The Photographer

Cameras from every decade perch on shelves like black tombstones. I can feel the corner of a picture digging into my hip through my jeans pocket. The Photographer asked me to bring one of you when I came—one that I had taken. I chose the one of you draped over the middle cushion of my couch with one strong hand in your dark hair and the other hand resting on your ankle that lies crossed over your leg. It is the one I took of you after the time that hanging up glow in the darks stars on my walls turned into sleeping beneath them. I hand it to him and he just looks at me with clear eyes and nods.

Others told me what he was like after their appointments. He seemed kinder than I had made him out in my mind. I smile nervously at the Photographer sitting behind his stained oak desk as he motions me to the door that stands unnoticed in the corner. I brace myself for what I will see. I walk to the door and touch the handle, it is warmer than I expect. I turn the knob and enter the room, closing it behind me. It is darker than the Photographer’s office was. A single light hangs from the ceiling catching the shadows of the corners of hundreds of wooden frames. In each frame is a photograph showing a scene.

Examining the first one, I notice a frail cobweb stretched over the whittled frame, the lacey strands of spider silk overlap and accent the lace wedding dress I wear in the picture, so soft and touchable. It is the one I have always wanted—pieced together parts of it from different magazines, but never found the perfect one. I brush the web aside and examine the detailing—small glowing beads in pockets of splotchy lace, tulle peeking out of the bottom and resting on small satin shoes, perfect white fabric falling over my hips. It is taken in the never-updated bride’s room of a small church. I recognize it as the one in which I used to change into my costume for the community plays. A slender arm holds a powder brush to my cheek and I recognize it as my sister’s. My eyes are closed but I am smiling.

I take in the whole photograph but there are so many more in my periphery that draw me to them. More photographs backtrack in time: our wedding guests, an engagement party, our first apartment, our first dog. In each one I see him, recognizable by his thick dark hair, impatiently eager smile, and deep burning eyes. I walk down the length of the wall, and I notice another section. This one has frames of canvas tents, warm dew on wild grass, sunsets over our favorite mountains, open fields shot from high above with two little dots with stick legs and backpacks on. I know I have never seen these places before, but somehow I know what they are.

The words of the Photographer are still present in my mind, “Each frame is a potential future, and all of them equally possible. If you want to know it, you will find the one that will come true.” One of these photographs will show me what our life will be, but which one. There are hundreds of frames each hanging with prints of places I have never been, clothing I have never worn, and embraces I have never felt.

The wind howls outside. I can hear rain splatters coming from the direction of the Photographer’s office. The light fixture in the center of the ceiling swings, and the beams catch the corners of the frames, casting ripples of shadows and light across the prints, almost as if the pictures have come to life and are breathing on their own.

On another wall I see a large one that catches my eye. The frame is a bright wood with a shimmering finish. Swirls and hatches are engraved into the wood. Inside is an image of you holding the hands of a young boy no more than three. He has your nose, my eyes—I know because they are arctic, not burning like yours—and joyfully scraped knees. He clutches tightly to the index fingers you hold out for him. Your eager smile is focused on his curly head and you do not look at the camera. I watch the boy, crouched down, my again pregnant belly shows through my dress. I am holding a colorful toy and reaching out to him. I fully recognize my face for the first time. I reach a hand up to touch my own face while I gaze at the one in the image. There are many more wrinkles on that face than I have now.

The room is dark and dimly lit, but each image seems to have a light of its own. This one before me is a perfect image, almost cringe-worthy. It is shot in candy hues, perfect clarity, and is hallmark-ready, but enticing.  I see love in all six eyes, as if God himself had taken the picture.

I look at other frames, faster now. I am blushing while shaking hands with your father, we have just told him about our engagement. Seemingly specially placed on the wall is a series of three. In the first, you are watching me from the river’s edge, your feet digging into the nooks of a boulder, your wet shirt is around your neck. You watch me with love in your eyes as I stand naked, waist high in the gentle waters, dropping down and coming up over and over again, my wet hair down my back. The second is a still of the splash of water I covertly aim at you. The final is you launched in the water with me in your arms. My mouth is open in delight and fear, and my body is completely given over to you.

I turn, and there is one large photograph that adorns the center of the last wall. A modest frame, it is plain and un-treated wood, and it seems to be glowing slightly, as if the shadows of the room do not reach it. I slowly walk up to it and I begin to realize that it is the only one you are not in. It shows myself, in the jeans and amber sweater I wear now, with the saddest expression and I recognize it all too well as complete loneliness. It is almost like I am looking into a mirror, although the portrait does not move when I move, it does not tilt its head this way and that, or stick out its tongue as I am doing. The eyes register nothing, and I am paler.

A creeping tingle rushes over my skin now. I stare and I stare at the image hoping she, hoping I will move, break out of the stiffness, but she, I, do not. This is the one. This is the photograph the Photographer has chosen for me. Of all these photographs, this is the one I know will come true.

I now know what I needed to, but I take one last look at each frame. I want to rip them all off the walls but my feet are heavy and every muscle draws downward. A sensation begins at the top of each collar bone, like I can feel him being extracted from my body. Chemicals melting away that have been stored in my tissues, now released. It takes everything from falling to my knees. I fight past the dizziness and turn toward the door. I turn the doorknob, noticing this time it is much cooler, but perhaps it was just my own temperature rising.

A translucent gaze meets me when I walk into his office. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, a slight smile at the corner of his lips.

“I don’t understand,” I say, “I recognized everything in there, but I had never seen it before. Why is that not my future if it can exist so clearly?”

“But my dear, you have seen them before,” he explained gently, “each of these have happened in some way.”

“It felt real. I wanted it to be.”

“But it was. You have seen each moment in your mind, in your dreams, and when these images happened it created a physical imprint on the inside of your skin. Look inside yourself, you will see all of these and more.”

“But I don’t dream, I don’t remember them anyway,” I say, thinking this over.

“These are the dreams of your heart, my dear, don’t you understand? I did not take these photographs, you did. I just help show you what you want to see.”

“I bet everyone asks these questions when they come to you,” I say. He smiles and his skin crinkles.

“Yes, they do. And none of them understand right away either. But one day they do, and they thank me.”

“What about her?” I indicate the small framed photo of a woman with her arms around a man’s chest. The man in the picture has darker hair but the same translucent eyes. “Does she understand?” Something lit beneath his eyes but it didn’t change his smile. A hot pang of guilt hit me as a knew I had struck a nerve.

“Let me show you something,” he said, rising. I got the impression this was a rare occasion.

He walked stiffly toward the door in the corner. I took his cue and followed him. “Look,” he said, pushing the door open. The room was brighter than before and now filled with empty frames. “You cannot be with him and one day you will understand. Until then, every time you want to be with him, just close your eyes and look at the inside of your skin, that’s where he is.”