Paper Ghosts by Julia Heaberlin

Author:Julia Heaberlin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2018-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

35

“Windows and mirrors,” Carl is muttering.

He’s back at the hotel, sorting his gold into the small sauté pan he stole from Mrs. T. Carl seems especially off after his visit with the doctor. Barfly’s camped out underneath the table, his nose resting on Carl’s boot, which is becoming a habit.

“I am not cruel, only truthful,” Carl quotes. “Sylvia Plath. Talking in the voice of a mirror.”

I watch him silently, not sure if he expects my participation. The crisscross of scratches on the table stick out like a manic game of tic-tac-toe. I plan to attack them later with the Cherry Oak touch-up furniture marker I found at a drugstore in the hospital district while Carl hunted for Mountain Dew.

The sun is climbing down outside the wall of windows.

“I’m not putting the mirrors back up until we leave in the morning,” I assure him. “I can close the curtains if the windows are bothering you.”

Carl has barely said a word in the last two hours, except a disparaging remark to the over-pixelated image of Frank Sinatra tipping his hat in the elevator. I asked him about his visit with the doctor and he seemed genuinely vague, as if the brain scan and the examination were fragments of a dream.

“I’m talking about photographs,” Carl says. “They are both mirrors and windows. The story the photographer tells and the infinite interpretations of strangers. The perfect shot lives. Breathes. Expands. People think music is the universal language. It’s photography.”

This is almost a direct quote from the preamble of his book of photographs. Do I tell him that I know this? That I’ve spent countless nights in bed freefalling into his black-and-white worlds? That I’ve bobbed with Violet in the sadistic gray waves of Galveston? That I played with his little Marys shut up inside a closet? It makes me sound as unhinged as he is.

The picture of Rachel is still propped against the lamp. I will myself to pick it up and lay it flat on the table in front of him. “Tell me about this.”

“I didn’t shoot it.”

“Just tell me what story she tells.”

“That girl wishes like hell she was somewhere else.”

“What does Walt say about her?”

“Walt says it’s too bad she died. He says set-up shots like this are for the birds.”

With one furious movement of his arm, Carl sweeps his loot onto the floor. Barfly raises his head and decides it’s better to stay put.

I walk over to the lamp a little unsteadily and prop my sister back up. I bend to pick up the rocks so he can’t see my tears, then change my mind. Open my fist. Deliberately let the rocks trickle out of my hand and fall to the floor.

“Pick up your own gold, Carl. Order room service. Don’t bother me for the rest of the night. Come on, Barfly.” Once I’m behind the bedroom door, I work steadily to even my breath, to stop the flow of tears. I pull the die out of my pocket and roll it across the carpet as many times as it takes until it lands on my lucky number, three.

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