Ghost Time

dressed, trying to make this nice day for us all, what could I do but smile? I turned back to Cam, and I nodded yes, I’ll try.

MONDAY, MAY 30, 2011
    (EIGHT WEEKS LATER)
    8:23 AM
    I saw Karen today. She came over—didn’t call, didn’t text, she just knocked on our door. I hadn’t been over to see her in weeks. Mostly because it was so hard for me to go outside anymore, but also because it made me so sad, seeing her, how much she’d changed, sunken, ashen. Or maybe how much I’d changed, and now there was this tension between us—the reporters, cameras, cops, the FBI, the lawyers, the threats.
    Anyhow, she caught me off guard, coming over first thing in the morning. She could tell I was totally surprised to see her, too, because, before I could say anything, she said she had something for me. I asked her if she wanted to come in, and she shook her head no, then she opened her canvas duffel and pulled out this big cardboard envelope, maybe twelve-by-seventeen, big. She handed it to me, and I asked her what it was, and she said they were photos, Cam’s photos.
    My mouth fell open, and Karen said, Cam never told you, did he? And I said, Probably not, no. So what didn’t he tell me this time? I said, and then she told me that Cam always wanted to be a photographer when he was a little boy. She said that he used to take pictures all the time, but his favorite was whenever the three of them, Cam and his mom and dad, would take trips, road trips.
    I didn’t know what to say, because he’d never told me that. She just looked at me, and I couldn’t even believe the bags and dark circles under her eyes—it wasn’t Karen I was talking to. But I said no, he’d never said a word and Karen goes, He was shy about telling you, Thea, and I almost flared up for some reason, and she saw it. Believe me or don’t, but I’m telling you, Cam admired you and your talent so much, I think he was afraid you’d think less of him, or maybe even be embarrassed in some way if you didn’t like his photography, she said, this tiny puff of a laugh escaping her lips, looking at the photos.
    I couldn’t help smiling when she said that word, afraid. But you know what? That’s bullshit. All the times he pushed me to open up, all the things he said about being brave, taking risks, sharing my work, and he didn’t even tell me he took pictures of his family? I believed him, too. Everything he told me, I believed every word. And do you have any idea the mess he’d made of my life? I was just like, Karen. Did you see all those people, outside, when you walked in here? Some people think Cam’s alive, some people think he’s dead. Same difference, the way everyone looks at me. It’s become a sick joke: the rumors, the videos, the sex tapes, everything. And guess who has to listen, every day, all day? Me, I said: me.
    I didn’t say that, but all I could think was how I start and stop letters to him all the time, all day, every day. I kept writing in our sketchbook, drafting e-mails. I typed and erased or I wrote things, crossed them out, scribbled over and over: Who are you? That’s the one thing that kept coming back, every time I held a pen in my hand. I kept spacing out and snapping back, realizing I’d scribbled WHO ARE YOU? a thousand times. Seriously, seems like I didn’t know anything about him, really. I mean, maybe I knew the person he showed me, but that’s not who he really was, was it? I’m sorry, but the more I learn about him, the more I realize I didn’t know Cam at all.
    What can I say? One day, I find out my boyfriend was an aspiring photographer, and he never mentioned any of this to me. Karen even said he won some awards for his photography. Imagine how that feels, hearing that my boyfriend won awards for pictures he took, and it’s all news to me. I mean, I told him things, things I never told anyone, and he didn’t trust me? So when Karen handed me the envelope, she said she wanted me to have it, and I started to look at them, all of Cam’s pictures, and then, when I was done, I just handed them back to her.
    Why now? I said. Why are you giving these to me now? She goes, Was there a better time? not taking the envelope. I go, Yes. Yes, there was a better time. Like when Cam was here, when he was—I said, and then I had to catch myself. I mean, I didn’t say it, but I almost did. I almost said, When he was alive. She knew, too. Karen knew exactly what I meant, and she goes, Now, because he’d want you