Chapter 12
Tom wanted me to stay home and rest today, but I promised him I’d be fine.
It was just a passing moment of grief, I told him, though I knew what he’d seen: his wife in the fetal position on the kitchen floor.
I told him I needed fresh air, that I’d stay local and rest when I came home.
I wouldn’t rush to the darkroom. That pacified him—and it freed me, though I don’t know how free I am today, walking listlessly through our local park, snapping pictures here and there without looking deeply, as Paul urges us to do.
I see things but don’t feel them. It’s too painful to feel them.
I keep revisiting the memory of my freshly burnt flesh, and the sound of the caller’s breath in my ear.
Was it him? No, it wasn’t him—but it was someone. The someone who follows me.
I come to the reflecting pool by the playground in this sad, distracted state of mind.
The photographer in me stirs, at last, at the sight of my shadow stretching over the dark blue water.
If I could only raise my camera, it would make a better silhouette photo than yesterday’s.
But I know what I’ll see when I develop the film: the man somewhere, across the water.
I can’t see him even as I stare in that direction, but I’m certain he’s watching me.
Maybe I should try to find him.
I’m terrified by the idea but my legs move anyway, walking me around the reflecting pool and into the trees beyond it.
A narrow path leads deeper into the small woods; I walk along it for a while, looking left and right, jumping at the slightest sound.
No one is here, and even the birds and squirrels have gone quiet.
I feel as foolish as I did on the telephone yesterday, talking to no one, listening to almost nothing, but I call out anyway.
“Hello?”
No answer. But why would he answer?
“Are you there?” I shout, feeling foolish but bold, too. “Why are you following me?”
I look all around until I’m turning in slow circles, crunching leaves beneath my feet.
I’m certain he’s here somewhere, but he hides himself well.
Maybe he curls himself into the shape of a rock, or climbs a tree.
It sounds ludicrous, but otherwise I can’t explain his damned invisibility. And then his damned visibility.
Like a dark god of some kind.
Walking out of the woods, I feel as haunted as I would have if I’d seen him.
I look over my shoulder again and again.
He doesn’t appear. He won’t, I know. I should go home, but I can’t stand having wasted the day.
I turn into the playground, distracted and bitter but resolute.
I bring the camera up to my eye and begin snapping haphazardly.
Children playing in the fountain, on the jungle gym, and flying down the slide.
Children laughing, a baby screaming miserably, two siblings fighting over a cup full of dry cereal until it spills.
I’m engrossed, even though I’m still not really feeling, when someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around.
“Why are you taking pictures of our children?” A stout woman with a thick but unplaceable accent glares at me.
Behind her a small group has gathered, staring disdainfully.
I forgot that I no longer belong in this world—the world of women with young children.
I’m a suspicious intruder, especially with my camera in hand.
I’m jealous for a moment—of these children, so fiercely protected from harm.
I mumble an embarrassed response and leave quickly through the playground gate.
The first woman swings it shut and locks it behind me.