calls my name and makes me come out and stand beside her. "Right, Pru?" she asks, but I'm too scared to say anything with all of them looking at me.

Then Ruth says, "Go back to the other room. I don't want you here for this."

But Myla says, "No." She says, "You know what, Ruth? You can't tell us what to do either. You aren't our mother either." And I can tell Myla's angry, I can feel it making her arm strong and tight against me, and she looks like a grown-up the way she's trying to scare Jane and Ruth.

Jane sighs then. She turns and walks out of the house, fast, without even saying goodbye. Ruth walks to the door, watches Jane get in her car and drive off, then closes the door to the outside and turns the lock. She walks right past us, like we aren't even there. We can hear her walking into her bedroom and the door slamming shut behind her.

Myla puts her arm around me, and we stand like that for a long time, listening.

proof this image is of one girl only: the older one, as you have come to recognize her. She stands waist-deep in a lake. Trees rise behind her, on the far side of the water. In the distance, a pine forest stretches out, and nearer, split trunks are the sharp remnants of a lightning strike.

The girl holds her arms out, palms spread down, fingers splayed like the legs of water bugs. It looks as if her hands are resting on the top of the lake, arched upon the meniscus. Water traces its way around her hips and belly and the very beginnings of her pubic hair.

In all of this, the lake around her is still. Not a trace of wind. Not a ripple. Not even from her breathing. Her eyes are closed. It is as if someone has placed her from above.

chapter seven.

myla knew she should probably call first, but she was ready to act. She found her way to their house so easily. She just drove up Malden, and when she pulled up in front of the large bungalow with the sagging porch, she wasn't surprised that no one was home, for it was the middle of the afternoon. She parked her car on the street, strode up the walkway, and sat down on the front steps to wait.

Myla knew exactly the last time she'd been here. It had been the night before she went for good. She was eighteen and angry, and she'd had something to drink, but instead of the alcohol quelling her rage, it had compressed it, made it a bullet ready to burst from her. Her illogic had led her to believe that there was no one to blame except the two people who were left. She'd come back here to this house to pick up her things so she could pack her car.

Emma, thank goodness, had been at a slumber party, since Jane and Steve had been trying to keep their daughter's life as normal as they could. The couple came home after Myla had already packed, surprising her on the front porch as she was leaving, bags in hand. She'd denied their entreaties for her to come inside. She'd pointed her finger at both of them and said, "Don't you dare come near me. Don't you dare." They'd begged her to come in. She'd stayed outside and continued on. "You know whose fault this is? It's yours. All of yours. You were the f.u.c.king adults."

Myla's words from that night rang in her ears, turned them red against her skull. She could still taste a trace of that raw rage, even though she knew things were infinitely more complicated than that. But perhaps the core feeling was true. Righteous. So many people-strangers around the country, reading their local paper and watching the news-would have agreed with her at the time. Blame was everywhere, blanketing everything.

Now Myla pushed that past away. She clasped the notebook in her bag and moved her feet back and forth between the step beneath her and the step below that. An orange cat came around the stairway and purred against her, nudging its head under her hand until she consented to pat him. It was a new cat, but just its presence served as an anchor, tethering their old house to domesticity. They'd always had at least one cat, and she traced in her mind the lineage of the three she'd known in her years here. She introduced herself to the fourth.

A few cars pa.s.sed, but none was theirs, none even looked like a car she knew they might own. They'd owned a station wagon when she knew them. Then a gust of wind made her s.h.i.+ver, and she suddenly wondered what she was doing here. What was she hoping to accomplish? She almost stood to leave, and then a blue station wagon pulled into the driveway. The window reflected light at such an angle that Myla couldn't make out who was driving. She panicked for a moment. Maybe she'd become unrecognizable. Maybe they'd moved.

The door slammed, and she heard the back opening, heard bags being piled out. Then the slam again, and steps on the sidewalk. It was a woman. It was Jane. Myla stood, then sat again, then half-stood, so that when Jane came around the corner, Myla realized she must look like some ridiculous dancer caught in midmove. She saw Jane look up to her face, take her in, realize who she was. Myla didn't know what to expect, but Jane dropped her groceries and sang, "Myla Myla Myla," almost like a chant. Myla hadn't known it would make her cry to see Jane like this, to walk to her and hug her, to remember the soft way her long hair-now graying-teased her arm. "Myla Myla Myla," Jane kept saying. "Myla Myla Myla."

Then they broke apart, slowly, softly. Myla picked up the groceries from either side of Jane, and Jane asked, without even trying to wipe the tears from her cheeks, "Where on earth did you come from?"

Myla had to admit it made her happy to see her very existence create joy in the heart of someone else's day. But she also played it cool: "I'm in town for a little bit."

"My G.o.d. Look at you!" Jane clapped her hands. "Steve will be overjoyed. It's . . . it's astonis.h.i.+ng to see you. You're all right, right? You're all here?" Myla felt Jane's eyes surveying her, the concerned eyes of a mother.

