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plays more in the shadows

Ayla

I retract the convertible top as I back out of the garage, wondering not for the first time, how I came to have the life I do.

I let the wind blow through my hair and crank the music as I head north. It would be a beautiful day for a trip through the foothills, but I’ll do that this weekend. I need my cameras, and I’d have to find them in that monstrosity of a house. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

The thought sobers me. Christian said that Fitz recovered my two favorites, but where are they? And where are the rest? I don’t remember seeing them on what little I’ve toured of the house. My house. Where would I have kept them there?

I could ask Fitz or Christian, but I’m tired of being vulnerable.

Instead, I crank the music and let Taylor Swift fill the fall air, escaping to the cars and pedestrians around me.

Girl power anthems announce my state of mind, and I turn toward my old condo, recognizing it’s just as it was before…

Before the accident.

Before Christian.

Before life happened.

I cruise toward downtown Denver. Call it muscle memory and familiarity, but it’s nice to pass my old haunts and travel these well-known paths.

I don’t have to be anywhere until lunch with my mom, so I take a detour and find myself in front of the shop that fascinated me on Picstagram. The one with the white windowpanes with gold lettering stenciled on them and green flower boxes, one I now see is centered in Larimer Square.

This is a tourist mecca and prime real estate. Prime as in prime .

Parking around here is a nightmare, but I find a spot within a block or two and feed the meter, looking at my hometown as a tourist would.

Everything here looks like original old west architecture.

The brick streets speak to an older era while the light bulbs and flags that drape the street speak to a newer one.

It’s the old and the new… Denver’s cattle farm history and its tech future.

And here, nestled between Michelin-starred restaurants and the tourist traps, is my shop.

Mine. Aspen it’s a plea. I need to see this place, to see what I’ve accomplished and to know what I’ve become.

I look at every wall, turning in place. My mouth is surely hanging open. Inside me, I’m screaming and jumping up and down. I did it. I did it!

My beloved Rocky Mountains. Their beautiful aspens dancing. The old mills. The verdant valleys and the creek beds. State parks and national ones. Early morning sunrises and late summer sunsets.

The riot of color awakens the artist in me, and I find I’m desperate to shoot.

But one shot—the pièce de résistance—calls to me. The kind that rips my soul open and heals it at the same time. Black and white. Surely Rocky Mountain National Park. The light and the shadows are magic. They hurt to look at, yet I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Amazing, isn’t it? I can’t tell you how many people ask to buy it,” a woman speaks from behind me.

“How much?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“At any price?”

I turn and stare fully into the face of a beautiful woman. Her chocolate eyes widen. Her mouth bobs in an “oh.” And I’m immediately engulfed in an overly-friendly hug.

“Oh my God, Ayla. How are you? We were terrified when we heard the news. But you”—she pulls back to study me at arms-length—“You look like you haven’t been through anything. I’m so glad you’re back. It was so unreal. I mean… Oh, no. I’m babbling. Enough about me. How are you?”

She never lets go of my arms as we stand far closer than I’m comfortable with.

“I will,” I hedge. “But first, tell me about this picture.”

I turn back to the jaw-dropping photo.

“But you know…”

“But how would you sell it to me if I refused to take no for an answer?”

The look of puzzlement on her features is hidden as I turn away from her and back to the photo.

She turns with me and crosses her arms, staring at it just as I do.

“Well—” She starts but turns curious eyes up to me.

“This is weird, you know, seeing as how you know more about it than I do. But here it goes… The artist, Ayla Barone, is a gifted photographer. That much is easy to see. But what separates her from many is her focus not on what exists, but what is missing. She plays more in shadows than in light. Most old-school photographers say to follow the light or chase the light. She finds more interest in chasing the shadows. In this piece for example, the eye naturally begins at the mountain tops. That’s where a typical photographer would focus.

What’s curious here are the shadows cast by the cloud cover that isn’t revealed in frame.

It forces the viewer down into the darker parts, looking away from the sunlit snowcaps, and toward the tree line and the scrub below.

It’s as if the picture itself moves the viewer through it.

Below the tree line and the scrub brush, a lone huge moose stands as if posing for the shot.

But again, he’s tucked in shadow, this time of an evergreen.

Mrs. Barone never saw him that day. But he saw her.

His eyes are on her, but only in this shot.

Of the several she took, he only appears in this one.

Lastly, the babbling brook below dances in and out of the shot as if we only need to see slivers of it, not it in full.

It’s as if the photo itself moves, like one of those wizard pictures from that children’s movie?

If this one moved, we’d sell it all day every day and I’d never have to learn the art and science of photography. ”

I’m overcome by the shot, but more so by her description of my work. “You’re studying photography?” Too late, I recognize my mistake.

“You know—” Her eyes scour my face, and I cringe beneath her keen scrutiny.

“I don’t. Obviously, we know each other.

And I’m embarrassed to ask your name, but the fall…

” I stumble over my words. “The fall left me with some memory gaps. We don’t know why, but it’s really only the last couple of years.

And this, I’d bet”—I look around the space again, wishing anything were familiar—“is within that time frame.”

She says “couple of years” with me while the light is dawning. When really, all I feel is the shadow of what’s missing. Life imitating art, I guess.

