41. Forty-one
Forty-one
My pulse rams in my throat as I fumble with the long-forgotten folder Lyra found.
Seat slid back, there’s enough space between my body and steering wheel and I dump the contents—all papers—onto my lap.
The first few pieces are newspaper clippings, dating all the way back to high school. Camp setting records. Camp getting a full-ride scholarship to App State. A clipping from Virginia Beach News , him on the minor league team. Him at Charlotte, in the majors. His injury. Camp’s whole baseball career pinched between my fingers in typed words and black-and-white photos.
A notecard slips out, then a handwritten letter. Camp’s familiar handwriting with too-slanted t’s and upright l’s.
Mama,
I know you’re mad and think I’m throwing away a dream for nothing. But I’m telling you—and Daddy if he’ll read this—she didn’t ask me to do this, but I need to. Baseball is baseball. A ball, glove, and fancy stick. But June? She’s been the center of it all since I was a kid without a clue. I did what I came to do—pitched a game in the majors. Pitched a good season. And yes, they want me. But to what end? A life on the road, away from them?
I won’t do it.
She can never know, she’d hate herself. Probably even hate me. But I’m not going back. I’m coming home. To her and Lyra. You’ve always told me to chase my dreams, and I always have. But you’ve also told me some dreams change, and we have to change with them.
And I know Daddy’s mad about the money. He’s too proud for his own good. You spent a life sacrificing so I never had to—I bought the house, paid what I paid, so you can have the farm you’ve always wanted. You carried mail you never cared about, and he worked all those hours so I could someday write this letter. I’m not taking the money back—if he wants to go the rest of his life without talking to me, it’s worth it.
Love ya, Mama. Daddy too.
Camp
The world stops spinning with the next paper. An offer letter for another season with the Charlotte Copperheads. Camp’s arm healed. He quit baseball; he wasn’t cut. For me. Overpaid for his parents’ house so they could afford the farm they love. Without telling me.
That stubborn, stupid asshole.
I throw the letter in the passenger seat, swipe the tears, and point my minivan toward the gallery.
“My husband bought my photographs,” I say, spine stiff as I face Irma from my chair.
She sips tea from a bright pink mug, eyes narrowing before she presses her mouth to a tight line. Assessing.
“If I say yes?”
I concentrate on my hands in my lap. Picking invisible lint off my jeans. “Then I guess I’m wondering how that went. You met him.”
She eyes me, takes another sip of her tea before setting it down. “Reed’s dad was the one that didn’t love me back. At least not as much as I loved him.”
I don’t react, not surprised by the confession. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because she continues without prompt. “I met him in Utah. He was a writer. Dabbled in all kinds of freelance stuff. He was a mixed bag: half free spirit, half deep roots.” She smiles a fond shape. “Anyway, we met. I was photographing the national parks; he was writing an article about planning a summer trip to the same spots. So we partnered up, spent the summer together. His kids were grown, out, and his marriage had gone stale, and I was alone and had an affliction for scandalous romances.”
My jaw drops and she laughs, waving a hand through the air. “I am what I am, June. Can’t fault a woman for that.”
And there, despite how unorthodox her choices, I admire the hell out of her. She is who she is. Her choices are hers. The opposite of me.
“Anyway, it just happened. I fell in love with him that summer between dusty canyons and dried-up creek beds. He loved me too. The kind of way love stories try to describe. All consuming.”
“What happened?” I ask, taking my first sip of tea, chamomile with honey out of a handmade mug—warm as it slides to my belly.
“The summer ended like summers always do. He came home, but we made a plan—I’d come back here. He was going to tell his wife, and we’d be together. Travel as a writer-photographer duo.”
I nod, her gaze goes to the window where a couple walks by. She studies their movements until they wander out of sight.
“We did just that, but when I saw him with her, I knew we were over. She’s beautiful, Reed’s mom, but that’s not what struck me, it was the way they loved each other. Ruthlessly. He told her he’d been with someone else, and she was devastated. Then, she just forgave him.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that. Said she knew she hadn’t been doing her part in the marriage, and she wasn’t surprised he looked elsewhere for what she wasn’t giving. When he told me—the look of admiration in his eyes when he repeated her words—there was no competing. It was like watching someone fall back in love.”
