Page 14 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Maggie and I are different, though.’

‘I know,’ he says after a beat ‘So – have you given any thought as to whatyoumight want to do?’

‘Oh, with the rest of my life, you mean?’ I laugh. ‘Uh – no. Sorry to disappoint.’

‘I don’t expect you to have it all set in stone. Just – I’d hate to see you directionless.’

‘Right,’ I say, glancing away. It’s an odd sentiment, coming from a person who didn’t really see me at all these past five years. What does he expect? I’ve been bouncing back and forth over the Atlantic Ocean for as long as I can remember, so is it any fucking wonder that I’m lacking in ‘direction’?

‘Caroline mentioned that photography was a hobby of yours,’ he presses, and I resist the urge to sigh.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I mean – there was a darkroom at school. It was something to do.’

The art department there was a sprawling, 1970s-era monstrosity on the edge of the school grounds, and given the number of disused classrooms, it quickly became my favourite place to kill time whenever I didn’t particularly feel like being in a lesson. Eventually a teacher called Mr McDougal found meout, but instead of detention he gave me a camera – a battered little point and shoot. He taught me how to develop pictures, too, though that was the extent of our mentor/mentee dynamic. He preferred watching movies in the back office to teaching, but hedidusher me into becoming the unofficial photographer for school events, meaning that I finally had a legitimate reason to skip classes.

‘They had the darkroom when I was there, too,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t suppose it’s changed much.’

‘Probably not,’ I reply flatly. That was how Dad justified the whole boarding school thing, apparently. He went to the same one, so he figured that it was a good idea to send me there when I started ‘acting out’.

‘She said you had a good eye for it,’ he continues. ‘Caroline, this is.’

I shrug. Caroline used to be into photography as well, so I emailed her to ask for advice when I was just starting out. A few weeks later I got a parcel – she’d sent me a restored vintage Leica and a boxful of film. After that I started including scans of my photos in the emails I sent her – only the best ones, the ones I thought she might like. I didn’t realise she’d been blabbing about it to Dad, though.

‘You know,NYUhas a great photography programme,’ he adds, leaning forward. ‘I have a friend who lectures there. I’m sure she’d be happy to look over your portfolio.’

‘I don’t have a portfolio.’

‘Then it could be something to work towards. How long do you think it would take to put one together?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say curtly. ‘I guess I’d have to ask Caroline.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ he says, sounding so genuinely enthused that I immediately feel like a piece of shit. This is one of the (many,many) reasons why I avoid spending time with Dad – Ihate the person I seem to morph into whenever I’m around him. A bored, stroppy teenager, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at everything he says.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to idolise him – Mum too. They both worked near-constantly, Dad at his office and Mum teaching Classics at a university just out of the city. It was actually something of a novelty when either of themwerehome, so Maggie, Caroline and I used to shamelessly vie for their attention. And they knew that, I think, which is why we all had our own ‘thing’ with them. For Mum and me, it was the cinema. With Dad it was museums, and he patiently saw me through every pre-adolescent fixation. Dinosaurs first, then space, ancient Egypt and a brief geodes phase. We spent so many weekends hitting up the Museum of Natural History that most of the security guards knew me by name, and even after the geodes lost their appeal, things were pretty good with us until things got bad with Mum. And then she was gone, and …

What little I do remember I don’t care to dwell on, but the point is, he wasn’t around. There were accounts to close, people to tell, a funeral to plan – death is a logistical nightmare, it turns out. Still, it always kind of felt to me like he was relieved to have an excuse not to be around us. He had enough of his own grief, I suppose, and he didn’t want to deal with ours too.

Anyway. Our food arrives not long after that, which is a relief. We don’t have to talk while we’re eating, and the sandwich is good – not twenty dollars good, but good. Dad asks for the bill within a minute of me putting the last bite into my mouth, and I get another awkward shoulder pat goodbye outside the restaurant before he leaves.

I feel weirdly unsettled on the walk back to my apartment. I can’t shake it off, and within ten minutes of getting in the door I find myself on my knees, digging through the box of old school junk that I keep under my bed. I finally find my Leicainside of an old sock, shaking it out and turning it over in my hand. There’s something reassuring about the weight of it.NYUis never going to happen, but throwing a few pictures together to appease Dad doesn’t seem like too difficult a task.

It’s weird, but I’ve never used it in New York. I never took it back with me during the summer break, which I suppose was because I didn’t really feel like looking too closely at the city. After Mum died, it seemed obscene that it could all look the same. The city’s apparent indifference to her absence was maddening, and I used to imagine myself installing commemorative plaques in all of her favourite places. I wanted everyone, even the people that had never met her, to remember that she was here. To know that she drank coffee in this bakery and graded essays on this bench and loved this one painting so much that she came to see it on the last Sunday of every month.

But I didn’t, obviously. I haven’t even commemorated her here, in my apartment. Caroline offered me some old photos to frame when I was moving in but I said no, I didn’t want any. I felt bad about it and I still do, but I won’t change my mind. I still haven’t figured out how to remember the good without immediately getting sucked down into the bad, and having pictures around – that would mean more remembering than I’m generally equipped to handle. Because it doesn’t ever hurt less, it turns out. Just less often.

I pack everything up again and slide the box back under my bed. The camera too. I don’t really feel like looking at it any more.

AUDREY

‘AND DID SHE SAY HOW LONG YOU’LL BE STAYING?’

‘Indefinitely, I guess.’

‘Right. When was the meeting?’

‘Wednesday. But she messaged to confirm it last night.’

‘Right,’ Marika says again, absently tapping a spoon against her yogurt bowl. ‘Okay.’

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