She wraps me in a hug, before pulling back. “I’m Ashlyn. I’m your apprentice. I’ve been with you for a year. You have two, apprentices that is. Me and Javier. We split our time here with Lauren. You remember her?”

I nod. Lauren and I went to school together. “She’s from before.”

“She manages the shop. Javi and I work here, and we spend time with you out there.” She looks to the wall, as if she can see through it and to the majesty beyond. “He’s gone home to Santa Fe for a wedding and has the week off. So, it’s just me and Lauren this week.”

She slides her phone from her back pocket and scrolls a bit, before turning the screen to me.

A handsome man I’ve never seen before stares back.

His smile is dimpled and his face is young, though his eyes don’t feel that way.

“That’s Javi. Just in case…” She tilts her head.

“I don’t know who you’re telling or who knows, and I’d hate for you to feel caught when you see him. ”

“Thank you.” Her generosity is overwhelming.

The bell over the door rings, and I turn my back to the newcomer.

“I’ll be right with you,” Ashlyn says. “Take a look around.” To me she adds, “The restrooms are this way, miss. I’ll show you.”

She scuttles me to the back through a staff-only area.

“What was that about?”

“I didn’t know if you’d want to talk with customers about your work. With the social media buzz and the feature in Mile High magazine, lots of people come in to talk to you.” She averts her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to overstep, Mrs. Barone.”

“Call me Ayla. Is there a rear exit?”

She points to the door. “If the door stays open for more than ten seconds, an alarm will sound.”

I squeeze her forearm. “Thank you, Ashlyn.”

I scurry to the door and out onto the bustling street. I easily melt into the ever-present tourist crowd and quickly find my car.

I have plenty of time to get to lunch, so I take the long route, enjoying the sun on my face. Winter will be here soon enough.

Mom and I sit outside at Cherry Creek North at one of the few remaining locally-owned restaurants.

As with everything, progress has pushed aside places like the Cherry Cricket, a Denver staple when I was growing up, and left us with chain restaurants and retailers that may fit the local lifestyle, but don’t fit me.

At least the me I know.

“How are you, sweetie?”

“Good. Bad. Discombobulated. It’s unnerving to have a hidden patch in my mind.

How in the world can I remember the Pythagorean theorem and not my employees?

Why do I even have space in my brain for that when I don’t recognize my husband?

” I stab at my pasta salad and stare at my soup.

“It’s like some hideous vine has smothered one section and blocked out the light to it. ”

Mom reaches out and taps on the back of my hand. “You never were great at having patience, and this, unfortunately, is a situation that requires it. In spades.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“But it’s not, Ayla. You’ll understand one day, but watching you hurt, watching your brothers hurt, it’s the worst thing to experience as a parent.

I would take it all away if I could, take it all onto my own shoulders to relieve you of it.

I… I hate this for you.” Her lip quivers, and she drops her chin.

Her fingers quiver as she reaches for her water glass.

She must be taking this harder than I understood.

“I know. I mean, I don’t, but I appreciate it. Now will you tell me some things about the last couple of years.”

Her voice is tentative and too quiet when she responds, “The doctor said we shouldn’t.”

“I don’t want to let my imagination run wild. Tell me what you’re comfortable sharing, even innocuous stuff. Give a frame of reference.”

She takes another bite and studies me cautiously.

“Aunt Gemma had another bout with breast cancer. ”

My head whips up, and I’m positive I’ve showing her the contents of my mouth.

“She’s in remission again. It was a tough time. You can imagine Gram was overwhelmed.”

I nod.

She takes a sip of her water and looks away before continuing, “Cian got a dog. Some mutt from the shelter who looks at him like he’s God and she’s the faithful. Her name is Eleanor. Only your brother would name a pound puppy Eleanor.” She rolls her eyes a bit.

“Your dad landed the Lakewood project. He’s stressed but making do. Subs are a nightmare right now, and you know he hates being a general contractor.”

“I’m guessing Cian is handling that then?”

“I’m sure. He doesn’t say much about it. That whole ‘leaving work at the office’ thing that he claims is work-life balance.”

I know better. My mom does too.

“I went by the shop today.”

“Oh?” There’s so much in that one syllable, but she’s working at keeping her tone neutral.

“I found it on social media and I couldn’t not. I met Ashlyn. Or met her again. Can I tell you a secret?”

“You know you can.”

“From the outside looking in, I was overwhelmed. I’m proud of myself. Of the art. Of the business. That’s not something we get to say a whole lot about ourselves, and I wanted to say it to someone who would be proud right along with me.”

“Ayla, you’ve accomplished so much, and we’re very proud of you too. I’m glad you had a moment to celebrate what your sacrifices have become.”

All of life is sacrifice. Every bit of it. You sacrifice sleep or you sacrifice the shot. You sacrifice your health or you sacrifice your convenience. I’ve never been afraid of hard work, but I don’t think of it as a sacrifice.

“Thank you. And thanks for this. I just needed some normalcy. Something that isn’t an unknown life in an unknown house with unknown help while I fight an unknown demon. ”

“I’m happy to fight those demons with you, you know?”

“I know.”

We finish lunch and meander through some shops until we realize evening rush hour is imminent and there’s no reason to endure it if we don’t have to.

“Love you, Mom,” I whisper in her ear.

“To the moon and back, Ayla.”