IAN, AGE THIRTEEN
“Where’s the film?” Ian leaned over his dad’s shoulder. They were in his office next to Ian’s bedroom. Stu was showing him a new type of camera he and some of the other professional photographers had received to test. He called it a digital camera. It was large and bulky and seemed unwieldy to Ian.
“There isn’t any film.” His dad pointed at the compartment at the base of the camera. “This is a built-in hard drive. The pictures are stored here.”
“Like a computer?” Ian leaned closer, putting weight on his dad.
“Something like that. Pull up a chair. Let’s have a look.”
Ian dragged a wood chair around the desk. The same chair he sat in whenever his dad lectured him about homework and chores. He always seemed to be lecturing, Ian thought with a virtual eye roll. He plopped onto the seat.
Stu scooted his own chair closer. The tarnished brass casters squeaked and the leather seat creaked. He plugged the camera directly into the computer and clicked the mouse, opening a file that displayed ten icons, then double-clicked the first icon. On the screen appeared an image of Ian that his dad had taken only fifteen minutes before. Ian stood on the porch, grinning, his hair waving like a flag above his head, caught in a gust of wind.
“Whoa.” Ian was impressed. There he was, on the screen, no darkroom needed. The quality wasn’t great. There were features in the image that could be sharpened. “Why’s it in black and white?”
“I don’t have a color monitor. I guess I better get one.” His dad leaned back in his chair, studying the photo, his hands clasped over his middle.
Ian picked up the digital camera and inspected the dials and buttons. “Will this be your new work camera?” His gaze dove to the professional Nikon his dad used for shooting ball games. Ian imagined the pictures he could take should he get his hands on that camera.
“Not this camera. The technology has a way to go.” Stu took the digital camera from Ian’s hands and returned it to the desk. “I predict in ten to fifteen years we won’t use film, not like we do today.”
“You think so?” Ian parked his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. He reached for the digital camera again. He studied the casing. It was heavy with the additional compartment. Not convenient at all to lug around on a photo shoot.
“Put it down, Ian.” His dad took the camera from him again and Ian huffed. “It’s an expensive piece of equipment. Keep in mind, digital photography is the future.” He leaned toward the monitor and clicked through the photos. Pictures of him and Ian around the property.
“Why didn’t you take any of Mom?”
“I just didn’t.” His dad opened another icon. Ian hung upside down from a tree limb.
“She’s pretty.” Especially when Jackie doesn’t cake Sarah’s face in makeup or isn’t getting into Ian’s face. She’d get drunk and threaten to take his precious mama away from him. She never did. She always came back whenever she left.
But Sarah, when she was his mom, Sarah, was beautiful to Ian. “We need more pictures of her.” He had too many of Jackie, and they weren’t pleasant. He didn’t like looking at those.
“Don’t take pictures of your mom,” his dad snapped.
Ian jerked back at his harsh tone. Where had that come from?
Don’t take pictures of Jackie. That was the rule. Ever since Jackie drove them to the dive motel and met that biker, Ian had no problem whatsoever obeying it. There had never been a rule about not photographing Sarah. This was new.
“You take pictures of you and me all the time. We’re family. Mom needs to be in those pictures.”
“Just lay off the camera with her. She doesn’t want her picture taken anymore.”
“Why not?”
Stu dragged a hand down his face. “It’s not important. Just don’t do it.”
“But—”
“End of discussion.”
Ian hunched in his chair, simmering. He was thirteen. He didn’t like being told what to do, and he especially didn’t like not being given an explanation. What was wrong with taking his mom’s picture?
Sheesh. Ian pushed away from the desk. He hated being treated like he was ten. If his dad were around more often, he’d see that Ian was almost a man himself. He was done hanging out with his dad. He had places to go, better things to do.
Ian stood, kicking the wood chair out of his way. It bumped into the wall.
“Ian. Put back the chair.”
