15. Marley
FIFTEEN
MARLEY
Bennett asks if I’m interested in popcorn once he’s got me set up in the armchair with another ice pack. While he goes off to do that I’m charged with finding something on Netflix. I don’t know why, but I’m somewhat surprised he has a streaming service. His only stipulation is that he doesn’t love movies with explosions or gun violence, oh and no animals dying, but other than that he’s up for anything. I see enough violence in my day-to-day life so I tend to stick with comedies anyway.
I settle on Dumb and Dumber, a surefire way to lighten the mood after all the heated looks and our chat upstairs. When Bennett comes back into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and a couple of glasses of water, he informs me that he has never seen the movie.
“How?” I ask, in shock.
“I told you, I don’t watch a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah, but it’s Dumb and Dumber . Jim Carrey. Jeff Daniels. ‘We got no food! We got no jobs! Our pets’ heads are fallin’ off!’” I break off as I gesture wildly towards the TV as if that will remind him that he has in fact seen this classic and he just forgot.
Recognition dawns on his face and I think my memory retrieval method actually worked, but then his face goes blank as he looks at me dead in the eye. “Nope, I’ve never seen it. But,” he says as he pops a few kernels into his mouth, “I’m very excited now. All the flailing really sold it.”
“You better like it.” I wag a finger at him. “Or we can’t be friends anymore.”
“Friends, eh?”
The things I want to do with this man are not things I do with friends.
To my extreme relief, Bennett laughs a lot, and I end up spending half the movie watching his reactions rather than the screen. I’ve seen it so many times I can quote it verbatim, but you only get to witness someone watching one of your favorites for the first time once. I want to bottle his laughter and take it with me when I leave. I think of how it would brighten up just about any day when I’m in the thick of it.
I end up thinking about work again and how after the movie is done Bennett is probably going to make dinner and then ask me for a day in my life. I don’t realize I’m staring at the empty fireplace until I feel a nudge. I look up at the screen to see Harry, knees high in the air, a pained expression on his face, frozen in mid-shit.
“Where’d you go?” Bennett asks.
“Nowhere,” I reply, forcing myself to smile at him.
He can see I’m lying.
What I like about this temporary relationship is that I get a bit of a break from myself and from people who know me. I’ve really enjoyed being the injured hiker rather than someone who can’t feel normal things anymore. Hell, I enjoyed crying yesterday. No, I loved crying yesterday, and I’m pretty sure it had more to do with feeling something than being held by Bennett. Although being held by Bennett was pretty great. Still, the faster he figures me out, the harder it is for me to stay present in this happy little bubble.
Bennett is still looking at me. “Really, Bennett, I’m fine. This part is great,” I say, pointing at the TV and avoiding eye contact with him.
He makes a sound and then hits play, finally looking away from me.
Knowing his eyes aren’t on me anymore lets me relax a bit, and I do my best to get back into the movie. But for the rest of the movie, neither of us laughs.
My stomach rumbles as the credits start to roll, and Bennett lets me know he’ll go get dinner started. He hands his laptop back to me so I can let Izzy know that I’m still alive.
As I expected, I find a new email from Izzy and, perhaps a bit more surprising, one from my other friend Nellie.
Marley, you better still be alive because if you’re not and you didn’t tell me, I will end you.
That is all Izzy said. So I do the bare minimum and send her a thumbs-up.
Nellie’s is calm, cool, and collected in comparison.
Mar,
Izzy has informed me that you were gravely injured on some hiking trail in the middle of nowhere, but not to worry because you were rescued by a knight in athletic shorts riding a wave of many dogs. Don’t forget to ask him what his favorite dinosaur is.
Please make haste and inform me of your well-being.
Your most faithful friend ,
Nell
One of the first things Nellie ever asked me was what my favorite dinosaur was, and I’ve come to learn that it’s what she asks everyone when she first meets them. If they have one, she’s willing to put the work into getting to know them. If they don’t have one, the chances of her spending time with the person are low.
Nell,
Izzy has once again exaggerated. My knight was in joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I assure you his legs were fully covered. However, he was riding a wave of a whopping 21 dogs.
