Page 183 of Mangled Memory
The look of puzzlement on her features is hidden as I turn away from her and back to the photo.
She turns with me and crosses her arms, staring at it just as I do.
“Well—” She starts but turns curious eyes up to me. “This is weird, you know, seeing as how you know more about it than Ido. But here it goes… The artist, Ayla Barone, is a gifted photographer. That much is easy to see. But what separates her from many is her focus not on what exists, but what is missing. She plays more in shadows than in light. Most old-school photographers say to follow the light or chase the light. She finds more interest in chasing the shadows. In this piece for example, the eye naturally begins at the mountain tops. That’s where a typical photographer would focus. What’s curious here are the shadows cast by the cloud cover that isn’t revealed in frame. It forces the viewer down into the darker parts, looking away from the sunlit snowcaps, and toward the tree line and the scrub below. It’s as if the picture itself moves the viewer through it. Below the tree line and the scrub brush, a lone huge moose stands as if posing for the shot. But again, he’s tucked in shadow, this time of an evergreen. Mrs. Barone never saw him that day. But he saw her. His eyes are on her, but only in this shot. Of the several she took, he only appears in this one. Lastly, the babbling brook below dances in and out of the shot as if we only need to see slivers of it, not it in full. It’s as if the photo itself moves, like one of those wizard pictures from that children’s movie? If this one moved, we’d sell it all day every day and I’d never have to learn the art and science of photography.”
I’m overcome by the shot, but more so by her description of my work. “You’re studying photography?” Too late, I recognize my mistake.
“You know—” Her eyes scour my face, and I cringe beneath her keen scrutiny.
“I don’t. Obviously, we know each other. And I’m embarrassed to ask your name, but the fall…” I stumble over my words. “The fall left me with some memory gaps. We don’t know why, but it’s really only the last couple of years. And this, I’d bet”—I look around the space again, wishing anything were familiar—“is within that time frame.”
She says “couple of years” with me while the light is dawning. When really, all I feel is the shadow of what’s missing. Life imitating art, I guess.
She wraps me in a hug, before pulling back. “I’m Ashlyn. I’m your apprentice. I’ve been with you for a year. You have two, apprentices that is. Me and Javier. We split our time here with Lauren. You remember her?”
I nod. Lauren and I went to school together. “She’s from before.”
“She manages the shop. Javi and I work here, and we spend time with you out there.” She looks to the wall, as if she can see through it and to the majesty beyond. “He’s gone home to Santa Fe for a wedding and has the week off. So, it’s just me and Lauren this week.”
She slides her phone from her back pocket and scrolls a bit, before turning the screen to me. A handsome man I’ve never seen before stares back. His smile is dimpled and his face is young, though his eyes don’t feel that way. “That’s Javi. Just in case…” She tilts her head. “I don’t know who you’re telling or who knows, and I’d hate for you to feel caught when you see him.”
“Thank you.” Her generosity is overwhelming.
The bell over the door rings, and I turn my back to the newcomer.
“I’ll be right with you,” Ashlyn says. “Take a look around.” To me she adds, “The restrooms are this way, miss. I’ll show you.”
She scuttles me to the back through a staff-only area.
“What was that about?”
“I didn’t know if you’d want to talk with customers about your work. With the social media buzz and the feature inMile Highmagazine, lots of people come in to talk to you.” She averts her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to overstep, Mrs. Barone.”
“Call me Ayla. Is there a rear exit?”
She points to the door. “If the door stays open for more than ten seconds, an alarm will sound.”
I squeeze her forearm. “Thank you, Ashlyn.”
I scurry to the door and out onto the bustling street. I easily melt into the ever-present tourist crowd and quickly find my car.
I have plenty of time to get to lunch, so I take the long route, enjoying the sun on my face. Winter will be here soon enough.
Mom and I sit outside at Cherry Creek North at one of the few remaining locally-owned restaurants. As with everything, progress has pushed aside places like the Cherry Cricket, a Denver staple when I was growing up, and left us with chain restaurants and retailers that may fit the local lifestyle, but don’t fit me.
At least the me I know.
“How are you, sweetie?”
“Good. Bad. Discombobulated. It’s unnerving to have a hidden patch in my mind. How in the world can I remember the Pythagorean theorem and not my employees? Why do I even have space in my brain for that when I don’t recognize my husband?” I stab at my pasta salad and stare at my soup. “It’s like some hideous vine has smothered one section and blocked out the light to it.”
Mom reaches out and taps on the back of my hand. “You never were great at having patience, and this, unfortunately, is a situation that requires it. In spades.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“But it’s not, Ayla. You’ll understand one day, but watching you hurt, watching your brothers hurt, it’s the worst thing to experience as a parent. I would take it all away if I could, take it all onto my own shoulders to relieve you of it. I… I hate this for you.” Her lip quivers, and she drops her chin. Her fingers quiver as she reaches for her water glass. She must be taking this harder than I understood.
“I know. I mean, I don’t, but I appreciate it. Now will you tell me some things about the last couple of years.”
