If I Lose Her (17 page)

 “You have no
idea how much this helps.” 

 “Honey,
don’t mention it. We’re just glad we can help. Do you have to head out right
away or can you stay for a little bit? I’d love to hear how things are with
Jo.”

 “I can stay
for a bit,” I said feeling a lot more comfortable now, knowing that I would be
able to put gas in the car to drive home.

 I stayed for
another hour talking about Jo and her upcoming exhibit at the Denver Art
Museum, how things were going between us and how I had been looking for work. I
wasn’t quite ready to discuss how I wanted to ask Jo to marry me in front of
Peter, so I didn’t bring that up. Mom told me how things were at the store,
where they went on their honeymoon and how Peter had bought her that little red
sports car for a wedding present. She seemed happy and that made me a little
more comfortable.

 When we were
finished, I hugged my mother and assured her that she would be hearing from me
more often. Then Peter said he wanted to walk me out to my car.

 “I’m glad
your mom and I are able to help you get into school,” he said as I opened my
car door and sat down. “And, you’ll always be our kid, but we’d appreciate it
if you called before you came over from now on.”

 I wasn’t
sure how to respond.

 “We just
don’t want anyone sneakin’ round the house. That’s all.”

 
Sneakin’
round the house?

 
“Take
care now.”

 Then he shut
my car door, and I drove away. 

 The whole
way home I kept thinking about what he had said to me.

 Your mom
and I? He didn’t do anything. She’s the one who said she wanted to help me. He
just sat there looking like I had just shot his hound dog. And our kid? OUR
kid? Who does he think he is, my FATHER? That’s MY house. You should be calling
me before YOU come over.
But that last part was the worst. The idea that I
was sneaking around like some thief trying to steal something just rang like a
tuning fork between my ears.

 I got back
to my apartment tired and hungry. Hungry for a decent meal and hungry for Jo.

 I took the
money out of my pocket, laid the check and the cash on the dresser and dropped
a twenty into the laptop box. Then I closed the lid and slid the box under my
bed.

 It was
January and snow was slowly piling on my head and shoulders. It didn’t feel all
that cold when I had arrived, but I could see my breath and feel the warmth
leeching out of my body slowly over the twenty minutes that I had been sitting
there waiting for Jo. I could have called her that morning, but I wanted to
surprise her. The new class schedule she had given me a few weeks earlier told
me that her first class started in half-an-hour, so I was hoping to catch her
before she went in. It was quieter than I was expecting a campus to be on its
first day of classes. Maybe because of how early it was.

 The color of
the flowers I held was slowly turning to white and I couldn’t feel much heat
through the cups of our hot chocolates any more. I could still smell them
though.

 
Maybe
I’ve missed her. Maybe she’s started parking in a different lot and she is
already in her class, warming up, flipping though the pages of some thick new
textbook. I’m hungry. Maybe we can sneak off and get some breakfast together.
We haven’t been to the Trail Way in a while. I’d KILL for some of their
biscuits and gravy right now. I can’t believe I’m going to be a journalist. A
real journalist, for a real newspaper. I have to stop by school this afternoon
and pick up my transcripts. They said they’d be ready after 2. What are
transcripts anyway? Are just my grades listed or is it some long commentary
about everything I’ve ever done since grade-school?

 
I sat
hunched over like a fluffed up bird on the edge of a short brick wall with my
legs pulled up close to my chest, trying to keep them warm.

 
I wonder
what kind of stories I’ll get to cover. Does the Camera have foreign
correspondents? I wouldn’t think they would have the finances for that. Do I
find my own stories or do they assign them to us? I wonder what kind of places
my credentials will get me into. Maybe I can get in to photograph the Broncos.
THAT would be sweet. I wonder when I’ll get my first paycheck.
Three-days-a-week at eight hours is twenty-four, plus two Saturdays a month,
cut in half so twenty-eight hours a week on average times ten is two-hundred
and eighty a week. That’s a grand a month and change. If I put a hundred away
every month, I’d have twelve hundred by the end of the year. Ouch. I don’t want
to have to wait that long to ask Jo to marry me. Maybe there is some sort of
jewelry credit card I could open to put a ring on.

 
The
little silver hatchback that Jo’s parents got her last year pulled into the
parking lot.

 
She looks
so good. It’s only been four days since I saw her last, and it seems like my
world has completely changed since then. She still doesn’t know about school.
It was so last minute.

 
I
walk up to her.

 “Hey you,” I
say as she works to lift her book bag out of the back of her car.

 “Hey! What
are you doing here?” She asks and we pull each other close.