I’m ok, just a bit sore. Bennett says he expects to have a better idea of when the road will be fixed by tomorrow, and when I know I’ll let you and Iz know too. For now, I’m enjoying life being waited on hand and foot and carried absolutely everywhere.
Love ya,
Mar
There are three more emails about work, one from Simon and two from newspaper editors. I open Simon’s first and brace myself for a telling-off.
Cunningham, goddammit it. I cannot believe you’re faking an injury to get out of going to this damn summit with me. And the whole ignoring my texts on top of it is a new low. If you actually are injured, however, please take care so you are ready for the next assignment. Karen is sending George with me to London, and I don’t want this to become a normal thing. Also, Anthony is looking at several photography programs for college or university. He wants your recommendations.
Take care,
Simon Newgate
Staff Reporter – AP
Other than the fact he’s more to me than simply a colleague, Simon is hands down one of my favorite journalists to work with. He’s old-school and will do just about anything, within the confines of ethics, to get a story. It’s the reason we work well together; fear doesn’t play a role in how we operate. He also, clearly, hates covering protests and anything to do with politicians. He’d rather be bringing people stories that they need to be aware of.
Newsgate,
I’m sorry you’re having to go into the entitled trenches without me. I bet Anthony is very happy you’ll only be away for a short time, though. Give that kid a hug for me. I’ll send him a list of schools he should strongly consider.
As far as my injury I’m hoping to be back up and running, in all the ways, before too long. Hey, maybe Karen will send us off to embed with a rebel group for a bit to make up for the summit assignment.
Can’t wait to hear all about the trip.
Marley
Simon’s husband passed away five years ago, and he was left to balance his career and their son. Anthony is showing signs of wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he also wants to be a photographer. Part of me thinks he’d be a fantastic journalist; he’s the type of person anyone would be comfortable talking to. But he’s also such an innocent and kind soul that the thought of him seeing what Simon and I see day in and day out worries me a little. I don’t want to see the ugliest part of this world drain him of his innocence and joy.
I’ve just sent an email with a list of recommendations for Anthony when Bennett announces dinner is ready. Instead of going to the kitchen, however, he carries me into an actual dining room. The table is set for two, and there’s even a candle lit.
“Well, this is,” I say, pausing because I want to say “romantic” but settle on “fancy.”
Bennett sets me down in a chair and then pushes it in. I, ever the lady, tip forward and grab the table, totally unprepared for the movement. “Shit, sorry,” he says, letting me get settled before he pushes the chair the rest of the way in.
“I take it you never were a server in a high-end restaurant,”
“What gave it away?” He sits in the chair to my left.
“Something smells good,” I say, looking at the covered dishes.
“Unfortunately, I can’t take much credit for any of it. Nancy brought it over. I just reheated it and put it in serving dishes.”
“Reheating is crucial, and presentation is key.”
“You’re too kind,” he says, lifting the lid of the larger dish. “A venison stew.” He sets the lid aside then moves on to the next dish. “Smashed potatoes with garlic.” It smells absolutely amazing, and my face must say that because Bennett chuckles. “Definitely better than canned soup or children’s cereal.”
“Hey, don’t cereal-shame us. These are uncertain times. Eat the sugary cereal.”
“Yes, ma’am. ”
“Also,” I add as I spoon some potatoes onto my plate, “you cooked that pasta perfectly last night.”
Dinner is, for lack of a better term, fucking incredible. If Nancy making Bennett food is a regular occurrence, then I may need to stay a bit longer. Yeah, right, sure, it’s the food, Marley, the food is why you want to stick around longer , the little voice inside my head chides.
“So, does Nancy bring you fully cooked meals often?” I ask after I swallow the most heavenly forkful of potatoes I’ve ever tasted.
“About once a week she’ll show up with something. I can cook, I just often find myself a bit preoccupied with the dogs. Yesterday afternoon I had been planning a trip to the grocery store but, well, you know.”
“The weather and a certain clumsy hiker changed things?”
