It was a nice picture and looked as if it hadn‘t been taken all that long ago.
But, of the three, it was not the most interesting.
c
There was only one other photo like it in this room. Maybe there were similar pictures throughout the house, but I doubted it. The halls were lined with paintings, not photographs. On the other hand, perhaps two were all that were required to tell this particular story.
In the earlier photograph, Mrs. Anderson was as beautiful as a princess: slim and rosy-cheeked, with a long river of dark curls. Her wedding dress was v-necked and low-cut, and instead of a veil, she wore a wide-brimmed hat perched at a jaunty angle. Mr. Anderson sported a long-tailed tuxedo and a bright blue cummerbund that brought out the color of his eyes. Both of them were smiling and had their arms around each other, looking as happy as you‘d think newlyweds ought to be.
The second, later photograph was a soft black and white. From the furniture, I could tell that the picture had been taken in this room. Mrs. Anderson stood to the left of the picture window, one hand on the back of a chair and the other draped over her stomach. A fan of sunlight made her skin glow and turned her blouse translucent. So there was no mistaking the bulge.
Or the scars.
d
To be fair, Bob, only someone with my history would know what she was looking at. Most people—even you—would‘ve missed the one on her throat because of the way the photo had been doctored. But look at the close-ups in an old, pre-Photoshop picture or movie next time, Bob, and you‘ll see what I mean. Guys‘ faces are always sharper, more chiseled, angular. But in the old black and whites— Mildred Pierce, Stella Dallas, Casablanca—the women‘s faces are much softer, a little dreamy. That‘s because the close-ups were filmed through fine gauze draped over the lens to hide imperfections makeup couldn‘t: freckles, zits.
Scars.
The only reason I spotted the one on her throat was because Mrs. Anderson wore a filmy Indian-style blouse with a scoop neck and long, bell-shaped sleeves. The scar was more like a dimple and very small, about the size of a nickel and a shade paler than her skin. In normal light—in color—it would probably be as pink as a newborn mouse. I knew because I‘d been on a ventilator for a long time, too. My trach scar had been just like hers until Dr. Kirby took a scalpel to it. What I‘ve got now is, well, invisible. You‘d never know I‘d had a hole cut in my throat for that tube at all. The doctors are right, too: I scar so nicely.
But, for whatever reason, Mrs. Anderson still wore hers, just as she‘d chosen to keep that thin worm along the underbelly of her left wrist. I didn‘t know if she‘d cut her right wrist because that hand rested on her stomach. Ten to one, she probably had sliced and diced that wrist, too, although maybe not as well. Most people are right-handed. So, statistically speaking, she‘d have done her left first. By the time she switched, the bleeding would‘ve started, and she might have been pretty shaky, light-headed. Now I‘ve never done anything like that, but I knew more than a couple kids, boys and girls, who had. So trust me on this one, Bob.
My gaze ticked back to their wedding picture.
No scars.
Well.
e
A door opened from far down the hall. When Mr. Anderson walked into the family room, I was studying a psychedelic landscape: a bird‘s-eye view of blinding white farmhouses with electric blue roofs caught in the orange slant of a setting sun. He said,
―You like it? I love that painting.‖
―It‘s really interesting,‖ I said. Mr. Anderson looked the way he had the first day we‘d met: fresh from his shower, hair moist and a little curly at the temples. Of course, he was fully clothed this time around: jeans, moccasins, a forest-green turtleneck that brought out the auburn in his hair when he crossed beneath a shaft of strong sunlight. I cut my eyes back to the painting. ―I like the way it changes depending on the light. Who‘s the artist?‖
―Harold Gregor. Obama has one of his paintings in his office, too, so I guess I‘m in good company. Hungry?‖ He led the way into the kitchen, still talking about the evolution of Gregor‘s technique. I followed, but my mind wasn‘t on art.
Because I now knew things no one else did or had ever mentioned at school.
Sometime during their marriage, Mrs. Anderson had tried to kill herself.
Then Mrs. Anderson had gotten pregnant.
So where was the baby?
And, really, where was she?
28: a
Mr. Anderson decided we‘d had enough adventures for one day and made lunch. I remember it perfectly, Bobby-o: goat cheese omelets and a green salad with preserved pears in balsamic vinegar, strawberries and slivered almonds. While I tore lettuce for the salad, he disappeared into a pantry and reappeared a few seconds later with a baguette that he sliced, drizzled with olive oil, and then popped into the oven to toast. After spinning the lettuce dry, I rubbed the toasted slices with garlic, and then Mr. Anderson spooned on a mix of chopped artichokes, roasted red peppers, and diced mozzarella. A minute before he turned out the omelets, he told me to put the bruschetta under the broiler to melt the mozzarella.
Lunch was delicious and, despite everything, I was ravenous. I was so used to thrown-together meals and leftover pizza, I‘d forgotten what really home-cooked food tasted like. You could tell that Mr. Anderson was comfortable around a kitchen, the way he handled the knives and pans, even flipping the omelet and doing a pretty good imitation of Julia Child: ― You must have the courage of your convictions! ‖ He got me to laugh, which felt good, and we had fun. I ate every last bit of my omelet and had seconds on the salad and four pieces of bruschetta. We ate in a nook that looked out on the lake and didn‘t talk much, we were both so hungry. Then Mr. Anderson pulled out a freezer bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies to go with hot mint tea.
When we were done, I started to clear the dishes, but Mr. Anderson waved me down. ―What‘s the hurry? You got somewhere to go? That‘s the trouble with people.‖ He fingered up another cookie and bit into it. ―They don‘t take time to just enjoy the moment.‖
―Sorry,‖ I said, sitting back down.
―And stop apologizing,‖ he said with mock severity, and when I laughed, he grinned. ―You look a thousand times better than you did on the trail. You had me worried there.‖
―Sor—‖ I stopped myself, tried again. ―I‘ve never had that happen before. I mean, I‘ve had cramps, everyone does, but never bad enough I couldn‘t run.‖
―Maybe your body‘s trying to tell you something, like . . . stop running.‖ His words hung there, charged and loaded with meaning. When I glanced over, he was blowing on his tea, his gaze fixed on the lake, but the invitation was clear. The silence stretched and thinned. He sipped from his mug, said, ―We don‘t have to talk about anything you don‘t want to.‖