I close my eyes. Shey’s such a pain. And she’s always right. “Yes.”
“And if she shows up without her hair, she can say it was for the shoot.”
“The kids will still laugh.”
“Not if they see her pictures. You know she’s photogenic. She’d be stunning in black and white with her pale skin, strong cheekbones, and dark eyes.”
Eva is beautiful in photographs. The camera sees something most people miss, and I cherish every photo of her. But to try to turn her into a model? To make her something she’s not?
The receptionist at the front desk waves to me. “Henri says they’re almost done. He’d like you to come see your daughter’s hair.”
“Shey, they’re done with Eva. I’m to go see the finished product.”
“Let me talk to Liza here at the agency. She’s been in meetings all morning with the producers from the Discovery Channel, but if I can get a moment with her, I’ll see who Liza recommends in Seattle. I know she’s got a favorite kids photographer there, and I’ll call you with the details.”
“Fine,” I answer grumpily.
“It’s going to be okay,” Shey repeats, Zenlike. “Just keep telling yourself these pictures and portfolio are for Eva’s benefit, not yours.” Shey pauses. “She’s choosing her own path, Ta. Support it.”
I stand behind Eva’s chair and inspect Henri’s handiwork. Eva’s hair is so short that it’s like a boy’s, but at least Henri has created a style, and the wispy ends frame Eva’s eyes, cheekbones, and mouth. Even if the hair is pixie short, there’s no way to confuse Eva’s face, with her big long-lashed eyes and full pink mouth, with a boy’s.
Later that afternoon, I drive Eva to photographer Kira Stewart’s studio in Seattle, a studio not far from the stadium where the Mariners play and the huge Starbucks corporate office.
ExpectingModels has used Kira for a number of her West Coast photo assignments as well as when they need to build a young model’s portfolio. Kira’s an expert with kids, and even I’m amazed at the shots Kira is getting of Eva, first in old-fashioned pinafores and then with Eva dressed in chunky turtlenecks and corduroy overalls with funky props like a wooden rake and an old red wagon.
While I don’t want Eva to really model, I do think Shey’s suggestion is brilliant. Instead of feeling hideous, Eva’s beginning to smile and shine, and her confidence is growing.
By the time we’re finished, it’s nearly dinnertime. We stop at the Burgermaster drive-in for dinner, and as we eat in the car, Eva chatters away, thrilled with some of the digital prints that Kira sent home with her to keep as a souvenir until the real photos are ready.
“So Aunt Shey is really going to use me as a model?” Eva repeats for the fourth time between bites of hamburger and fries, her photos tucked beneath her leg.
“She says she wants to.” I sip my Diet Coke, wishing it were spiked with rum. It’s been one very long day.
“That’s so cool.” Eva slurps on her strawberry milkshake, looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Modeling is cool.”
I say nothing.
Eva says louder, “Jemma models, did you know that?”
“No,” I answer wearily. “I didn’t know.”
“She does a lot for Nordstrom.”
“Mmmmm.”
“I just hope I get a real modeling job soon.” Eva swirls her shake, her expression dreamy. “A good one. You know, maybe as a junior bridesmaid for a wedding ad.”
Eva was right about the sleepover being ruined. The party cancellations start to pour in by voice mail and e-mail the next day, one right after the other. The excuses are lame, and some are barely excuses, just brief announcements that there’s been a change of plans and Paige or Brooke (or whoever) can’t come.
I don’t announce each cancellation to Eva. It’s not fair that she’s been snubbed because of me. It’s not fair that adults use children as pawns in their petty games.
By noon, I realize we don’t have a party anymore. I haven’t heard from two people, but if eight have canceled out, the other two can’t be far behind.
Equally awful, the whole Walla Walla winery campaign is shot. We did the work, but we’re not going to get paid.
I haven’t had lunch yet and decide to use my lunch hour to escape. In the house I change into my boots, layer on an extra T-shirt, and grab my old leather bomber coat. I’m going for a ride.
Wheeling the motorcycle out of the garage, I see Chris standing in the studio office door. He doesn’t wave or say anything, so I straddle my bike, stand it up, and kick up the kickstand.
I turn on the bike. Shift gears. One down, four up. The engine roars. I love that sound. I smile crookedly, and some of the tightness and hurt inside my chest eases.
I roar down the driveway, take a left onto 92nd Avenue NE, and head for the 520. I’m bummed we haven’t heard from Freedom Bikes, but I won’t panic, not yet. Everything’s going to be okay. It always is.
After merging onto the 405, I head toward Snoqualmie, where dairy farms fold into mountains and waterfalls tumble through a craggy gorge. I ride for over an hour, traveling past the town of North Bend, where Twin Peaks was once filmed, and on through the rugged Cascades until I reach the top of the pass. It’s a beautiful fall day, the sky almost too sharply blue and the trees along the 90 every shade of red, copper, and gold.
The air’s cold high up, and I wish I’d worn gloves. My fingers feel stiff on the handlebars, and everything in me rattles from the bone-jarring ride.
It’s not a gentle bike, and it’s not meant to be a soft ride.
On the way home, I stop in Issaquah at historic Gilman Village. Issaquah, once an old coal-mining town, has developed as the gateway to the “Plateau,” which is a traffic nightmare unto itself. But it’s early yet, not even two-fifteen, and traffic is light.
After parking my bike outside one of the village’s restored farmhouses-turned-coffeehouses, I yank my helmet off my head and, carrying it loosely in the crook of my arm, enter the yellow-and-white-painted restored farmhouse.
As I wait for my order, I realize people are looking at me. It’s been so long since I rode my bike, I’d forgotten how people stare when I’m in my biker gear. Men and women seem equally fascinated by the combination of long hair, scuffed lace-up boots, faded Levi’s jeans, and black, macho helmet dangling from my hand.
Still waiting, I spot a young mom with her daughter, and I watch entranced as they sit at their tiny table for two
and share a cookie.
The mother has a long dark ponytail, and the child—unlike Eva—is stunningly fair, Nordic instead of my coloring. The toddler dips her cookie crumble into her small paper cup of milk and nods seriously as if to say, This is good, and the mother smiles back and nods. Her nod doesn’t say just that the cookie is good, but that the daughter has it right, that the daughter is good, that life—the two of them together—is good.
I feel a tug inside me, remembering how that used to be us, Eva and me, the two of us alone, against the world.
I remember how we were once our own little family, and it was wonderful and painful, hopeful and terrifying. It was just the two of us. In those early years in New York, I’d never been more courageous or more anxious.
I used to lie awake at night wondering what would happen to Eva if something happened to me. And then I’d wonder how I’d survive if something happened to her. I used to torture myself with thoughts like these until they made me ill, and then one day I decided I wouldn’t play that game anymore. I refused to dwell on negative things, refused to give up one moment of life to sad, depressing thoughts. Nothing bad would happen. And if it did, I’d deal with it then and only then.
“Americano for Marta,” the teenage boy announces.
My drink order is ready, and I step forward for my cup. “Thanks,” I say.
“Is that your bike outside?” he asks, nodding to what would have once been a living room window with a view of the parking lot.
“Yeah.” I lift the lid of the tall, steaming cup to help it cool. “Do you ride?”
“I have a Honda I bought secondhand. Kind of a girlie little bike. It’s embarrassing. My dream bike’s a Fat Boy.”
“Good dream.”
He blushes, nods, smiles shyly. “You have a good day.”