“I’d happily have lived on grass if it led me to this moment.” His expression is serious for a split second before his gaze drops to his food. I can count on one hand how many times a man has said something to me that made my heartbeat quicken. I just never thought a comment about eating grass would be the frontrunner. I don’t even know how to carry on a conversation after that. I pull out the only logical follow-up.
“What's your favorite dinosaur?”
He looks back up at me like he’s not quite sure he heard me right. “My favorite dinosaur?” I nod. “I honestly don’t think I’ve thought of dinosaurs in years.” He takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “A stegosaurus, but don’t ask me why,” he says. And I won’t ask because he passed Nellie’s test and apparently mine by simply answering the question.
After dinner, I insist on helping with dishes, and Bennett agrees without much convincing. He helps get me set up in front of the sink so I can wash while he dries, and it’s all wonderfully domestic. I’m happy to feel useful for the first time since I got here.
As he’s putting the last dish away, he asks if I want tea. I know that tea is going to lead to talking and talking will lead to work, and I hesitate briefly before accepting that I want him to know. He fills and turns on the electric kettle before heading out to check on the dogs.
As I slowly make my way back to the chair, I decide now would be a good time to do a little bit of snooping. It’s not like looking around someone’s living room is really an invasion of privacy when everything is out in the open for people to see. It would be different if this was Bennett’s bedroom, which, I won’t lie, I’d love to snoop in. The pictures I’d noticed earlier show an older couple, a stern-looking man and a gentle-looking woman. Bennett looks a lot like his grandfather, although I cannot even imagine the man in the picture ever smiling. Bennett’s smile is the same as the woman’s. Another picture has the couple again, just younger with a young woman between them. She’s wearing a cap and gown and is obviously pregnant. Again his grandfather is not smiling. There are pictures of Bennett at various ages. The only picture that shows his grandfather with a smile is one with Bennett in his football uniform. The two men are beaming at the camera while his grandmother is beaming up at her grandson, pride and adoration painted across her face. I feel a pang of sadness that she’s no longer here and a tiny bit of jealousy that no one has ever looked at me like that.
On the bookshelf next to the pictures are various old paperbacks in several genres. There is a pile of medical textbooks on the bottom shelf next to a wooden box. My fingers itch to open it, but I decide that’s enough snooping for today. I don’t want Bennett to find me still hopping around, so I make my way over to the chair that has unofficially become mine and plop down.
When Bennett comes back in and brings out the tea, I’ve worked myself up so much for this work talk, I feel a bit ill. But then I look at the man sitting across from me and remind myself that everything is probably going to be fine.
“So,” he begins, “you’re a conflict photographer.”
“I am.”
“I can’t imagine doing that kind of work. I don’t know if I’d have the stomach for it. I can’t even handle seeing one of the dogs in pain.”
I look down at my tea for a minute and figure out where to start. Once I open up, I can’t take my fears and traumas back.
“I always wanted to tell stories, real ones, not fictional ones. I was never the kid who could come up with characters or build worlds out of nothing. My teachers used to get after me because I’d try and hand in short stories that were based on what had happened that week in class.” Bennett is listening intently, his face relaxed and open. “I was diagnosed with dyslexia when I was six, and writing down stories, even nonfiction ones, was something I struggled with. I desperately wanted to love it, but I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my frustration, and my parents just kind of gave up pushing me, so I stopped pushing myself.”
“So you take pictures to tell a story.”
Not many people have put two and two together like that, and I’m almost giddy that he has.
“So I take pictures,” I agree. “I get to share real stories through my lens. My grade ten English teacher was the one who suggested I take up photography. She was the first teacher I ever had who saw my desire to be a storyteller and challenged me to explore that desire in a different way.”
“So when did it go from a passion to a job?” he asks.
“To be clear, I still feel some passion for it, it’s just waned in recent months. When I realized I was telling the same story over and over again.” I take a minute to figure out how to word how I feel about what I do. “My job is ethically… ambiguous. I am a documentarian. I am not there to lend a hand. You have to set your humanity aside at some point to do what I do. When you watch a nature documentary and a pride of lions has a baby zebra surrounded you can’t help but think ‘Oh my god, help it.’ And the reason the videographer doesn’t is because that’s nature. One must die so the other can live, the circle of life and all that. Meanwhile, a child doesn’t have to die in another country due to war, malnutrition, or a disease for anyone else to live. But we as humans need to see .” I put an emphasis on the word “see” because it’s hugely important. “We need to see the toll something is having or someone is inflicting on others to care. And in order to care, people like me need to be on the ground sharing the stories.”
