When We Were Sisters: An unputdownable book club read about that bonds that can bind or break a family. Emilie RichardsЧитать онлайн книгу.
works and horrifying tragedies.
These days I rarely fly without family. A few times I’ve visited Cecilia on my own, but mostly when I leave town my children are with me and we’re heading off on vacation. Kris joins us when and if he can, but I can’t remember the last time the two of us went somewhere by ourselves.
Newark Liberty International Airport reminds me of a science fiction space station or Tomorrowland at Disney World. Glass and lights, sky-high ceilings floating overhead and shining terrazzo floors underfoot. As I walked toward the gate where I was to meet Cecilia and everyone flying with us, I pretended I was on my way to accept a new command: six earth years exploring outer space with the crew of the Starship Enterprise. When we were growing up Cecilia and I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation whenever we were allowed to. Space catastrophes are often more palatable than real life.
I had been surprised to find I would be flying to Newark to meet the others before continuing on to Pittsburgh, and then to Uniontown for the night. Tomorrow we drive from there to Randolph Furnace in Fayette County, south of the city, which is Cecilia’s birthplace. I’m not sure why I wasn’t booked directly to Pittsburgh, but I’m sure this trip will be filled with surprises.
The usual number of people were milling at the gate when I arrived, camera bag hanging from my shoulder and backpack carefully balanced. I’m an out-of-practice sherpa, so I was happy to take a seat and set everything on the floor in front of me.
I was adjusting my load when a man took the seat beside me. I was so glad to be temporarily free of paraphernalia that I didn’t pay attention until he spoke.
“Cecilia sent me your bio. You’re Robin Lenhart, aren’t you?”
I realized Mick Bollard himself was sitting beside me. I smiled and offered my hand. “I’m such a groupie—I know who you are.”
His hand was broad and warm. “It looks like we’re the first ones here.”
“I had no idea you’d be on this flight, too.”
“I thought we might get some footage of the trip. Just in case it makes sense later, which it probably won’t.”
I was starstruck. I was sitting next to one of the best documentary filmmakers in the business. While I’ve never considered a similar career, I appreciate everything about the genre. Working next to Mick Bollard was as much of a draw as helping Cecilia face our past.
He was somewhere in his early fifties, with a mop of graying brown hair that curled over his nape and the tops of his ears, along with raisin-dark eyes and a warm smile. He was dressed as casually as I was—faded jeans, buttoned shirt, a light windbreaker.
He seemed to like what he saw, because his smile broadened. “I’m glad you’re coming along. I’m hoping you’ll answer some questions about Cecilia’s childhood.”
“On or off camera?”
“Up to you. It’s just that you seem to have lived through a lot of her foster-care experiences, too.”
We were interrupted by a teenager who took the seat next to Mick. “I found the trail mix you like. The one with the cashews and apricots.” She turned to me, leaned over and extended her hand. “I’m Fiona Bollard.”
“Fifi,” Mick said. “My lovely daughter. She’ll be traveling with us.”
Fiona was about fifteen, but already self-possessed enough to have extended her hand and held my gaze. She was a pretty girl, with hair the dark brown her father’s must have been and the same lively eyes. Her face was longer, though, and her lips were a small, perfect bow.
As if she was used to the next part, she explained her presence without being asked. “I’m homeschooled. Mick figures I’ll learn more on the road than I will in even the best private school.”
I noted the use of her father’s first name and that Fiona had attributed that sentiment to him, not to herself. I wondered how she felt about missing the chance for social interplay with her contemporaries.
Mick answered my unspoken question. “Fifi spends summers with her mom, and Glo gets her involved in all kinds of activities to make up for her gypsy life with me.”
“He just needs somebody to carry equipment.”
Mick slung his arm over his daughter’s shoulders. “Cheaper than another production assistant. You have children, don’t you, Robin?”
As I nodded I thought about my two and wondered how they would like to have Fiona’s life. If a dose of it would give them her relaxed confidence, I would be happy to yank them out of school for a few months.
We chatted a moment before another man approached. He was in his thirties, bearded and thin as a drinking straw. His hips were so narrow he had to be wearing suspenders under his sweatshirt, because I couldn’t imagine a belt that would hold up his jeans. Mick introduced him as Jerry, director of photography.
“Which means that on this leg he’ll be doing everything that involves a video camera. Jerry’s one of the best in the business, and we’re honored to have him.”
Jerry, who had a surprisingly deep voice, nodded to a group heading in our direction. “Looks like we’re about to start work.” As he spoke he flipped the locks on a wheeled case and pulled out a camera.
I know how much technology has changed my own field and was prepared for the changes in cinema cameras, but this one was so much smaller than I’d expected. Thumbelina had replaced King Kong.
There was no time to consider that further. The small group was attracting attention, and I saw that my sister was right in the middle of it.
Cecilia was flanked by Donny and another larger man in a sport coat who hadn’t been with her at my house. A pale blonde pixie in her twenties followed behind with a wheeled suitcase, but Cecilia herself was toting a faux-leather bag large enough for a weekend of travel. She wore faded jeans ripped at the knee, like the ones we had scored at church rummage sales back in the day. In contrast, the sparkly four-inch heels and boho-chic embroidered cape hanging casually over her shoulders would never have graced a table at First Baptist.
I started to move forward to greet her, but Mick was standing now, and he rested his hand on my arm.
“You’re the photographer today, right? Not the foster sister?”
“Sister,” I said automatically, and then chagrin filled me. “And of course you’re right. I need to get busy. This is going to take some getting used to.”
“No doubt. And for my part? Sister. I hear you.” Mick left to greet Cecilia.
As I grabbed my case and lifted out the best camera and lens to document this scene, more people recognized Cecilia and crowded in. I thought about Max Filstein and what he would say. Max is nearly always right, and this was turning out to be no exception. I probably wasn’t the best person for this job. Not only had I momentarily forgotten why I was here, but I hadn’t prepared my equipment. And even when I was organized and working on cue, could I be trusted to take the shots that were really needed? The ones that portrayed Cecilia in an unfavorable light? The ones where she was clearly tired, where she looked her full forty-two and then some? The ones where she exploded in anger or sobbed in despair?
Right now, after too many years away from the career I had loved so well, I felt like a mute eight-year-old again, an unloved and unwanted child who had been given a camera by a compassionate therapist and asked to take photos of the most important moments and people in her life.
Thirty years ago that camera, one of the first generation of disposables, had changed everything. Today I would take whatever photos were required. Because Cecilia and everything this trip represented were suddenly as important to me as almost anything I had ever done.
And once again, I wanted to make myself heard.
* * *
Having a superstar on board doesn’t work magic with the airlines. We sat on the tarmac for more