I remember the day my dad announced he was going to turn the basement into a photography studio. He was loading the dishwasher after dinner and my mom had just gotten home from a long day in court. She was gobbling up leftover chili, Frankie was sitting at the counter drawing, and I was multitasking, as usual: helping Dad with the dishes, texting with Austin about our weekend plans, and sending a mass email to the newspaper staff about our next issue.
It was three years ago. I was still a freshman.
There was no buildup or segue or transition. One minute there was the sound of Mom desperately trying to get food into her overworked system, and the next minute Dad was saying, “I think I’m going to remodel the basement.”
“Oh?” Mom asked, looking up from her half-empty chili bowl. “For what?”
“I want to dedicate myself full time to the Portals project.”
“I love that idea!” I chimed in.
“Hey,” Frankie protested, dropping his pencil. “Full time? What about us?”
Dad laughed. “Okay, three-quarters time.”
“Three-fifths time,” Frankie countered.
“Six-eighths time,” was Dad’s response.
But Frankie was not fooled. He hardly ever is. He crossed his arms. “That’s the same as three-quarters.”
Mom and I both stifled a laugh.
Dad looked defeated. “Three-fifths it is.”
Satisfied that he had won the negotiation, Frankie resumed drawing.
“Anyway,” Dad went on. “I want to sell a bunch of our old stuff and consolidate all those boxes to give myself more room. I can use that entire space as a studio with lights and backdrops and a small desk to set up my laptop.”
Mom nodded with a mouthful of chili. “I wuv it,” she mumbled, then swallowed. “It would be good for you to have your own space.”
“Exactly.”
“I can help,” I offered, as I scrubbed down a plate and handed it to Dad.
He beamed at me as he put it in the dishwasher. “That’d be great.”
“We can build a special shelf just for Magnum,” I suggested.
“Shelf?” Dad repeated with mock disgust. “There’ll be no shelf. He needs a shrine.”
I rolled my eyes and deadpanned, “Oh right. What on earth was I thinking?”
“Clearly, you weren’t.”
Then I flung a handful of soapy water at him.
* * *
I blink into the dreary, low light of the basement as a cloud of confusion settles over me. Where is everything? It’s like all of our hard work three years ago has been erased. The rickety shelves full of dusty boxes are still attached to the wall where Dad’s desk should be. Mom’s old treadmill is still sitting untouched in the corner with a bunch of junk piled up on the runner.
We sold that treadmill. I remember!
An adorable newlywed couple from Craigslist came and picked it up. They argued over which room in their new house it should go in.
Yet, there it is. Like it never left.
And that ancient cracked leather recliner that Dad used to have in his bachelor pad before he met Mom is still here, too. Even though I distinctly remember the dump truck coming to pick it up. Mom said it was the happiest day of her life. Dad went into mourning for five hours.
Through the dust and clutter, I spot a box on one of the shelves that says “Danny’s Photos” and run over to it. I pull it down, crouch on the ground, and tear open the flaps. It’s filled with Dad’s early photography. The pictures he took on the road when he traveled with his band during his “edgy phase,” the pictures he took of Mom in the first few months of their relationship, and the pictures he took of Frankie and me as kids.
I tilt the almost-empty box to see what else is in there and freeze when I notice what’s lining the bottom. My breathing grows shallow as I reach inside and pull out the first few photos of Dad’s Portals project. They’re yellowed and dirty and some of the paper is bent in the corners, but there’s no denying it. I’d recognize my mother’s eye anywhere.
It always looked like a sunflower.
Dad started out small. A few photos here and there, mostly of Mom. He didn’t start getting really serious about the project until after he converted the basement into his studio. That’s when he started taking pictures of anyone he could persuade to sit for him. Neighbors, friends, the gardener, and every delivery man who was unfortunate enough to have our house on his route.
I fall back onto my butt, clutching the small stack of yellowing photographs in my hand, trying to make sense of my rambling, chaotic thoughts. Trying to rein in the wild questions that are galloping through my mind.
What happened down here?
Where are the rest of Dad’s photos?
Why is his studio suddenly gone?
And most important, if Dad hasn’t been down here this whole time like I thought, then where is he?