Cover

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Dedication

For Beverly Bennett Walker and Douglas Walker, the best I know. Thank you for showing me how.

Epigraph

We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire.

—George Sand

1.

Our omniscient observer flaps her hand at us. “Closer,” she demands. “Squeeze in. There you go.”

Contrary to the assumption held by photographers around the world, wearing black and avoiding conversation does not render one invisible at parties. She needn’t shout and wave her arms as though we’re children.

“Pretend you like each other.” She laughs at her own tired joke.

She fancies herself a fly on the wall, both an artist and an illusionist, zooming around like a goth banshee in this pop-up ballroom in a fancy tent, capturing moments so that we may objectify ourselves later. We’ll sort through pages of proofs to find the images that best represent us—which is to say, represent us most handsomely. She stands on chairs for better angles. She drags my family outside so we can pose in better light.

I wrap my arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and pull her into my armpit.

“I can’t feel my cheeks,” she mutters without breaking her smile.

“Missed your calling,” I whisper.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Ventriloquist,” I say, and she goes ha-ha without moving her lips.

The photographer wags her finger. “Give me just one more minute, Dr. Hart, and you can talk all you want.”

Jonah groans. “Can we take the picture, please?” He’s being rude, but it’s what we’re all feeling. There are hands to shake and an open bar to drain. We’ve been held hostage long enough.

“Cool it, Son,” I say. “Let the girl do her job.”

Another flick of the hand, another test shot, then showtime. “Beautiful family,” she declares: unsolicited approval. “Just great. Okay, now everyone—say, ‘Forhe’sajollygoodfellow!’ ”

We laugh despite ourselves, and the flash pops, and my beautiful family is digitally captured in a state of joy and intimacy.

“Christmas card,” Elizabeth says. She drops her head and massages her temples. “If that turns out, we should make it our Christmas card.”

“We’ll see.” It’s only June, and besides, it feels vulgar to send Season’s Greetings with an image taken solely in honor of me.

Jonah is already halfway to our table when Elizabeth shouts, “Come back here.” To the photographer, she says, “Wait.”