 “I wanted to
bring you a peace offering on your first day back in class,” I say handing her
a cup and her flowers. “Sorry, I think your hot chocolate might have turned
into a cold chocolate.”

 “How long
have you been waiting here?”

 “About
forty-five minutes. I wanted to catch you before you went into class, and I
wasn’t sure what time you would get here so I just came and waited.”

 “Aren’t you
freezing?”

 “Yeah,
pretty much, but getting to see you is worth it.”

 “Ah, baby.
Thanks.”

 She blew
some of the snow off of the flowers and took a smell, then we started walking
past the library to her class.

 “I have
maybe fifteen minutes,” she said taking a drink from the Styrofoam cup.

 “Is it still
warm?”

 “No,” she
said laughing. I laughed too.

 “Jo, let me
just say how much of a jerk I was the other night at the restaurant. I should
have talked to you about where things were for me. I just needed to be able to
work them out on my own.”

 She cupped
her hands and blew heat into them as she listened to me. I took her hands and
rubbed them in mine.

 “Alex, I
just want to be apart of your life. I’m sorry that things didn’t work out at
the studio, but you did a really great job while you were there and I am
confident that you will get this job at the newspaper. You are such a good
photographer. You just…”

 I put a
finger up to her mouth. “I got the job.”

 She started
laughing.

 “What? Oh
Alex, congratulations!”

 “There’s
more.”

 “Okay?”

 “The job is
for a paid internship, so I am going down this afternoon and registering for
classes at Metro State downtown, and I kind of needed some help with
registration fees, so I went and talked to mom.”

 “Oh, Alex,
that’s such great news. I knew things would be alright. So when do you start at
the paper?”

 “Tomorrow
morning, assuming I can get everything sorted out.”

 She grabbed
my lapel and pulled me close.

 “So, do you
wanna have dinner tonight, at your place? My parents are in Estes Park for a
couple of days.”

 I could tell
by the way she was biting her lip that she wasn’t talking about dinner.

 “Oh, I think
I could use some dinner.”

 Then we
kissed each other.

 Jo cooked a
creamy, garlic risotto and stayed the night. After she fell asleep, I lay awake
playing through all the possible scenarios that tomorrow might present.
Would
I be sent to photograph kids at some school event or would I get to cover a
real story? Would I even get to cover a story on my first day? Will I be
working with another shooter? Does Dan ever go out shooting with us? What
happens if I screw up?
The questions just kept coming.

 A little
after midnight I got out of bed and warmed myself up a cup of milk with a
little cinnamon. A trick my mom had learned from my grandmother. I wasn’t sure
how much it helped me fall asleep, but the smell of the cinnamon milk was
always comforting.

 I sat in
front of the glass door to my small balcony for a while looking out at nothing
in particular then I turned and watched Jo. The sight of her under my sheets
comforted me more than the milk, so I swallowed the last swallow and climbed
back into bed next to her. As I wrapped my arm around her I could feel that her
thin cotton shirt was wet. She had sweat right through it. I gently touched her
face. It was hot and wet.

 I wasn’t
sure what to do; I didn’t want to wake her. She looked like she was sleeping so
peacefully, so I got up and opened a window and cracked the glass door. Then I
pulled back the top blanket and climbed back into bed.
I’ll just let her
sleep and make sure she’s alright in the morning.

 The next
morning I woke before my alarm went off with the cottony-smell of Jo still in
the bed next to me. She was already off to her first class of the day. The warm
smell of her presence always lingered in the apartment long after she had left.

 I jumped in
the shower and tabulated a mental checklist of everything I needed to take with
me this morning. My first morning as a real photojournalist.

 I popped the
lid off of my shaving cream can, squirted a small pile of clear-blue gel into
my palm and rubbed it in my hands until it frothed and foamed.

 
Comfortable
shoes. Clean Jeans. The blue polo shirt Jo gave me for Christmas.

 
I
rubbed the lather across my face and drew the razor. Pull by pull I erased the
short stiff whiskers on my cheeks, chin and neck.

 
Driver’s
license. Social Security card. Transcripts. Credentials.

 I washed my
face clean with water as hot as I could take it and squeezed a dollop of gel
into my palm. With a rub of my hands I ran the gel through my wavy brown hair
and looked at myself in the mirror.

 
Is this
the face of a decent journalist?

 
I
found my clean clothes, put them on and poured myself a bowl of frosted flakes.

 There was a
note on the kitchen counter.

  
Alex,

 I wish I
could just curl up with you all day. Your soft skin. Your warm breath. I
watched you sleep for a while before I left. You’re so beautiful.

