thirty-four

Mom presumably stopped smoking when she got pregnant with me. I’ve seen her pull out a cigarette occasionally, when Dad is really getting to her, but never ever in the house. She always says the pregnancy was a great excuse to quit. Hence the surprise, when I walk in and she’s chain-smoking Lucky Strikes on our living room couch.

The smell belongs to another era, a time before cookbooks and NPR, and Mom looks like she’s stepped into the time machine herself. She’s lying on the couch in her Barnard sweatshirt, her hair like a newly made nest sitting inside the hood. The pack of poison is on the coffee table, where my mother has spread dozens of pictures. She is looking at a print very closely, holding it up to her eyes, while her other hand holds a glass of something the color of pale wood. Switch the setting and she could be twenty. Something tells me I should not interrupt.

“I can’t decide if this one is my favorite,” she says without looking up.

“Hi Mom,” I say, trying not to breathe in the smoke.

“It’s the saddest, for sure. With the sweater on the chair, and the mug.”

I walk closer. It’s definitely whiskey in the glass.

“What are you looking at?” I say.

Mom puts down the Scotch, sits up and picks another print from the coffee table. She examines both closely, not the least bit distracted by my question.

“It’s a close call. You are a master at composition, much better than I ever was. You spend so much time in that darkroom, but you’ve got your eyes open from the start. I can tell these things, you know. It’s my job.”

“Are those my pictures?” I ask.

“The dog is perfect in this other one. I don’t know how you got him to sit so still. It’s like he can smell you, but he can’t find you. Great use of foreground. Maybe this one wins.”

I stomp over and snatch the photo out of her hand. I’ve seen it before. This is my stuff. I took this picture.

“Why are you looking at these?” I ask.

Mom goes to light another cigarette and finally looks at me and smiles.

“These are my pictures. They are private.”

She inhales and shrugs. “They weren’t in your darkroom.”

“No. They were in my bed room. Since when do you go through my stuff?”

This makes her laugh, but not with the same abandon as in Ms. K’s room. This laugh is more evil, more condescending.

“What stuff?” she says when she catches her breath. “You got rid of everything you had up there.” She looks at the table. “Except for these … ”

“This is none of your business.”

“This is entirely my business.”

“I don’t go in your room and look through your shit.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Watch my mouth? You’re the one who’s, like, the rebel, smoking cigarettes and drinking.”

She smiles. “You’re funny.”

“I’m glad you think so. Give me my pictures back.”

“I spent all this time talking to you, never pushing you or asking you questions, avoiding power struggles, trusting you.”

I start piling up the night pictures, but they’re all over the place. She must have been looking at them for a while before I got here. I find a couple on the armchair, three under the table, one on the end table under the lamp.

“Don’t do that,” she frets. “They’re organized. They’re in categories.”

“They’re mine.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “I was trying to find a system, to group them by season, by emotion. I was looking for clues. I haven’t had this much fun in a while, playing detective with my own daughter.”

“You are acting crazy. You shouldn’t have taken these.”

“I didn’t take them.”

I’ve gathered them all except for the one in her hand. “Yes you did.”

“Nope.”

“You went into my room and found the pictures.”

My eyes feel full and wet, but I’m incapable of crying. She puts the cigarettes down and sighs.

“I didn’t take the pictures, Miriam.”

“Okay. I get it. I did.”

“No, I mean I didn’t take them from you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Adam came by.”

“What?”

“Adam came by looking for you. He seemed really upset.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to talk to you. He said you weren’t answering his calls. I told him that you would be home soon and gave him some water. He was really upset, Miriam. He looked like he was about to cry. I asked him if everything was all right, and he said he wasn’t sure. He told me he was worried about you, that he didn’t know what to do.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just listened.”

“Did you tell him about Ms. K?”

“Yes. I figured he knew already. I thought you were with him when you skipped class.”

Of course you did.

“Anyway, he started getting uncomfortable. I think he was trying to protect you, so I didn’t want to push it. I told him you’d call when you got home.”

I have to sit down.

“Before he left, he asked for his camera. He said he’d left it here. He went up to your room to look for it, but it wasn’t there. He wanted to go to your darkroom, but I told him I couldn’t let him, that we had an agreement.”

Although I’m pissed at my mother in her college sweatshirt, I’m also a little bit proud. She’s trying so hard.

“You didn’t go in?” I ask.

“No, Miriam, and neither did he. He looked everywhere for his camera. He said he was sure you had taken it. I told him you had your own, and he said you were using that for something else. I asked him what he meant, and that’s when he gave me the pictures. He said they were upstairs.”

“I cannot believe it. I can’t believe he did that.”

“He was worried, Miriam. We’re all worried.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“He gave me this,” she says, and hands me a large envelope with my name on it, my full name. It’s Adam’s handwriting.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Miriam. Believe it or not, I do try to respect your privacy. Open it.”

I start to open it and see there’s a picture in there. I close it back up.

“Did he say anything else?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“What was he supposed to tell me?” Mom says.

“Nothing. I’m going over to his house.”

“I’ll take you.”

“It’s five blocks away.”

“It’s cold. Let me take you.”

“These are my pictures, Mom.”

“They’re good.”

“I don’t know, but you weren’t supposed to see them.”

“You took them in the middle of the night,” she says.

“This is why you weren’t supposed to see them. I’m so mad. I’m so mad.”

“I’m taking you to Adam’s.”

“Mom?”

“Miriam?”

“Fine. But you’re waiting in the car.”

“Sounds good. Bring his camera.”

“We’ll see. Haven’t you, like, been drinking?”

“Miriam. I’m your mother. I’m the most responsible person you know. I had a sip of whiskey.”

She takes the pictures from my hand, straightens the corners in the pile, and lays them in the middle of the coffee table. “Let me get the keys.”

When she walks out, I breathe and open the envelope. There she is again, this time in black and white: it’s the same picture I saw in his camera. Eva and the sculpture, my two Picassos. One standing, and one lying down, looking at each other for the first time.