Naked

Then I was feeling sad and nostalgic again and hating it. Part of it was the time of year, when I felt caught between my different worlds, anyway, but part of it would always just be…Patrick.

“Just don’t forget about me,” he said.

“Oh, Patrick. As if I ever could.” I stood to give him a hug and a kiss he didn’t deserve, but I couldn’t deny. “Now. Get out. I’m busy.”

“Call me,” he demanded.

“I will! I will. Now go!”

“Liv…”

“Yes, my dear one?” The words were sweet, my tone a little bitter.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Then he went out and closed the door behind him.

I turned to my computer and lost myself in work. It was better than being lost in anything else.

I wasn’t brought up stupid.

On the contrary, both my parents were part of the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll generation. Fans of the Grateful Dead. I had two much older brothers who hadn’t thought a lot about shielding me from the movies they watched or music they listened to. I knew about sex.

After my parents divorced, when I was five, my dad remarried almost immediately. His new wife, Marjorie, an enthusiastic member of Sacred Heart Catholic Church, had brought with her my two stepsisters, Cindy and Stacy, both a year or so older than me. My mom stayed steadfastly single, rarely even dating. My parents were cordial to one another as they shared me, neither ever making me choose, and if there was always a little bit of tension with my dad over my place in his new household, it was made up for by my mother’s complete indulgence in me. We were best friends, my mom and I.

I had my first “real” boyfriend at fourteen, gave my first hand job a year later. Most of my friends had lost their virginity by the time we were sixteen, but I waited another year before I gave it up in my boyfriend’s basement at a graduation party for his older brother. I wasn’t scarred by screwing him, even though we broke up shortly after that. I knew enough to use a condom and was smart enough to go all the way with a guy who’d already proved himself adept at getting me off. It was as fine a first time as I could ask for.

My life changed my senior year of high school. My mom, who favored f lowing gypsy skirts and long, unbound hair, had always been a reader, but her choices of material had changed over the past year from Clive Barker and Margaret Atwood to thick, leather-bound copies of the Tanakh and journals on Jewish commentary. I knew about Judaism, though we’d never practiced anything more religious than spinning the dreidel. But now…well, they say there’s nothing like the enthusiasm of a convert. My mother, born and raised Jewish, wasn’t technically a convert, but she was definitely enthusiastic.

Suddenly, most of what we’d done together as a family disappeared, tossed out in the garbage along with an entire pantry of food she deemed unfit to eat. She put away half her dishes to keep them unused for a year, the time it would take to make them kosher again. The others she koshered by pouring boiling water over them, and maintaining a completely meat-free house.

Suddenly we were Jewish and vegetarian. My mom had always been a devout carnivore. The Friday-night dinners I could’ve dealt with. The candle lighting, the baking of challah. But giving up cheeseburgers? No way.

I moved out to live with my dad and Marjorie, who took me in, but not quite without making it seem as though I were a burden. It was her duty, I heard her whisper to a girlfriend once, when they were gathered for coffee. Her Christian duty. It bothered her more that I hadn’t been baptized than the fact I was black—which was good, because there was always the chance I might accept Jesus Christ as my savior, but I could never change the color of my skin.

I loved my dad and didn’t mind having to share a bathroom with my stepsisters, or having a small, dank bedroom in the basement. I didn’t mind the prayers before meals, because at least they were giving me plenty of bacon, ohhh, bacon. Every morning, bacon and eggs. I didn’t even mind church so much, because the altar boys were cute.

My mother didn’t like any of this, but caught up in her own journey, she let a lot of things slide. So long as I was with her for the holidays she wanted to celebrate, she didn’t mind what I was doing the rest of the time. If I was there to light the menorah, she was all right with me going home to my dad’s to stuff the stockings. I was smart enough not to tell her about the youth group Marjorie encouraged me to join, or how my dad had been hinting that it might be a good idea for me to get baptized.

I escaped salvation by heading off to college. Where I met Patrick my sophomore year. He lived in my dorm, and the first time he smiled at me, I imprinted on him like a duckling. Tall, fair-haired, ruddy-cheeked…and Catholic. As in can-name-all-the-martyred-saints Catholic. I was smitten.

I like to think of life as an infinite jigsaw puzzle with so many pieces that no matter how many you fit together, the picture’s never finished. Meeting Patrick was the culmination of a hundred thousand choices. He was the end of only one path, but it was the one I took. No matter how it ended, he was the choice I made, and while I’d always felt I would never waste time in regretting it, I was beginning to think I might.

I thought I knew what love was with a handsome boyfriend who was a very good kisser. I thought I knew what it was for three years, all through college, even when all my friends were fucking like bunnies and the sheen of chastity was wearing off. Love is patient, love is kind, right? Love forgives all things?

That’s what I believed then. I wasn’t so sure now.

Our senior year, Patrick got down on one knee and asked me to marry him, with a princess-cut diamond ring in one hand and a bouquet of twelve red roses in the other. We set a date. We planned a wedding.