“You left?”
She nods. “I left. Travelled for shoots like I always had, met Reed. His dad, Rocky was his name, never travelled again. He wrote local pieces for small newspapers and magazines about the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was for her, I know that. He never wanted to stray that far again—wouldn’t let himself.” She takes another sip of tea. “I know now I wouldn’t have fit, you know? He was more roots than I ever was, but now”—she gestures around the gallery—“here I am, roots of my own, just growing a little later than most.”
“Did you come back for him?”
She shrugs. “I knew I wouldn’t be with him, but, maybe in a way. I got tired of the travel. Of keeping up with the change in technology. The hustle.” She shakes her head slightly. “I figured if he was happy here, I would be too. Not with him, but kind of.” She pauses for a beat. “I had lots of lovers, but he’s the only one I ever loved like that.”
I sag back into my seat, eyes going to the somber trail photo she made because of him.
“Shooting the world, I’ve learned some love stories are just like that. They end without happily ever after, just after. There for a blip of time, something that happens so another thing can. A heartbreak designed for the heal. People change. People don’t change.” Her bright eyes search mine as she lifts her cup again and we sit in silence. She sips her tea; I digest her words.
“What does this have to do with Camp?”
“Ah.” She smiles. “Well, he came in here, introduced himself, handed me the check, and then there was one photo he just stared at.”
My eyebrows pinch. “Which one?”
“It was a shot of the lake. Blurry people in the water—kids. The Lost Ones , I believe you’d titled it.”
At this, a fresh shot of emotion rips through me and burns my face.
“Did he say anything?”
She pauses and takes another sip, moving so slowly it’s like she’s trying to torture me.
“Well, he stood there for a while, just staring, and finally I went over to him. I said, ‘She’s talented,’ and he agreed. Then he said, ‘I didn’t know it was so hard.’”
My mouth opens but my voice doesn’t follow.
“And, I’ll admit, I was confused,” she continues, “but I just stood there, waiting for him to say more. Eventually he did. He said, ‘She was lost and I never knew. Not really. Or maybe I did but didn’t want to see it. I thought I’d give her space, thought she’d come back around. I kept waiting and waiting to be invited, and now she’s done all this, and I’m not supposed to even know.’”
When she takes another sip of tea, I feel my thousandth first tear of the day fall, and I don’t have the energy to fight it or wipe it. I let my sadness stain my skin.
“Then he looked at every photo you shot, studied them like he wanted to memorize every little detail. And I saw on his face what I saw years ago on Rocky’s: He was a husband falling in love with his wife all over again.”
When she’s done, I’m crying. Fully. Every single thing I thought I’ve known about my husband shatters. I see Camp anew. Like a Polaroid picture finally developing fully. Camp getting cut from the team even though I was so sure his arm looked good. Camp insisting on us living in that house. Camp seeing my art. Years of me bending in silence only to see that he’s been doing the same, me never knowing. Balloons flying in different directions just needing a hand to hold them together.
Without realizing it, I’ve stood and started walking toward the door.
“June?”
I turn toward Irma as she crosses the room until she’s next to me, startling me out of my daze with a paper in hand.
“ Travel North Carolina Magazine is looking for a photographer to capture small towns around the state in a ‘unique and inspiring way,’” she says, pausing as I read:
Photographer needed to capture the quaint glory of North Carolina small towns, including festivals, dive bars, local residents, nooks and crannies, and secret gems. One town will be featured per month. Expectation is candidate can travel to one North Carolina town per month. Compensation covers all travel expenses and negotiated fee per article.
I blink as I look at her, swiping the tears from my cheeks. “I don’t know, Irma. Am I even good enough for something like this?”
She chuckles softly, running her fingers across her short hair.
“You aren’t Ansel Adams, and you aren’t Irma London, but you’re June freaking Cannon. Of course you are.”