Chapter 17 #2
She opened it and smoothed back a sheet of rice paper to reveal the first set of photos.
Most were of horses against a blue sky in a desert landscape with tall green cacti and reddish-brown mountains in the distance.
As she turned more pages, it became clear that these were film sets and there were shots of cameras and lighting, people setting up scenes and adjusting wardrobe.
The next grouping was a different location, the buildings all stone and white, the horses taller and broader, and the ground covered in a fine beige sand.
And then, there he was. It was a photo from the side and below, as if the person taking it had been lying on the ground looking up at him.
He wore black jeans with black leather chaps, a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a black cowboy hat with the brim pitched down low in the front.
Around his wrist wrapped several thin strips of leather exactly like the ones in the box.
He was in the middle of launching a length of rope at something off camera, his tanned face drawn tight in concentration.
She had the instinct to nod, for no other reason but to send a message of confirmation to her mother, wherever she might be. Girl, I get it.
“Is that him with a very young Kevin Costner?” Andrea asked, pulling her back to the other photos on the page.
“It looks like it—check this out. That right there is Brad Pitt standing next to him.”
“And Tom Cruise,” added Andrea, tapping the opposite page.
“I don’t know who all of the women are in this one, but the short one in the front is definitely Drew Barrymore,” she said.
“This is crazy. I didn’t know she was in a western!
I never would have pictured that. And he was right there, I guess.
Making all of these people look like they knew what they were doing. ”
“Looks like he was pretty good at it too,” Andrea said, tapping a photo of Ivo riding a horse that had reared up.
He was hovering over the saddle, though his legs were still in the stirrups, with his hands holding the reins.
He was glancing over at the camera with an expression so tranquil it was as if the photographer had interrupted him relaxing with a good book.
The rest of the photos were more of the same, only in different locations and with other faces that neither one of them recognized. The theme was the same, though; Ivo was kind of a badass. Eventually Lora closed the book and ran her hand over the camcorder case.
“Do you think there’s anything on here?” She unzipped it and pulled out the device, cords, a tape cartridge in a plastic container, and an owner’s manual.
She remembered some friends’ parents had these things back when they were little.
They’d pull them out at school events and parties.
Not Pamela, though. Lora remembered them racing to CVS before first grade graduation or a soccer game so her mom could run in and buy a disposable camera.
She pressed a button on the top and a cartridge popped up.
She pulled it out and could see that the tape was split between the two rollers.
Could that mean that part of it was used?
“We should be able to plug it in and see what’s on it,” he said, flipping up the tiny screen.
She felt a zing in her chest that ran right down her arms, but nodded and let Andrea hook everything up on the kitchen island. He turned on the camcorder and slid the tape back inside, pressing rewind to bring the tape back to the beginning.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded, feeling a tense line across the top of her head as he pressed play.
The screen lit up, and though there was faint movement across the frame, the image was mostly black-and-white static.
Lora felt a pressure release, though her arms still tingled.
Maybe there was nothing to see after all.
“Hold on, pass me that other tape. I think I know what that is. We had an old video recorder at city hall. I remember you had to clean it every now and then or else everything would look like this.”
“It says ‘Head Cleaner,’” she said, handing him the other tape. “Sounds like it could be useful to have around.”
“I am going to agree with that,” he said, reaching over to rub the top of her head. He switched the tapes, let the cleaner run for a minute, then switched them back. He pressed play again.
Lora felt the image in her body before her eyes had time to tell her brain what it was.
The person holding the camera was walking from the street to the front door of her house in Vero Beach.
Her mother edged out onto the porch smiling, her blond hair down and clearly fluffed for the occasion.
She wore a flowered dress with bare feet and in her arms, a tiny Lora looked nervously at the man coming closer with the deep voice calling “Ciao, piccola!” She hadn’t expected there to be sound, that she would also hear his voice.
She squeezed her eyes, felt Andrea’s hand on her back as they hunched over the counter together.
The image changed, showing some scenes she vaguely remembered hearing about, going to the beach, playing in the yard, getting ice cream.
Pamela had some photos, but always described the visit as “difficult.” Lora watched as the image of her tiny self danced across the screen in the backyard, twirling in a pink princess dress while her mother sat in the grass laughing.
She saw herself running up the shore with swim floaties on her arms, the giant man with long hair and powerful legs running after her.
And then she saw him sitting on the brown armchair in the living room.
He held little Lora, who had fallen asleep so deeply that her mouth lay agape against his shoulder.
The camera moving closer, Ivo closed his eyes and rubbed her little back with a smile.
Her eyes burned. This was what she had been afraid of, and now here it was.
Evidence of the irrefutable truth staring her right in the face, inconvenient and disruptive.
That chair. How many times had she sat in it, not knowing that once it held him holding her?
She felt a tear fall. She could not help it.
She wanted to look away, but could not. There was one scene left on the tape.
Ivo was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter.
She recognized this scene. Little Lora danced down at his feet; her tiny arms reached out to him.
But the story was only half told. He was not distracted, as she had thought from the still photo.
Here he turned to her, scooped her up, and danced her around the kitchen, singing in Italian and kissing her on the nose.
“Stop! Rewind it, please,” Lora said, her voice bottoming out as she pointed at the screen.
Andrea tapped the button so that the scene reversed frame by frame.
“Wait. There.” She opened a drawer in the kitchen, extracted the folder of all her important citizenship documents, and pulled out the only photo she had of her and Ivo.
She held the photo up to the matching screen.
“This is what I knew,” she said in a croak. She reached over and advanced the frame until she was in Ivo’s arms. She turned to look at Andrea, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t care what she looked like. “Why didn’t I know this?”
She sobbed, the sound of it echoing in the room.
She stepped away from the counter and covered her face with her hands.
There was no place to go to escape the crushing feeling in her chest. She leaned over, trying to steady the dizzying waves of hurt and sadness and loss and grief.
All this time, she’d been trying not to know these things.
She’d been afraid of feeling exactly this torrent, this absolute deluge of pain.
And then there were arms around her, holding her tight, whispering something in her ear that she could not understand but didn’t need to.
She let Andrea hold her up, hold her close, while she cried and cried and cried.