EZRA
I T ’ S ON A T HURSDAY THAT THE MESSAGE I ’ VE BEEN DREADING finally arrives.
Hello Ezra. Hope you’re well. Are you free for lunch this afternoon? Dad.
I read it twice, absent-mindedly chewing my cheek. The haphazard rota that Romy and I worked out means that I have today off, and I’m currently lounging on my sofa with a dog-eared copy of Middlesex. I put it to one side, quickly tapping out a message to Caroline.
did you tell dad that i’m working at the restaurant??
My phone buzzes less than a minute later.
And deprive you of the pleasure? Of course not :))))))
I sigh and get to my feet, composing a new message as I head towards the bathroom.
sure thing dad. where did you want to go?
Two hours later I’m showered, shaved and sitting in a well-lit restaurant near Dad’s office. He’s predictably late, which gave me the opportunity to order and pay for a vodka soda at the bar. I don’t particularly care that it’s only midday, but that doesn’t mean that I want it to show up on the bill.
‘Sorry, sorry!’ Dad says brusquely, looking distinctly harried as he appears from behind me, pulling out a chair. ‘Meeting ran over – have you been waiting long?’
‘No,’ I lie. He nods and picks up a menu, scanning it for a second before putting it down again.
‘In a rush?’ I venture.
‘Sorry,’ he says, offering a sheepish smile as a waitress approaches our table. I gulp down a mouthful of my drink, already irritated. He’s literally been here for thirty seconds and he’s already gearing up to leave – what was the point?
‘Hey there! What can I get you guys?’ The waitress beams, looking to him.
‘I’ll do the wood-fired chicken with the grilled sprouts on the side, thanks. Ezra?’
‘Uh – could I please get the pancetta and provolone focaccia?’ I say, silently reeling over the fact that this place is charging twenty dollars for what essentially amounts to a ham and cheese sandwich.
‘Sure thing. Any drinks?’
‘Some more sparkling water. Thank you,’ Dad says, and my eyes dart to the waitress. She saw me at the bar. She knows that I’m not drinking sparkling water. But she says nothing – just smiles and glides away, and that’s something that I do admittedly like about fancy places like this. The food might be expensive, but the discretion is free.
‘So,’ Dad says. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Not much,’ I say, straightening in my chair. ‘I got a job.’
‘Oh,’ he says, eyebrows shooting upwards.
‘Yeah, uh – at the restaurant where Romy works,’ I continue, attempting to hold my nerve. ‘As a waiter. Like – clearing and setting tables. It’s not for ever, obviously—’
‘No, uh – no, I’m sure.’
‘It’s something to do, though.’
‘Right.’ He nods. ‘Well – that’s great. And it’s what I wanted to discuss with you today, actually.’
‘Yeah?’ I manage, feigning surprise.
‘Yes, well – it occurred to me that you might be at a bit of a loose end right now. I wondered if you’d be interested in coming into the office to help out.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘I know you don’t think that what I do is very interesting, but experience in an office is a useful thing to have under your belt. Maggie can attest to that.’
‘Maggie and I are different, though.’
‘I know,’ he says after a beat ‘So – have you given any thought as to what you might want to do?’
‘Oh, with the rest of my life, you mean?’ I laugh. ‘Uh – no. Sorry to disappoint.’
‘I don’t expect you to have it all set in stone. Just – I’d hate to see you directionless.’
‘Right,’ I say, glancing away. It’s an odd sentiment, coming from a person who didn’t really see me at all these past five years. What does he expect? I’ve been bouncing back and forth over the Atlantic Ocean for as long as I can remember, so is it any fucking wonder that I’m lacking in ‘direction’?
‘Caroline mentioned that photography was a hobby of yours,’ he presses, and I resist the urge to sigh.
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I mean – there was a darkroom at school. It was something to do.’
The art department there was a sprawling, 1970s-era monstrosity on the edge of the school grounds, and given the number of disused classrooms, it quickly became my favourite place to kill time whenever I didn’t particularly feel like being in a lesson. Eventually a teacher called Mr McDougal found me out, but instead of detention he gave me a camera – a battered little point and shoot. He taught me how to develop pictures, too, though that was the extent of our mentor/mentee dynamic. He preferred watching movies in the back office to teaching, but he did usher me into becoming the unofficial photographer for school events, meaning that I finally had a legitimate reason to skip classes.