And two weeks before we were due to walk down the aisle at my father’s church, I found out Patrick had been lying to me all along.

I hadn’t been raised stupid, but I’d sure ended up feeling dumb.

The week passed. I heard the sound of voices as I passed Alex’s apartment, and I saw his car come and go, but I didn’t see him. I ended up watching Pride and Prejudice alone and somehow blaming Patrick for that.

The week before Christmas is busy for most people, even those who don’t celebrate the holiday, and I had a to-do list as long as anyone’s. I hadn’t put up a tree, but I had bought presents. I’d be spending the day with my dad and his family, though my brothers and their wives and children weren’t going to be there. I’d also picked up a slew of last-minute design jobs for after-Christmas sales promotions, and a few portrait sessions for friends looking for down-to-the-wire stocking gifts for friends and relatives.

The little girl in my camera’s viewfinder didn’t have wings, but she was a little angel. Four years old, mop of curly black hair, stubborn little rosebud mouth and a pair of crossed arms. A tiny, badass version of Shirley Temple, including the dress with the bow at the waist.

“No! No, no, no!” She stamped her foot. She pouted. She glared.

“Pippa. Sweetie. Smile for the picture, please?”

Pippa looked at her daddy Steven and stamped her foot again. “I don’t like this dress! I don’t like this headband!”

She tore the bow from her hair and threw it on the ground, and to make sure we all knew just how much she hated it, stepped on it with her patent leather shoes.

“I blame you,” Pippa’s other daddy, Devon, told me.

I raised a brow. “Gee, thanks.”

Devon laughed as Steven grabbed up the bow and tried to salvage the look. “She’s stubborn, that’s all. A lot like you.”

“Pippa, princess, please—”

“Oh, and her daddy spoiling her has nothing to do with any of that?” I murmured, my attention focused on the scene playing out in front of me. Point and shoot. Click. I captured the battle between father and child with a press of one finger.

“Don’t take pictures of this!” Steven demanded.

Pippa, laughing, dodged his grasp and ran around the studio. Her shoes pounded the old wooden boards, the beat of freedom. She ran fast, that little girl. Just as I always had.

Devon laughed and sat back, shaking his head. I snapped picture after picture. Pippa running. Steven grabbing her up, dangling her upside down, her pretty dress flipping up to show the rumba panties beneath, and her springy curls sweeping the floor. Daddy and daughter snuggling close. Then, two daddies with their little girl, the love among them a visible, tangible thing I didn’t control or edit, but merely captured.

“Pippa, do it for Daddy,” Steven said. “I want a pretty picture of you to give Nanny and Poppa.”

That rosebud mouth pursed again and the small, fine brows furrowed, but at last Pippa gave a sigh better suited to a little old lady. “Oh, okay. Fine.”

He settled her on the upturned wooden crate and arranged her hair and dress, then stepped back. I framed the shot and took it. Perfect. But even as I tilted the camera to show the digital image to Devon, I knew this wasn’t the one I’d tweak and polish to give them for their wall.

Small arms hugged my knees and I looked into an upturned face. “Lemme see, Livia! Lemme see the pitcher.”

I knelt beside the little girl and showed her the photo on the screen. She frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“Shh,” I whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t tell your daddy that or he’ll make you sit for another one.”

Even at four, Pippa was smart enough to figure out when a smile was a better weapon. She giggled. I joined her. When she hugged me, her small, soft cheek pressed to mine, I smelled baby shampoo and fabric softener.

“Why don’t you go play with the dollhouse,” I told her. “Let me show your daddies the pictures.”

“I wanna see the pitchers, too!”

“You will,” I promised, knowing there was no way to keep her from it, but not willing, as her fathers were, to indulge her every whim. “But first I have to put them on my computer. Go play.”

“She listens to you,” Steven said with an exhausted sigh as Pippa skipped off to the corner where I’d placed my old dollhouse. “Thank God.”

I shrugged and slipped the memory card from the back of my camera. I took it to the long, battered table I used instead of a desk, and pushed it into the card reader plugged into the back of my Macbook. My photo program opened, showcasing the series of pictures I’d taken. Steven and Devon pulled up chairs on either side.

“Look at that one,” Steven said about the one showing the three of them. “Gorgeous, Liv. Just amazing.”

The heat of pride flushed my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously. Look at that.” Devon pointed to one of Pippa, backlit in front of one of the studio’s long, high windows, her dress belled out around her knees as she spun. “How do you do it?”

“Practice. Talent.” I clicked on the shot to enlarge it, and toyed with some settings to bring out the contrast of light and dark. “Mostly practice.”

“Anyone can take a snapshot. But what you do is art. Really art.” Devon sounded awed. He turned from the monitor to look at me. “She draws, you know. Pippa does. The pediatrician says kids her age are just barely making stick figures, but she’s already drawing full bodies.”

“I don’t draw,” I told him gently, and kept my focus on the screen.

“I’m just saying,” he answered softly.