Myla nodded. "Ten fingers, ten toes. Still got 'em."

Jane reached out and touched her arm. "Let's go inside." Jane unlocked the door and Myla walked into the living room. It was smelling the past to enter here-the deep ash of the fireplace, the ancient earthiness of the carpeting. Had she been blindfolded, she would have known exactly where she was, simply from the taste of the air. Dust clung to the sun coming in the windows. Things were slow; it was like being underwater.

Jane took the groceries from Myla and jaunted straight back to the kitchen, leaving Myla standing at the door. She had the presence of mind to pull the screen door shut behind her, the tiny voice in the back of her mind reminding, "Keep the cat out." Then Jane came back in the room and clasped her hands. "Myla. Myla." It was a surprise, Myla realized, for Jane to be the first person to use her name after all the years of being called Kate. It was right to have Myla uttered here.

Jane ushered Myla to a spot on the couch, piling newspapers and magazines on the floor to clear a s.p.a.ce. Myla smiled and looked around the unchanged room. "I hope this is okay."

"What?"

"Coming here. Like this."

"Are you kidding?" Jane looked incredulous. "This is a miracle to us. I've called Steve. He's on his way. He and I . . ." Jane looked at her again with those mother eyes. "He and I think about you every day. We aren't religious people, you know, but we do the closest thing we can to praying." Then she smiled self-consciously. "Oh, but it doesn't need to be as dramatic as all that. I'm sure your life is just excellent." She looked down at her hands, which kept fluttering in her lap, and Myla wanted to tell Jane it was fine for the older woman to touch her, fine for her to use her mother's hands as she longed to use them. But instead there was a whistling from the kitchen. Jane stood up. "I put some water on to boil. I'll make us tea."

So Myla followed Jane into the kitchen, and Jane poured piping-hot water into two handmade mugs. "Here's my latest attempt at something artistic." Jane smiled somewhat apologetically as she handed one to Myla. "The problem is, I'm not really that good. But they hold water, and that's got to count for something."

Myla knew Jane's movements so well that it was as if she'd been in this kitchen every day for the last decade. Jane would give two tugs on her tea bag, then walk to the utensil drawer to the right of the sink, extract a spoon, tease the tea bag onto the spoon, wind the string until it squeezed out all the juice, then unwind the string as she walked to the garbage and deposited the tea bag. Then there was the honey procedure: half a spoonful of honey, centrifuged expertly so that there'd be a taste of sweetness throughout. Myla looked hopelessly down at her cup of tea, now turning a deep brown from neglect. She wouldn't even try to put in honey: she'd end up with a glob of stickiness at the bottom that would make her feel hopeless. She wished she were young enough to ask Jane for a.s.sistance. But now Jane was moving toward her, seeing a fully formed adult, and trying, truly trying, to treat her like one. Myla could tell it was difficult and was amazed by Jane's restraint. So Myla volunteered information: about being a professor of medieval English and about her research on Mary's blue robes, which-she realized with a flash of surprise as she was explaining it to Jane's open face-she hadn't thought about since she'd been in Portland.

And then Jane told Myla about their lives. "Steve's no longer at the university." Myla nodded. She wouldn't have been surprised to hear Jane say something like, "It was too difficult for him to be there after everything that happened," but instead Jane smiled and said, "He'll recount his renunciation of the laws of mathematics to anyone who's willing to listen. Consider yourself warned. Having left behind the glamorous life of a math professor, he's fallen in love with recycling. He takes the discards from one company and figures out what another company can do with them. Unused pieces of plastic, that kind of thing. He really loves it. And I'm still teaching eighth grade. The year's almost at an end, and the kids have been pretty tough, but I still do it. It's what I do." Myla knew she was working toward something, but wasn't going to say it without knowing that Myla wanted to know.

"And Emma?"

Jane's face broke into a smile even as her eyes welled with tears. "Em's doing well. She's celebrating two years of sobriety. She's living in San Francisco with her wonderful boyfriend-they graduated from Berkeley last year."

"Oh G.o.d," said Myla, shocked by this new reality. "Two years of sobriety? Is she-"

"It's all right," said Jane, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Emma's doing really well now. She's just fine." Jane obviously didn't want to talk about this part of Emma's past. But she added, "She'll be so happy to know you're here. She'd love to see you." Jane had decided to let Emma speak for herself.

Myla flashed with knowing that there was no reason to a.s.sume only her life had been shattered by Pru's death. In the intervening years, Myla had occasionally revisited her treatment of Jane and Steve with great regret, but even in those moments of remorse, Emma had remained a perpetually sunny ten-year-old in Myla's mind. Of course, now she saw her desire to believe that Emma would be just fine had been selfish and unrealistic. Myla tried to push away the wave of grief that surged up when she thought of what Emma had obviously endured since she'd seen her last.

Jane finally took Myla's hand and squeezed it, bringing Myla back to her present self. Jane looked Myla in the eye. She said, "We miss you, Myla. We think about you every day. We do." And Myla knew she was telling the truth.

