Double Image

“I never heard of a famous psychotherapist called Young.”

“Spell it differently. J-u-n-g. She’s making a joke. Or she chose the names without realizing the co

“And what about Miller?”

“Alice Miller. The subtitle of one of her books is Tracing Childhood Trauma in Creativity and Destructiveness.”

Coltrane’s voice was an uneasy whisper. “Childhood trauma?”

“There’s one other thing I have to tell you.”

“You mean it gets worse?”

“She told you her mother was dead. Well, she’s batting a thousand, because that isn’t true, either.”

22

IN POINT-AND-SHOOT CAMERAS, the viewfinder and the lens have different openings. As a consequence, the image seen through the viewfinder is not quite the same as that received through the lens and recorded on film, making precise framing difficult. The difference between what the viewfinder sees and what the lens sees is known as the parallax effect, and that is what Coltrane suffered now. What he had thought was happening was so at odds with what had truly been happening that the parallax threatened to drive him insane.

At ten the next morning, after he and Je

The attendant was in his twenties, with wire-rim glasses and his hair tied back in a ponytail. “You’d better prepare yourselves. The odds are, she won’t know you.”

“I don’t expect her to,” Coltrane said. “It’s been years since we met,” he lied. “The last time I saw her was when we lived on the same street in Sacramento. But I have these photographs I took of her daughter.” Coltrane held up a packet. “And when her daughter found out I was coming to Oakland for a photo assignment, she asked me to visit her mother and give these to her.” The camera hanging from Coltrane’s neck gave credence to his story.

“Sometimes her language can be a little frank.”

“No problem. I admire elderly women who speak their mind,” Je

“Well, maybe frank isn’t the right word,” the attendant said.

Coltrane tilted his head in puzzlement.

“Shocking would be more accurate,” the attendant said. “But who knows, you might get lucky and catch her in one of her occasional ladylike moods. The doctor said the photographs you’re bringing might improve her mental outlook. Nothing else has, so let’s hope.” The attendant reached for the doorknob. “Just give me a minute to go in and see that she’s presentable.”

“Take all the time you need,” Coltrane said. While the attendant went in, his apprehension swelled.

“So far so good. The story about the photographs worked,” Je

“I wish it hadn’t. I don’t want to go in there.”

The photographs of Tash that Coltrane had brought were from the film he had exposed in Acapulco. He had developed the prints the night before, careful to shield Je

The door hissed open, the attendant stepping out. “I can’t tell her mood, but she’s ready to see you.”

Am I ready, though? Coltrane asked himself.

After an uncertain glance toward Je

The rest home’s administrator had given Coltrane a sense of what to expect. Even so, he was caught by surprise, faltering as Je

“There’s been a mistake. We’re in the wrong room.”

“No mistake,” Je

“But…” Coltrane stared at the apparently sleeping woman on the bed. “Tash’s mother was born in 1934. Depending on when her birthday is, she’d be sixty-three or sixty-four now. But this woman is-”

“What are you whispering about?” the woman on the bed complained. She sounded as if she had broken glass caught in her throat.

“Sorry,” Coltrane said. “We thought you were asleep. We were trying to decide whether to wake you.”

“You mean you were trying to decide if I was asleep so you could feel me up.”

“Uh…” Coltrane lost the power of speech. The woman in the bed, who should have looked in her early sixties, seemed in her nineties: stringy, thi

“Go ahead. Feel me up. The attendants do it all the time.” The prematurely old woman pawed at her spiderweb hair, as if combing it.

Coltrane looked at Je

“Stephanie?” Je

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Je

“No women allowed.”

“We brought you some photographs of your daughter.”

“No women allowed.”

“If I leave, do you promise to talk to my friend?”

“Did he come here to…”

The suggestion she made turned Coltrane’s stomach sour.

“I’m afraid the attendants wouldn’t like him to do that,” Je

“Good.”

“They might start a fight.”

“Yes.”

“You enjoy that?”

“Make them fight. They deserve to be punished.”

“Why?”

“For wanting me.”

“Does your daughter like men to fight?”

“The little…” The next word was shocking.

“Why do you call her that?”

“Thought she was better than me. Took my men away from me.”

“When she was in college?”

“Hah.”

“In high school?”

“Hah. When I was asleep, she got a razor, snuck up, and did this to my cheeks. Couldn’t stand her momma to get all the attention. Thought she could destroy the competition. Didn’t work. I’m still as beautiful as ever.” She gave Coltrane the most demanding look he had ever received. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Then…”

What she said next made Coltrane look away.

“What good are you? Get yourself a new boyfriend, missy. This one can’t cut it. Pictures? Did you say you brought pictures of my daughter?”

“Yes,” Coltrane managed to say.

“Burn them. Send her to hell. And get out of here. Quit wasting my time. I’ve got men lined up waiting to-”

“You’re right,” Coltrane said. “We’re wasting your time. I’m sorry we bothered you.”