 I hope
you have a wonderful first day at the paper. You should call me this afternoon.
I love you,

   -Jo

 
I
smiled as I read it, then I finished my cereal and left the note on the counter
while I finished getting ready.

 The drive to
Boulder was beautiful. All along the east side of I-36 lay golden-prairie grass
with patches of suburbs. In the distance was Denver. Along the West were the
saw-tooth peaks of the Flatiron Mountains. As I drove I remembered the time
both lanes of traffic stopped to let an elk cross the street that was taller
than my car with a rack of antlers that was just stunning. It wasn’t often that
I could drive through the area without at least seeing some deer.

 I got to the
newsroom and found Dan sitting at his desk.

 “Mornin’.”

 “Morning
Dan.”

 “Did you
bring the paperwork I asked for?”

 “Yeah, I’ve
got it right here,” I said reaching into my bag and handing it to him.

 “Good. We
just got a call that they found a suspicious package at the Boulder County
Hospital. It’s probably nothing, but I’m sending you out to see what you can
see,” he said walking over to a large map pinned to one side of a cubicle wall.
“When you get there make sure you talk to the PIO, and make sure your
credentials are showing. What you’re looking for are any emotions you can get.
Faces. Action. That kind of thing. What’s the longest lens you’ve got?”

 “A 70-200.”

 “What gear
do you shoot with?”

 “Canon.”

 “Shit.
Okay.”

 He walked
over to a metal cabinet and unlocked the door.

 “Take this
and this,” he said handing me a Nikon body and a 300-millimeter lens.

 “Have you
ever shot with a Nikon?”

 “Yeah for my
school.”

 “Good. And,
you need to make sure you get names. We need the name of anyone in your shots
that can be recognized. Have you ever written up a photo caption?”

 “No.”

 He walked
back to his desk and handed me a notepad and a pen.

 “Two or
three sentences for each shot we use in the paper. But don’t worry too much
about that out there. Just keep mental notes of what is going on. Oh, and one
more thing.”

 “Okay.”

 “Make damn
sure you double check the spelling of each person’s name EVERY SINGLE TIME. We
get no END of shit if someone’s name is spelled wrong. Got it?”

 
Captions.
Show credentials. Take mental notes of what’s happening. Spell people’s names
right. PIO?

 
“One
question. What’s a PIO?”

 “Public Information
Officer. They’re the police officer assigned to babysit the media. Her name is
Sarah Clark. Find her and talk to her, but don’t let her corral you. Anything
else?”

 “No I don’t
think so.”

 “Call my
cell if you need anything.”

 I took the
directions he gave me and drove out to the hospital.

 
So much
for getting eased into this.

 
I
found the hospital and parked behind a long line of cars on a side street. I
turned both cameras on and confirmed that they had plenty of battery life and
memory. Then I put the long lens on the Nikon, slung it over one shoulder and
slung my camera bag over my other shoulder. Then I walked to the end of the
street and immediately met three police officers and a line of yellow tape. One
officer held out his hand to stop my approach.

 
Remember
to show your credentials.

 
I
pulled out my credentials, shiny and new and held the card up to the officer.

 “I’m with
the Daily Camera. I’m looking for Sarah Clark.”

 He glanced
at my card then pointed me to a field across the street from the hospital where
I could see a short woman with blonde hair talking to a group of people. Three
of the people in the group were recording her on large video cameras marked
with the channels of the local television news stations.

 I walked up
just as she finished answering one of the reporter’s questions.

 “Hi. I’m
Alex Douglas with the Daily Camera. Are you Sarah Clark?”

 “Yes.”

 “Can I ask
what the situation is?”

 “I don’t
have a lot of information to give at the moment. We have found a package in one
of the doctor’s offices that we are taking a close look at, and we are asking
that all media remain here where I can offer updates as I receive them.”

 
Don’t let
her corral you.

 “What side
of the building is the doctor’s office on?”

 “We’re not
prepared to share that information at this time, but if you remain here, I will
probably have more information in about fifteen minutes.”

 “No problem.
Thank you,” I said with the biggest fake smile I could muster. Then she walked
away.

 I looked
around. I couldn’t see much except for the police blocking off each road
leading up to the hospital. There were also several police cars, both marked
and unmarked, on the grass between the parking lot and the street.

 I walked
down the park to see what was on the opposite side of the hospital from where I
came. Forest. I looked through my lens. It wasn’t much help. I walked back
toward the street near where I had parked and thought about the two-story
houses overlooking the hospital. I had an idea.

 I walked up
the driveway of the first house and knocked on the front door. No answer.
Nothing from the second or third either. No surprise. It was the middle of a
weekday; most people were probably at work.