I look back up at Bennett, and I’m shocked to see that his eyes are wet. It doesn’t go unnoticed that mine are not. I cried because the dogs were sleeping in the barn, but I have no tears for the people I’ve photographed dying.
I swallow. “I had a passion to share the stories of people who needed help. And when those stories first come out, people rush to do just that. Leaders declare aid and support for humanitarian interests. And then the next story comes out and we forget. Then I get to share that story again the next year and the next. Things don’t get better, and so now it’s just a paycheck because it can’t be anything more. And I come home for two weeks or less at a time, have meals with friends, fill my therapist in on whatever fucked-up thing I witnessed this time, and then I get a call and get back on a plane. It’s funny—yesterday morning I was thinking I was going to be mauled to death by your dogs. But I’ve been shot at more times than I can count and stalked by various wild animals, and never once did I worry about dying. How fucked up is that? I decided to go on this random hike yesterday because I was up all night wondering if I could keep going.”
The color has drained from Bennett’s face, and I clarify, “I don’t mean with life, I mean with the work. It scares me that I’m not scared. I can’t even pinpoint when that started.”
“So, why do you keep going back then?” he asks, sitting forward.
“Why do you keep bringing home unwanted dogs?” I reply.
“Because it’s who I am, I guess.”
“Exactly. And when did you start bringing home dogs?”
“Three years ago.”
“Now add eight years to that number and tell me, in another eight years, is that who you will still be?”
He thinks for a second, then nods.
“I’ve been doing this job for eleven years. I got my first assignment when I was still in college. It was just covering a student protest in the capital, but it was exciting, a pure adrenaline high. A national newspaper used some of my pictures, and that led to making contacts with editors across news media. When I graduated I spent my first five months living out of a rucksack, and opportunities just kind of fell into my lap. I learned quickly that I loved the travel and the changing landscapes aspect of the job. And most of all I like sharing it all with a larger audience. I was teamed up with some of the best in the business, and I remember being in awe of them. But a lot of people in the industry are also jaded, although they’d tell you that they’re just realists. You don’t see as much shit as they do and automatically see the best or expect the best from people.” I take a sip of my tea and sigh. “I remember very vividly thinking how I would never let myself think that way. How much I pitied them for being like that. So I lived on hope and allowed optimism to be what drove me.”
“What changed? ”
“I don’t know what changed. Or really even when it changed. It’s like one day I was going through pictures of a field hospital in Sudan, and fuck, Bennett, when I say the conditions were bad, I mean like unspeakably bad. There were dead and dying people everywhere—some men, but mostly women and children. And I was looking at the pictures like I hadn’t seen it all in person, like I had blacked out. You’d think I’d be horrified by what I was looking at then, right?”
I shake my head slowly and look up at him. “I had no feelings about any of it. I wasn’t shocked, or disgusted. I wasn’t enraged. I looked through those images like I was trying to pick out kitchen tile. I started this job because I wanted to tap into the humanity of casual observers. And in the process, I feel like I lost my own. I woke up one morning last month and realized I’d become jaded. I started to ask myself if I wanted to be like the people I’d pitied. If losing my humanity was worth trying to tap into others.”
“I don’t know much about it, but have you talked to someone about the possibility that you have PTSD?”
“Oh, yes. That was the diagnosis I received early on when I admitted to my indifference about things. I’m rare, though, because I block things rather than react to stimuli. I numb my emotions and suppress my memories. Which in the moment actually serves me well. In the long run, though…”
“So maybe you aren’t jaded,” Bennet says, standing up. “Maybe you just need to work on feeling again.” He picks up our mugs and leaves the room.
He’s right about what I need to do; it’s what I’ve worked on in therapy, albeit not very hard. I’m afraid of what happens if I manage to feel certain things again. I hear the back door close and know it’s probably for the best that he walked away.