Page 32 of The Lies I Told
“And that picture is still for sale?”
“Of the tree? Yes.”
He walked to the picture. “May I remove it?”
“Sure.”
He glanced at the back. “Can I Venmo you the money for it?”
“Sure.” I gave him my username.
He entered the payment. “Sent it.”
My phone dinged with a message, and the amount hit my account. Exhilaration buzzed as I carefully took the picture from him, grabbed a paper towel, wiped away the dust, and removed the price tag. I’d sold a piece before, but the memory of that transaction had been lost to the Black Hole. I supposed this was my first-known experience of an artwork sale. The situation felt bittersweet. Gaining at the price of letting go. Did these feelings mirror my January experience? Or were echoes of the really first sale tempering this moment? I would never know. I decided it didn’t matter. Feeling good was feeling good.
“You’ve made my day,” I said.
“I could say the same,” he said. “This spot stirs a lot of memories for me. This will be a nice addition to my study.”
“I don’t have paper or a bag to wrap it in.” Had I been more organized at my art show?
“No problem.” He accepted the framed picture. “Thank you again, Marisa.”
I walked him to the door, opened it, and allowed him to pass before I followed him down the stairs to the first floor. I pushed open the security door and stood outside in the chilled air. “I’ll have digital files to you in a day or two.”
He tucked the picture under his arm and extended his hand to me. I accepted it. His grip was strong. “Look forward to it.”
I stepped back into the building, and he slid the picture into the back seat of a Lexus. As he pulled away, he glanced in his rearview mirror and caught my lingering gaze. For a moment, I felt trapped.
As I took a step back, my heart thumped against my ribs. Looking from side to side, I checked the lock on the front door as a memory of distant eyes bored into me from the shadows.
14
MARISA
Monday, March 14, 2022
11:00 a.m.
Back in my apartment, I walked to the row of ten pictures I’d taken of the river. Now two were missing. I raised my hand to the spot where the forgotten first-sale image should have been, as if doing so would summon the buyer and fill the blanks in my memory. Why did it matter who I’d sold the picture to?
I had no real record of the sale, but I still had the negative for the original picture. I slid on my glasses, sat at a light table where I worked with my prints. I opened a notebook filled with negatives tucked in clear sleeves and found the one for the first sale.
This image was different from the others. I’d set my camera up on a tripod the day of this shoot, and I’d walked into the frame. Staring out at the water and using the remote, I’d snapped twenty images. I’d stood still, staring, thinking about Clare, trying to channel her. Part of me hoped my sister was at peace, but my selfish-self wished her spirit were restless, angry, and stalking the earth in search of vengeance.
This picture was the only one in the sequence that had worked. The others on that particular day of shooting either had been out of focus or the lighting was off; however, this image had arrived fully packed with emotion and a shadow echoing my shape that had me wondering if I’d conjured up Clare’s spirit.
I moved into my darkroom, which was the apartment’s windowless closet. I set up three chemical trays, one for the developer, one for the neutralizer, and finally a water bath. I chose the negative from the sleeve in my binder and centered it on the enlarger. After switching on the red light, I closed the door and shut off the bright light. Centering my photographic paper, I tried to remember how I’d created the first image but knew no matter what I did, this wouldn’t be an exact copy. I clicked on the enlarger, burned in the right edge to the count of three, and then clicked the machine off. I slid the paper into the developer and watched the print’s twin slowly appear.
The shadow on the right was darker this time, but the effect felt like it worked. Next the neutralizer stopped the development and then the water bath. After I pinned the print to the small clothesline strung over the workbench, I stepped back and studied it. It felt close to the first.
I’d never stopped to consider whether I should limit the number of prints. But now, as I stared at this one, I knew I’d never re-create it again. It was officially retired, and this copy would belong only to me.
This mystery buyer and I now shared a connection. We both owned this print. Our meeting might be forgotten, but the tethers binding us would always exist.
15
HIM