IT'S VERY HOT ONE DAY, SO I'm sitting in my underpants in Ruth's backyard. I want to go home to get our wading pool so we can fill it up with water and I can lie in it, but Ruth says that will take too much time. She already has the camera outside, and she says she doesn't want to carry all the equipment in and lock up the house and drive us home. But I tell her it's so hot that I don't want to take pictures. Myla rolls her eyes because she's afraid that means Ruth won't take pictures of her either. But Ruth says, "Okay." And then, all of a sudden, she looks excited. She goes into the garage and comes back with a sprinkler and takes it all the way down to the bottom of the yard, away from the camera, and screws it into the hose. And when she turns it on, cold water sprays out all over me, like rain. And then I run in it again and again, until I'm cool all over.

After a while, I'm bored, and I come over to where Ruth is taking pictures of Myla sitting on a towel. Ruth is saying to Myla, "And then Agostino Ta.s.si, a good friend of Artemisia's father, Orazio, rapes Artemisia-"

"Shh," says Myla. "Don't say that."

"What?" asks Ruth.

"Don't say that word."

I know they're talking about me, but I pretend I'm not even listening. Then Myla says to me, like she knows everything, "Ruth was just telling me about this painter, Artemisia Gentileschi. She lived in the seventeenth century. Her father was a painter too, and then one of his friends hurt her. Right, Ruth?"

Ruth says, "Sorry about that, kiddo. You two are so grown up that I forget sometimes."

"That's okay," says Myla, like she owns the situation. "You should just be careful. Even though you don't have any kids of your own, you still have to be responsible."

I'm sick of them acting all bossy to each other, so I say, "That's what I want to be when I grow up."

Ruth asks, "What, Pru?"

I tell them again. "That's what I want to be. A painter. I'm going to be a painter."

Myla giggles. "Well, everyone wants to be something when they're six. Kids want to be astronauts and archaeologists and doctors all the time, but you know, Pru-y, it's hard to actually be those things."

Then Ruth looks serious at Myla and I can tell she's the grown-up again. She says, "Pru, you'll be an incredible painter. What kind of paintings do you think you'll do?"

This is something I haven't thought about, but now that Ruth's listening, I don't want Myla to take it all away. So without knowing what I mean, I say, "I want to work in large formats."

"That sounds great," Ruth says, smiling. "Maybe we'll do a show together someday, with my photographs of you, and your paintings."

"What will we call the show?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"It has to have a good name, so people will be interested in coming to see it."

"Well," she says, "I don't know. What do you guys think?"

I think about it for a minute. My idea comes to me like a shape, without words. So I have to put words on it and I don't know how. "We could name it after what we call this."

Myla giggles again. "I have no idea what that means," she says.

But Ruth says, "Can you explain it to us?"

"Like this," I say. "What do you call this? What do you call us when you're doing this? Like I know we have names, but that's not what I mean. What do you call us?"

Ruth nods. "Well, most photographers would call you subjects or models-"

"Call us models!" says Myla, but I shake my head.

"That doesn't describe it," I say.

"Remember that first day I took a photograph of you guys? In my studio? Remember how I told you you could name my camera? And you never did. Well, how about you name this instead? How about you name what you are."

So I stop and I think. And then the shape inside me finds its words. And before I know it, the words are outside me. "Camera girls," I say. "We're your camera girls."

Ruth says, "Lovely."

Myla says, "Boring. Let's go run in the sprinkler."

But Ruth says, "Wait. Side by side, just like that." And we know what's coming. So we hold still and relax our faces, and I'm happy because I have my idea, and Myla's happy because she has her picture. Ruth slides the film into the back of the camera, and we take one photograph. One photograph to remember that I'll be a painter-to remember we have a name. A name for what we are.

STEVE BOUNDED IN THE DOOR, and Myla felt the shock of realizing he looked old in a way that David never would have. David would have remained tall and lean. He was the kind of man who would have been able to wear the same pair of pants into his old age. But Steve, though not elderly yet, had changed. He had a belly now that pressed hard against her when she hugged him. And he had turned gray, whereas David's hair, thick and brown, would have stayed that way for a long, long time. Steve hugged her again, and kissed the top of her head. She could feel Jane watching them. "Jane and I hope you'll be staying," he said. His first words to her in years.

"Oh, thanks, I've actually got a hotel room-"

"Nonsense," he said. "You're staying with us. I can't believe you didn't come by before this. How long've you been here?"

"Only a day," she apologized.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about last night, but you're d.a.m.n well staying here now." Myla nodded, bent to him. Now that she was here, it seemed the only option.

Steve ushered them into the kitchen, and Myla remembered this about them, that the kitchen was where this family did their familying. Their kitchen was bigger than their living room, tucked into the back of their bungalow. They settled down in chairs around the table while Jane started moving around. Myla knew Jane was beginning dinner. It was exciting to witness such motivation over something so routine. She watched as Jane opened the fridge and emerged with vegetables and chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She checked with Myla that she wasn't a vegetarian, and Steve smiled with relief when she shook her head.