The third Polaroid is like the one she found in Maggie’s photo album, but taken seconds before or after it. Maggie smiles in her tank-top and cutoffs and Tony is laughing, head tilted back.
“That’s the spit of you when you laugh,” Jamie says. “It’s a pretty freaky resemblance, actually.”
“Don’t we all look kind of alike when we laugh?”
“His mouth is the same shape as yours. Like when you laugh hard.”
Three days ago, the thought of Jamie noticing the shape of her mouth would have made her all tingly. Now it leaves an embarrassed thud in her gut.
He lays the Polaroid on the table away from his wet glass. Twenty minutes until he needs to be at the gate. The airport restaurant has notoriously slow service, but they can pour a beer somewhat quickly. None of Jamie’s family has come. “I told them I had a ride,” Jamie says. And technically he does. His car is in the Buy and Sell and Imogene will deal with it. “I don’t trust my brothers with any money it might get,” he says. “And I’d rather have the Tubbs ladies get some use out of it until it sells.”
The last-minute gift of the car gives them something to talk about. Transferring over the insurance, the way the passenger door sticks. They yammer about this for the drive to the airport, New Year’s Eve unmentioned, like condensation on the windows.
“Maureen says to call her,” Jamie says. “She’s been on Sherrie duty the past few days.”
“I will.”
“She’s not mad. Maureen, I mean. But this is awkward for her.”
“How’s Sherrie?”
“Really fucking upset.”
“Oh God.”
“You’re some minx. I’m not judging—I mean, things happen.” He takes a swig of his pint. Here they are, talking about her sleeping with someone else. He obviously knows about “things happening.” Enough not to judge her. She tries not to look at his mouth. He has a whole secret life she knows nothing about.
“Maureen says Sherrie might forgive him,” he says.
“Why? Jesus.”
“I think he’s feeding her a bunch of stuff about being drunk and not knowing what he was doing.”
She laughs. It is the first time she’s laughed in days. Jamie stares at her. She stops. “Yeah, that’s it. He was drunk and I seduced him. What will his excuse be next time?”
“I guess it’s what she wants to believe.” He picks up the Polaroid again. “I’m really glad you have this,” he says. “Must feel like closure.”
Imogene shrugs. Believing the man in the picture is her father is a thin comfort. It feels like instead of one asshole, there are two. But maybe she is too. Maybe she’s inherited his disregard and his smile. When she thinks of Sherrie, there is embarrassment, but no puddles of guilt. Sherrie will find another boyfriend. Or Casey will go on cheating on her with other people. Or he won’t. Maybe they’ll work it out.
“Not that it matters at all,” Jamie says.
“What doesn’t?”
“Closure. Knowing where your DNA comes from. Who cares? It doesn’t change you or how you’re loved.”
“It would have though. If I had always been sure, it would have made a difference.”
“Only to you. The rest of us have always been sure about you.”
“Sure about what?”
“Sure that you’re wonderful.”
“Pack off.”
“I’m going to, in about fifteen minutes.”
“Proper thing.”
“But you know you are, Imogene. You saved me this year.”
Yeah, and now you’re fucking leaving me, Imogene thinks. She wishes she had a wristwatch to check. “We should get you through security,” she says.
When it’s Jamie’s turn for the security queue, he gives Imogene a hug, a peck on the cheek. “After I start school and learn some things, I want to come home and go on a road trip,” he says. “Photograph the island. Come with me?”
“Sure.”
“I really want to go out to the West Coast. We can go out to St. Felix’s.”
“If you come with me, I’ll go,” she says. “You’d make it fun.”
She watches him place his bag on the conveyor belt, rifle out change and keys from his pockets. And then he’s through the metal detector and gone from her sight. He joked that he would try to wave from the plane, but she just wants out of the airport, away from families and couples kissing goodbye.
On her way to the exit, she walks back towards the departures’ area. There is a lone Air Canada agent set up just for ticket sales. She tells her she wants to buy a ticket to New York, for the end of April.
“That will be a nice trip,” the agent says. “A treat for the end of term.”
“Can I get a second one?” Imogene says. “Like, an open one? I’m going to bring a friend, but they don’t know yet.”
“How nice. Wish I had friends like you,” the agent says.
Imogene pulls out a stack of bills. They’re soft with age and five years of consideration. The agent gives her back change: $87.55. Enough for a textbook. Maybe.
The address Maggie gave her is in Flushing. Whoever comes with her, they can help her look it up on a map. She’s going to need back-up. A city of distractions may not be enough. She’ll need someone on her side, Maureen, Jamie, even Rita or Maggie. She can choose soon from the people on her side.
She turns down Portugal Cove Road. It’s bitter out, but no more snow yet. The sky is overcast and the traffic is light. The dull ache of her disappointment is still there, but as she gets farther away from the airport, her chest is lighter. When she gets home, she can look through the flyers for sales on bookshelves. She can make a list of things she needs for the basement apartment. She’ll call Maureen.
As she drives Jamie’s car past the old stadium, glimmers of light break through the clouds. It reflects off the snowbanks making everything radiate with white light, warm, rich, and overdue. Just this morning, Nan said the forecast called for rain, but there it is, the prodigal St. John’s sun. It doesn’t show any signs of not sticking around.