Page 25 of The Stranger in the Mirror

“Okay,” Gigi says, “let’s get cooking. We’re having breakfast for dinner.”

Gigi mixes up the pancake batter while Ed lines the bacon up in a baking pan, and I crack the eggs into a large glass bowl. I love how Ed always pitches in, even when he’s been on the road for a long stretch. Gigi’s a terrific cook, and he acts as sous chef/comedian/practical joker. She pretends to get annoyed when he’s too rambunctious, but I think she secretly loves it. I set the table while Ed and Gigi stand at the stove together, talking and giggling like kids, and I wonder if the time will ever come when I’m that lighthearted. Theirs is the kind of marriage I so want to have, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to be that kind of partner for Gabriel.

“Bacon’s done,” Ed says. “I’ll do the eggs now.” He pours them into the frying pan and grabs a wooden spoon from the utensil holder.

Gigi hands me the dish with bacon to take to the table. As she brings over the pancakes, Ed’s phone rings.

“I’ll get this in the other room,” he says, looking at the number. “You want to take over, sweetie?” He tosses the wooden spoon to Gigi before he turns to go.

It’s like the spoon is moving through the air in slow motion. I scream, cowering, and put my hands up to protect my face and head. I see a man in my mind. His eyes are narrowed, his cheeks a fiery red. He’s yelling, his face contorted in rage, just inches from mine, his black eyes blazing as he bangs the spoon on my head over and over and screams,You stupid bitch! How many times do I have to tell you I don’t like runny eggs? Why can’t you get that through your thick head? I don’t know why I don’t just kill you.

“Addison!” Gigi shouts, and I feel her hands on my shoulders, shaking me. “What is it?”

I look at her, and for a moment I don’t know where I am. “I... uh.” I drop onto a chair, still seeing that face in my mind. Who is that man?

“Honey?” Gigi pulls a chair out and sits next to me. “What happened? Did you remember something?”

“Oh, Gigi, I’m so scared.”

“It’s going to be okay,” she says, trying to comfort me.

It’s never going to be okay, I think, and look down at my wrists. Is this man the reason I tried to kill myself?

− 23 −

Addison

The closer the exhibition at the gallery gets, the more apprehensive I feel. The photographs I’ve chosen tell the story of where my life has been for the last two years, ever since I came to Philadelphia. The more I explored the city, the more I came to love the grand old buildings and beautiful green spaces. One night, as I strolled through Fairmount Park, I looked up to see the Strawberry Mansion Bridge in the distance, colorfully lit up, its lights shimmering on the waters of the Schuylkill River. It took my breath away, and all I could think of was how I wished I had my camera with me. The very next night I set up my tripod and with my wide-angle lens began my nighttime odyssey, over the next month moving on to other bridges that span the Delaware River as well. I titled the exhibitionJourney into Lightbecause crossing a bridgeisa journey from one shore to another, and if you’re traveling in the dark, you can’t know where you are going or what is on the other side, but the lights—the lights are what keep you safe and show you the way. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the bridges are a metaphor for my life—traveling from an old shore to a new one. One day, I hope, I’ll remember how to make the return trip.

I recently read an article about the great photographer Dorothea Lange that described so perfectly what I want people to see when they look at my photographs. The camera is an instrument, she said, that teaches people how to see without one.

Gabriel and I have made plans to meet for lunch at the country club, and I arrive first. The maître d’ seats me at a table by the window, overlooking the golf course. I order an iced tea and look around the room. The dining room is almost full, and there’s a loud buzz of conversation. When I see Gabriel coming toward me, the familiar fluttering in my stomach reminds me of how attracted I am to him. He smiles as he passes family friends and neighbors at other tables, the epitome of charm and good manners. When he approaches our table, his lips widen in the smile reserved only for me. Leaning over, he gives me a peck on the lips.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he says.

“Hello yourself,” I tease.

The waiter takes Gabriel’s drink order, and he leans back in his chair and sighs. “Busy morning. I was barely able to get away. How’s your day off been?”

“Productive. I finished my last piece for the show... but I actually wanted to talk to you about that.”

The space between his brows creases as he waits for me to continue.

“I’m not sure about the show, Gabe. All these people looking at my work, judging me. And putting a price tag on my work feels odd. I should have thought it through before I agreed to do it.”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “Babe, I get it. But most artists I’ve worked with feel that way before their first show. Even the ones who were dying for a show get the jitters beforehand. It’s natural.”

I shift in my seat, anxious to get all my thoughts out. “It’s not just the jitters. I never wanted a show. I mean, I was perfectly happy just having my photos hanging in the shop. I don’t need to sell them.”

“Addy, I know that. But art is meant to be shared. You have anamazing talent—a unique eye. Don’t you want others to be able to enjoy that?”

I feel myself getting annoyed. It’s not like I’m withholding the cure to a disease. “Are you saying I have an obligation to share my work? Those photos are a part of me. Maybe I don’t want to trade them for money.”

He puts his hands up. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s easy for me to sit here and tell you what to do when I’m not the one putting a piece of myself out there. All I’m saying is that having cold feet is normal, and I’d hate for you to lose the opportunity to share your work because you’re afraid.”

I think about that for a moment. Maybe he’s right, and thisisjust jitters. “It might just be fear. I don’t know.” An idea comes to me. “What if I donate part of my sales to the homeless shelter on Prince Street?”

His face lights up. “That’s a great idea. I’ll talk to Mom and Dad and see if they’ll donate part of the gallery’s commission as well.”

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