“So when we split, I doubled down on night photography because I could schedule it around spending time with my son, since it was the exact opposite of Paola’s work schedule. I started running workshops on weekends. And once I had a few clients who liked shooting with me, they started suggesting places. ‘What if we did one at Yellowstone? What about the Grand Canyon?’”
Sarah nodded. That was how her photography career had taken off: recommendations from a few loyal clients.
“By that point, Jandro was in school, so I worked out a schedule where I could be home for three weeks and then go away for a week on a workshop. Sometimes I was assisting friends with running workshops, sometimes I was running my own. But it gave me a life back. It’s why I was worried about you when Paul said you stopped shooting after your divorce.”
She shrugged. “MySingle Lifeseries was fun, and my babies series was fun. The problem was that I stopped feeling fun, so I couldn’t seem to shoot anything people wanted to buy. People don’t want images about loss and grieving. There’s no money in grieving.”
“Was there one thing that happened that caused the divorce?” Ren asked.
Sarah shuddered, looking out the window. “I don’t want to get into it.”
Ren nodded and flipped on the radio, searching for stations. The pickings were slim. Newfoundland didn’t do radio especially well. It did two things well: it had a lot of trees and it kept going. There was one road across the northern end of the province, a long stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway, and once you were on it, there was not much to see except rolling hills, clusters of small houses, and lots and lots of balsam firs and white spruces, on and on to the horizon, broken by the occasional lake that mirrored the bright blue sky.
“Should I play some music?” she asked as Ren searched the static. “I have an app on my phone. Or I could connect your phone.”
“You can play anything as long as it’s Pearl Jam.”
She picked up her phone and put on a playlist for him. “I’ve actually been on an eighties kick,” she explained. “I’ll do the first hour of music and you pick the next.”
They listened to Sarah’s current favorite mix, filled with songs from The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, and The Clash. Somehow, the despair that seemed to bubble just beneath the surface of those songs had suited her this past year.
“I bet your high school boyfriend loved this stuff,” Ren said after a while.
“He was more into Marilyn Manson,” Sarah said with a grin. “We don’t need to talk about it.”
“And did you do goth make-up too?”
“Like I said, we don’t need to talk about it.”
“I wishthatphoto had been on your living room wall.”
“They’re all burned, and that’s all you’re going to hear about it.”
Ren laughed and Sarah let herself be happy for a moment. He was her friend, in spite of everything. And they were on a road trip.
A Joy Division song came on that they both knew the words to, and they sang along. She had never heard him sing before.
An hourand a half into the journey, they stopped at a larger town to buy a few last items they would need: a sleeping bag for Sarah, some hiking sneakers and practical clothes for her, and a few odds and ends that would help them survive a week of night shoots. Ren paid for everything with his credit card.
“I feel like a teenager with my mom at the mall,” she said as they walked out of a store. “I can pay for my own clothes.”
“But you’re only buying them because I needed your help and didn’t warn you ahead of time,” he said. “I imagine you prefer slightly more fashionable stuff than this.” Then he smiled. “Or at least, twenty-year-old vintage versions of this.”
“Do you still wear leather jackets? I haven’t seen one on this trip.”
“I had the one I wore at McGill until recently. My son just stole it from me.”
“I have to meet this kid.”
Ren grinned. “He’s very funny.”
As if on cue, just as they were crossing the small shopping mall parking lot, his phone rang.
“Jandro,” he said. “Qu’est-ce qu’il se passe?”
Sarah pointed to the driver’s seat, offering to drive, and Ren nodded and then handed her the keys and stepped away to talk to his son in French. She watched him rubbing the back of his head while pacing anxiously for a few minutes before he returned to the car with a sigh.
“Everything all right?” she asked, starting the engine.