‘They had the darkroom when I was there, too,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t suppose it’s changed much.’
‘Probably not,’ I reply flatly. That was how Dad justified the whole boarding school thing, apparently. He went to the same one, so he figured that it was a good idea to send me there when I started ‘acting out’.
‘She said you had a good eye for it,’ he continues. ‘Caroline, this is.’
I shrug. Caroline used to be into photography as well, so I emailed her to ask for advice when I was just starting out. A few weeks later I got a parcel – she’d sent me a restored vintage Leica and a boxful of film. After that I started including scans of my photos in the emails I sent her – only the best ones, the ones I thought she might like. I didn’t realise she’d been blabbing about it to Dad, though.
‘You know, NYU has a great photography programme,’ he adds, leaning forward. ‘I have a friend who lectures there. I’m sure she’d be happy to look over your portfolio.’
‘I don’t have a portfolio.’
‘Then it could be something to work towards. How long do you think it would take to put one together?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say curtly. ‘I guess I’d have to ask Caroline.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ he says, sounding so genuinely enthused that I immediately feel like a piece of shit. This is one of the (many, many ) reasons why I avoid spending time with Dad – I hate the person I seem to morph into whenever I’m around him. A bored, stroppy teenager, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at everything he says.
It wasn’t always like this. I used to idolise him – Mum too. They both worked near-constantly, Dad at his office and Mum teaching Classics at a university just out of the city. It was actually something of a novelty when either of them were home, so Maggie, Caroline and I used to shamelessly vie for their attention. And they knew that, I think, which is why we all had our own ‘thing’ with them. For Mum and me, it was the cinema. With Dad it was museums, and he patiently saw me through every pre-adolescent fixation. Dinosaurs first, then space, ancient Egypt and a brief geodes phase. We spent so many weekends hitting up the Museum of Natural History that most of the security guards knew me by name, and even after the geodes lost their appeal, things were pretty good with us until things got bad with Mum. And then she was gone, and …
What little I do remember I don’t care to dwell on, but the point is, he wasn’t around. There were accounts to close, people to tell, a funeral to plan – death is a logistical nightmare, it turns out. Still, it always kind of felt to me like he was relieved to have an excuse not to be around us. He had enough of his own grief, I suppose, and he didn’t want to deal with ours too.
Anyway. Our food arrives not long after that, which is a relief. We don’t have to talk while we’re eating, and the sandwich is good – not twenty dollars good, but good. Dad asks for the bill within a minute of me putting the last bite into my mouth, and I get another awkward shoulder pat goodbye outside the restaurant before he leaves.
I feel weirdly unsettled on the walk back to my apartment. I can’t shake it off, and within ten minutes of getting in the door I find myself on my knees, digging through the box of old school junk that I keep under my bed. I finally find my Leica inside of an old sock, shaking it out and turning it over in my hand. There’s something reassuring about the weight of it. NYU is never going to happen, but throwing a few pictures together to appease Dad doesn’t seem like too difficult a task.
It’s weird, but I’ve never used it in New York. I never took it back with me during the summer break, which I suppose was because I didn’t really feel like looking too closely at the city. After Mum died, it seemed obscene that it could all look the same. The city’s apparent indifference to her absence was maddening, and I used to imagine myself installing commemorative plaques in all of her favourite places. I wanted everyone, even the people that had never met her, to remember that she was here. To know that she drank coffee in this bakery and graded essays on this bench and loved this one painting so much that she came to see it on the last Sunday of every month.
But I didn’t, obviously. I haven’t even commemorated her here, in my apartment. Caroline offered me some old photos to frame when I was moving in but I said no, I didn’t want any. I felt bad about it and I still do, but I won’t change my mind. I still haven’t figured out how to remember the good without immediately getting sucked down into the bad, and having pictures around – that would mean more remembering than I’m generally equipped to handle. Because it doesn’t ever hurt less, it turns out. Just less often.
I pack everything up again and slide the box back under my bed. The camera too. I don’t really feel like looking at it any more.