We worked together for a little while on the photos they liked best, until I’d cleaned them up and added them to a disc for them to take home. I added the raw shots, too, in case they wanted them for any reason. I lingered on the one of Pippa in front of the window.

“Can I use this in my portfolio?”

“Of course. Absolutely.” Devon had taken the disc and put it in his bag, while Steven went to check on their daughter.

“Thanks.” I’d get a print made later. For now I looked again, only for a moment, before clicking it closed and removing the memory card to place back in my camera.

“You know, Liv…” Devon hesitated until I glanced at him, and then he looked across the room. “You know you’re welcome, anytime, to see her. Not just when we come over for pictures or when we invite you. That was our agreement, wasn’t it? That you’d always be welcome to be a part of her life.”

I followed his gaze with my own. Pippa had rearranged the furniture in the dollhouse, putting beds in the living room and an oven in the attic. She giggled as Steven took one of the dolls and made it speak to the one in her hand.

“I know. Thanks.”

Devon meant well, so how could I tell him that I didn’t want to invite myself into their home to watch them raise my child? That I appreciated being kept a part of Pippa’s life, but that I didn’t expect or even crave anything more than what I already had? She was my child, but I was not her mother.

“Thanks again for the pictures.” Steven settled a check on my desk.

I didn’t pick it up. He’d have written it for too much, again, and I didn’t want to be ungracious by arguing with him about the amount. I liked taking pictures, but I liked paying my bills, too. Besides, taking his money made this not a favor, but a job. I think we both preferred it that way.

“Livvy, are you coming to my birthday party? It’s a pretty princess party.” Pippa twirled. “And I’m going to have a piñata.”

I laughed and tugged one of her long, silky curls. “A pretty princess piñata for Pippa. Perfect.”

She tipped her face to look up at me, her eyes squinched shut with glee. “Yes! And all my friends are coming.”

“Then I guess I should come, too. Since I’m your friend.”

Pippa hugged my thighs just briefly before dancing off again. “Yes, yes, you’ll come to my paaarty. And bring a present.”

“Pippa!” Steven said, exasperated.

Devon chuckled and met my eyes. I think he understood me more than his partner did. Steven, hovering just a little too close, watched me. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. I could imagine how he felt. So I stepped back and watched Pippa, who twirled again, already chattering at her daddy about where she wanted to go for dinner and what she wanted to watch on television when they got home.

“I’m going to take Pippa out to the car. Get her strapped in the seat. Devon?” Steven lifted Pippa’s coat, an entirely impractical white, fur-collared jacket. “You coming?”

“Yep. I’ll be right along.”

Devon waited until the sound of Steven’s boots and Pippa’s patent leather shoes echoed away down the concrete stairs. He shrugged into his own coat, a soft brown leather that hit him at midthigh and belted at the waist. Something in the way he turned his head as he tied the belt caught my eye, and I lifted my camera to take a shot.

It blurred, but I took another as he glanced up at me with a self-conscious smile. I’d missed what I was looking for, something elusive I couldn’t have described in words. “Look back at your hands.”

The moment was lost, though, and I pressed the button to view the blurred shot, thinking how I could fix it. Devon peered over my shoulder. He laughed.

I looked up. “See? It takes practice.”

“And talent,” he told me.

Devon is a tall, broad man with skin the color of dark caramel. He shaves his head and wears a cropped goatee, and when he flexes I always expect to hear the purr of ripping fabric as he pops the seams on his shirt. He’s also one of the most gentle men I’ve ever met.

“You should come in and let me take your picture. Just you.”

Devon raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”

I punched his arm gently. “I like taking portraits when I’m not at Foto Folks. It would give me material for my portfolio, anyway.”

“We’ll see.” He smoothed the front of his coat. “I meant what I said, Liv.”

“About coming over? I know.” My camera made a nice barrier between us. I didn’t want to disappoint Devon, and I knew that’s what would happen. He wouldn’t understand my feelings about his daughter. Nobody seemed to.

“It’s just…we’re family, you know? All of us. I lost my parents years ago and my sister doesn’t speak to me.” Because he was gay, he didn’t have to say aloud. “Family’s important. I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome to be a part of her life.”

I nodded. “I know, Devon.”

“Merry Christmas, Liv.”

“Thanks. Same to you.”

He touched my shoulder gently and left, closing the door behind him. When he’d gone I sat back in my chair and opened the file with the photos I’d taken today.

Devon’s family had disowned him at age seventeen, when they’d found out he was gay, and he’d never reconciled with his parents before they passed away. He’d made his own family, gathered friends around him to love and be loved in return.

Pippa was my child, but not my daughter. Steven had requested we not call me Pippa’s mother, and that I sign all parental rights away upon her birth. I’d had no objections. I hadn’t counted on Devon’s love for family making this so complicated.

I took a last look at the photos of the little girl and her parents, her real and true parents. She looked like me and even acted like me a little, and I was blessed to know her. But I was not her mother, and never would be. I took one last look at the photos, and then I closed the folder.

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