Ian ignored his dad and stomped to his bedroom. He pulled on a sweatshirt and cap, then stormed down the stairs. He’d spent the morning walking the perimeter of their property with his dad and Josh Lansbury, the man who farmed their land. Stu had invited Ian along to listen to their conversation about soil conditions and crop rotations. The land would be Ian’s one day and his father felt he best understand how to work it even if he planned to lease it out like Stu did.
Ian wanted as much to do with the land as his father seemed to want to do with him and Sarah. His parents rarely spent time together, let alone in the same room. His dad slept on the couch in his office. When Ian had tried including Sarah on their walk this morning, she declined. She wanted to read. Ever since the motel incident, their marriage hadn’t been the same.
Ian opened the front door, intent on going to Marshall’s house. Better than hanging around home where no one wanted to be around the other people who lived there. He liked it at the Killions’. They sat together for dinner each night. They played board games and watched movies.
“Ian?”
He stopped short.
“Come here, please.”
He closed the door and went to the front parlor. His mother sat in her reading chair in the corner. A knitted blanket covered her legs, which she curled underneath her. Stacks of books crowded the scuffed hardwood floor, surrounding her. There had to be more than a hundred books. She’d read each at least once. Several of them multiple times. An open book was facedown on her lap. He couldn’t see the cover from where he stood, but guessed it was the latest Michael Crichton. She couldn’t get enough of his sci-fi thrillers.
His mom smiled at him. “Where are you off to?”
Ian shoved his fists into his front pockets. It pushed his shoulders to his ears. “Marshall’s.”
“How’s Marshall these days?”
“Fine, I guess.” He hadn’t invited Marshall over in months. He hadn’t had any friends over the entire school year. Ian didn’t trust his mom to be herself around them, and as ashamed as he was to admit, her alters’ behaviors embarrassed him. Besides, his dad worried if anybody found out about his mom, they’d take her away. Or worse, they’d take Ian away.
His mom glanced out the window. “It’s about to rain. Pick out a book. Read with me.”
Ian’s face scrunched up and she laughed. She pushed aside the blanket and stood, going to the bookshelf. “I’m sure there’s something here that should keep the interest of a thirteen-year-old boy.”
Ian snorted. Reading was the last thing he wanted to do. There were horses to be tended to in Marshall’s barn and blueberry pie to eat. Mrs. Killion told him yesterday she planned to bake the pie this afternoon. She’d invited him to come over, but he’d gotten sidetracked with his dad’s new digital camera.
“Why don’t you like your picture taken?” he asked.
“It makes me uncomfortable,” Sarah said, her back turned to him. She bent over to peer at the lower shelves. Her fingers trailed over the book spines. “Oh my goodness. Look what I found. Do you remember this one?”
The Black Stallion. She used to read passages to him every night until they finished the book and he asked her to start at the beginning.
“Read it to me.”
He loved that book, like when he was seven. He made a face. “It’s a kid’s book.”
“It’s a kids-of-all-ages book. You used to beg me to read this to you every night.”
Because he loved the way she read it to him. She’d get into character and make sound effects. Listening to her was better than watching the movie.
Sarah returned to her chair and patted the couch cushion beside her. “Sit with me. I’ll read to you.”
Ian glanced toward the staircase.
“I’ll keep my voice low so your dad doesn’t hear. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you,” she whispered conspiratorially.
Who cared if his mother was going to read to him like a little kid. What was the big deal?
“I’m not embarrassed.” Ian crossed the room and flopped onto the couch.
His mom flipped the book open to the first page and started to read. Ian leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes. The soft cadence of her voice moved over him. Hearing her reminded him how much he used to enjoy this with her. No wonder he used to insist she tuck him into bed with that story. Every single night until her shifting became more frequent and he stopped asking her to read. He didn’t know who would be tucking him into bed that night. And on some nights when Billy showed up, Ian was the one tucking his mom into bed.
Soon, his mom finished the first chapter and Ian lifted his head. She was looking at him. A tear beaded in the corner of her eye. She stood and grasped his chin, lifting his cap to kiss his forehead. “No matter what I do or where I go, never, ever, forget that I love you,” she urgently whispered. “Whatever I do is because I love you.”