Those are her things.
She and I always unpacked them together. She would tell me secret stories from her travels, and we’d stay up late and watch a chick flick together after Dad went to bed. There’s still an untouched pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in the freezer, almost unrecognizable under the ice crystals now. I picked it up to split with her. I’ll never eat that flavor again.
He never cared for her stories. He never cared.
And now he’s TOUCHING HER THINGS.
My fingers are shaking. Sweaty. I almost can’t hold on to the phone.
A line of text appears beneath the photo.
CY: Ian offered to take these off our hands. He’s coming over to make me an offer. Is there anything you want before I let him take it?
WHAT.
I think I’m having a panic attack. Wheezing sounds choke out of my mouth.
Somehow, the phone finds my cheek and my dad’s voice is in my ear.
“What are you doing?” I say. I want to be yelling, but my voice is thin and reedy and thickening with tears. “Stop it! Put it back!”
“Juliet? Are you—”
“How could you?” Now I am crying. “You can’t. You can’t. You can’t. How could you?”
“Juliet.” He sounds stricken. It’s the first emotion I’ve heard out of him since she died. “Juliet. Please. Calm down. I didn’t—”
“Those are hers!” My knees hit the ground. I press my forehead against the wrought-iron bars of the fence. “You never—those are hers—”
“Juliet.” His voice is hushed. “I won’t. I had no idea—”
He is killing me. Pain is ripping me apart. I can barely hold the phone.
I hate him. I hate him for this.
I hate him.
IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim.
Temper, Juliet.
My eyes blur and the world spins, and it feels like a long time before I realize I’m lying in the grass and his voice is a tinny echo shouting out of the phone.
I press it to my ear. Spots flash in front of my eyes.
“Juliet!” He’s yelling. “Juliet, I’m about to call nine-one-one. Answer me!”
“I’m here,” I choke. I sob. “You can’t. Please.”
“I won’t,” he whispers. “Okay? I won’t.”
The sun keeps beating down on me, turning my tears to itchy lines on my face. “Okay.”
I should apologize, but the words won’t form. It feels like apologizing for getting mad that someone drove an iron spike through your chest. My breath won’t stop hitching.
“Do you need me to come get you?” he says.
“No.”
“Juliet . . .”
“No.”
I can’t leave yet. I can’t go home and see all her things on the table.
“Put it back,” I say.
He hesitates. “Maybe we should talk . . .”
I’m going to be sick. “Put it back!”
“I will. I will.” He hesitates again. “When are you going to be home?”
He hasn’t asked me this since she died. It’s the first indication I’ve had that he even knew I still existed.
I should probably be thanking my lucky stars that he bothered to ask if I wanted any of her things.
He’s probably regretting the hell out of sending that text message.
“When I’m ready.”
Then I end the call.
CHAPTER SEVEN
You can look up my mother if you want. If you search for “Zoe Thorne Syria Photo,” you’ll find one of her most famous photographs. A little boy and a little girl are on a pair of swings, laughing. Behind them is a bombed-out building and two men with assault rifles. Everyone’s clothes are filthy, caked with sweat and dust. The men are sweating and exhausted and terrified. There’s nothing left but that swing set.
I’ve never been able to decide whether the photograph is depressing or hopeful.
Maybe both.
My mother’s equipment has been stashed in a back corner of the basement since she died. No one has touched any of it—until today. This afternoon, my father was ready to sell it all to my mother’s former editor.
I didn’t take it well.
It’s a lot of gear, and it cost a ton of money. Thousands of dollars. Probably tens of thousands of dollars. We’re not rich, but we’re not hard up for cash. Dad said he didn’t care about the money, and for that, I wanted to punch him. If he didn’t care about the money, then why do it? Why get rid of her most precious things? It’s so like him, though. I asked if he’d be so cavalier about selling her wedding ring. He said she’d been buried with it. Then he started crying.
I felt like shit terrible. I still do.
It’s ridiculous for me to cross that out. Force of habit, I guess. Mom never tolerated profanity. She said she spent too much money learning to use words and pictures effectively, and it seemed a waste to drop an f-bomb.
The only reason I knew my dad was getting rid of her stuff was because he asked me if I wanted any of it. I haven’t touched a camera since she died. I was supposed to be in honors photography this year, but I dropped the class. The teacher has told me at least six times that he’d welcome me back if I change my mind, but there’s as much chance of that as there is of her coming back from the dead. I can’t press a camera to my face without thinking of her. I haven’t even wanted to take a picture.
No. That’s not true.
Last week, I saw someone with so much emotion trapped in his eyes that I wanted a camera in my hands, right that instant. I barely know him, and I only saw him for a minute, but it’s like a shutter clicked in my brain. Mom used to say that a picture wasn’t worth anything if it didn’t produce a reaction, that it takes talent to capture feeling with an image. I don’t think I ever really understood what that meant until that moment.
But I didn’t have a camera, and it’s not like you can snap a picture of a random stranger without generating a few questions.
Look up her Syria picture if you get a chance. I’m curious to hear what you think.