A rusting car arrives next, weeds tumbling out of its wheel arches.
A hawk—a red-brown missile arched against a bleached winter sky.
A cop, leaning against the hood of his car in the city, arms folded across his chest. He looks like he’s about to cry.
A self-portrait begins to appear on the piece of photo in the bath at the end of the line; I get up from the stool and pull it, dripping, from the plastic tray before the shape of my face can reveal itself. It’s one of the stupidest things. Some of the world’s best, most renowned photographers have taken pictures of me. I’ve seen their images splashed all over billboards and on the front of magazine covers. It reached a point last year that I couldn’t go anywhere outside of Mountain Lakes without people frowning at me, that same familiar look on each and every one of their faces. The, ‘I know you, but I can’t think from where’ look. I am used to seeing myself in photos. But when I take an image of myself, something changes.
If you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. Nietzsche said that. And that’s what it feels like when I look at a picture I’ve taken of myself. There’s a wall between me and the camera when I’m doing fashion or studio work. I use it to defend myself. When I look down the lens of my own camera, there’s no wall. There’s nothing. There is only a question, one I can’t answer, and I can’t handle seeing it on my face right now.
I screw the piece of photo paper into a ball, the developer from the wet paper wicking from my fingers. The scrunched-up image lands in the wastepaper basket. I return to my stool, the red safelight overhead casting a sinister, bloody glow over my hands and arms. My phone buzzes in my pocket, alerting me of a text, and then another, and then another, but I leave it where it is. I still have to wash the paper in the stop baths, and then in the fixer. They’ll need to be hung after that. All of this takes time.
I sit on the stool, waiting for the alarm on the analogue alarm clock I’ve set to ring. Five more minutes. Two. One. Thirty seconds. I’m screaming in my head, clawing at the walls like a caged animal by the time the alarm reaches zero and the bell goes off. I scramble with the door handle, struggling to turn it properly once, twice, before wrenching it open on the third attempt.
Sunlight floods through the windows by my bed, illuminating just how fucking messy things have gotten in here lately. My clothes are everywhere (this is the problem with using your only closet as a dark room). There are books and shoes scattered all over the floor. My Xbox controllers, and game cases, and camera equipment, and my notebooks—everything in chaos. I rub my hands over the top of my head, surveying the destruction I’ve created, and a roiling anger grumbles in my belly. How the fuck am I supposed to figure anything out or find anything in this mess?
My cell vibrates against my hip again, reminding me of the messages that came through just now. I slide the device out of my pocket and check the screen, and a headache instantly forms, pounding away at my temples. Thum. Thum. THUM!
* * *
New Message from Meredith 2
New Message from Hilary
* * *
Great. Just what I need right now.
I open the message from Hilary first. My agent rarely hits me up. When she does, it’s usually important.
* * *
Hilary: Huge American Eagle job coming up. They’re interested, but they want a different look. Wondering if you’ll let your hair grow out.
* * *
Oh, Hilary. Hilary, Hilary, Hilary. She’s sitting in her office on the forty-eighth floor of the Chrysler Building right now, laughing dryly into her fifth coffee of the day. How many times has she asked me this? I’ve lost fucking count. She knows what my answer’s going to be. Regardless, she feels she has to ask. She’ll say it’s because she doesn’t want me to miss out on the opportunity, but her twenty percent commission plays a huge part in her asking, I’m sure.
Me: NO
* * *
She replies right away. Knowing her, she already had her response typed out and waiting.
* * *
Hilary: Sure? It’s 35k.
* * *
Whew. All right. That is a lot of money. Doesn’t change anything, though. I’m not hurting for cash. Far from it. I could take a couple of years off and still have more than I need. But yeah. Damn.
ME: I gave you my answer.
HILARY: Can’t blame a girl for trying. See you at the end of the month.
* * *
ME: End of the month?
* * *
ILARY: Headshot update and Ralph Lauren shoot. Tell me you didn’t forget.
* * *
ME: I didn’t forget.
* * *
I so fucking did. I groan at the prospect of heading back into New York, but I’ve already been paid for this gig, and I like the guy who’s doing this shoot. Plus, I typically walk out of there with a fuck load of free shit that isn’t even available to buy yet. I can do it in twenty-four hours: leave Friday night, shoot Saturday, and then head back to the house as soon as I’m done. The further I am from Meredith, the better.
Speaking of which…
I open her messages, already prepared to be pissed off.
* * *
MEREDITH: I don’t know what I ever did to spawn such a cruel child.
* * *
MEREDITH: I found your little present. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hurt before, Pax. Really, what were you thinking?
* * *
She’s home, then. No message to tell me that she’s feeling a bit better. No message to even let me know she received a transplant, or left Mountain Lakes. Nothing remotely close. No, the only text message she sends through is to let me know that she’s pissed at me because of something I’ve done. Fair play to her, I thought her reaction to the mess I made before I left the penthouse would be much more explosive. All things considered, I’d say she’s taking it pretty well.
* * *
ME: He hated small spaces.
* * *
MEREDITH: Do you have any idea how much cleaning this is going to require? You know how I feel about the countertops. You poured HUMAN REMAINS all over the Carrara marble.
* * *
I sure did. Daddy dearest made quite a big pile on the counter by the kitchen sink. I was surprised by just how much ash there was inside the brass urn Meredith packed away inside that little black box.
* * *
MEREDITH: The AC blew him all over the penthouse. It took me an hour to figure out where all the dust had come from. I breathed him in, Pax. FOR AN HOUR.
* * *
Ohhhhkay, that’s actually pretty fucked up. I completely spaced. The AC runs on a timer. Meredith likes the place kept cool and vents that turn on three times a day to pump cold air into the apartment are fierce as hell. God, my father’s ashes must have spread literally everywhere. I can imagine just how badly she freaked. I’m almost tempted to apologize. But then I remember just how fucking terrible a mother she is, and I decide against it.