Chapter 24
I wake staring at the ceiling, knowing I’ll stay home again today.
The man can call me here, of course, but he can’t reach me.
Touch me. I’ll be safe behind our bolted doors, and I can hang up the telephone—just as Tom directed.
If I have to call Tom at work, he’ll rush home.
I hate feeling this trapped and controlled, but I tell myself I’ll strike out to take pictures very soon.
Maybe even tomorrow. I hang my hope on tomorrow, and the idea of it shines in my mind.
I cling to it: I’ll go out tomorrow. Today I’ll be cautious, and being cautious will somehow earn me the right to be less cautious, to be reckless, even, tomorrow.
“I could stay home today,” Tom offers, shrugging as he lingers by the door. “Call in sick.”
“I’m fine, Tom, really. I’ll be fine. Just a little tired is all.”
“What if the guy calls?”
“He didn’t call yesterday.”
“Judy.”
“If he calls, I’ll hang up, and then I’ll call you at work right away. Now go, you’ll be late.” I give him a quick kiss goodbye and send him out the door—not before scanning the street for the man’s blue car. No sign of it anywhere.
The door pops back open before I can lock it.
“And lock the door,” he adds, forgetting for a moment that the threat—as he perceives it—comes from inside the house. I lock the door and sigh when I hear his car pull out of the drive, as if Tom himself were the danger.
I look around the silent, empty house. Wondering what to do first. Dust and vacuum the living room?
I’ve dressed in my cleaning clothes to do just that, but standing here now, the cleaning spirit leaves me.
The row of crystal figurines I’ve slowly collected catches my eye, shining in the morning light: the sparrow, the owl, the squirrel, the field mouse, and the little dog like Rosie.
They throw spots of light around the walls, and that seals it: I fetch my camera, telling myself I’ll start cleaning the moment I’m done.
I’m surprised by how much I like the challenge of turning our everyday objects and rooms into pictures—good pictures.
After the crystal figurines, I move on to Tom’s and my coats hanging like emptied skins in the hall closet.
Then I head deeper into the house. As the sunlight shifts from morning to afternoon, our rooms become shadowed, strange terrain.
I capture the inner dark of the bedroom closet, its door cracked; the solemnity of our queen-sized bed, which offers the slight imprints of our separate bodies; and the steps leading up to the attic, seemingly dissolving as they rise into darkness.
I pause in the bathroom, glancing in the mirror. I’ve avoided every other mirror: the one over our living room mantel, another in our dining room. But this one is unavoidable; I start to back out, but I’m held by my own image, my camera poised in midair.
I can stand in such a way that my cosmetic mirror, attached beside the main mirror and angled toward it, reflects me back to myself ad infinitum. The hairs along my arms stand up the way they do whenever I find an exciting composition, and I can almost hear Paul call it electric and original.
But I can’t take it. I stand forever with the camera in hand, looking in the mirror and longing to preserve the image, but terrified at what might be behind me when I print the film: the man reflected ad infinitum, too.
I set the camera down on the back of the toilet and wash my face in cool water at the sink.
When I look up, there is only one of me.
No figure looms behind me. I feel great relief and a vast disappointment—relieved to be safe, bereft to give up on such a striking picture.
I move to pick up my camera but stop myself before touching it.
I tell myself I’ll get it later, when I’m done with my cleaning.
I glance at the camera once more, sitting in such an odd place, before I turn away.