Page 89 of Plain Sight

Once you’ve photographed the charred remains of a baby blanket sticking out from a pile of concrete that used to be an apartment building, it’s important—I might say essential—to photograph a baby safe in her mother’s arms.

That kind of balance.

Another reason is that being photographed is vulnerable at the best of times, and once a family has found a photographer they can relax around, they tend not to let go.

And that’s good for me. Financially, of course, though that matters a lot less than it did when we were younger. But also because of…

You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?

Because of the balance.

Places devastated by natural disasters and war zones and the locales where military units are generally found tend to be chaotic and dangerous. The most stressful portrait session with a familiar client is nothing by comparison, and there’s much to be said for familiarity. And routine. And the feelings of safety familiarity and routine can engender.

That’s enough full truth, I think. Most things I do are on a need to know basis. You need to know: I’m the dark-haired one, and my twin brother Julien—identical except for his hair—is the light-haired one. I’m the one who uses American Sign Language and sometimes British Sign Language to communicate, and Julien is the one who talks out loud. Both of us are fluent in ASL, and I can hear you.

That’s the big one: I can hear you.

Although sometimes it suits us to let people think I can’t.

“Gessy,” Julien calls from somewhere down the hall. “We have to…”

I can tell from the ancient childhood nickname—an artifact from when we were both so young that saying August was a stretch, never mind Augustine—and the half-sentence and the tone of his voice that his mind is elsewhere. I zip my camera bag shut with a bit more force than usual, though he’ll look for me here first regardless. He pads through my bedroom door a few beats later, looking down at his phone. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand, and his hair—he’s the light-haired one, that’s how you’ll be able to tell us apart, don’t forget—sticks up like he’s been grabbing it. He scrolls for a few more seconds, frown deepening, then shoves the phone into his pocket and looks at me.

I try.

For a few seconds, I try, because it would be easier. We’re at home. There’s nobody else here.

Nope.

Is it Rathbek again?

“Yeah.” Julien’s hands come up. He’s flirting with signs rather than actually signing. “I don’t like some of the stuff coming out of their Congress. It’s dominoes.”

My brother doesn’t ghost-sign the fingerspelling of dominoes. What he does is more a visual representation of dominoes knocking into one another and falling down. A hint toward the visual representation of domino effect. That’s how I would translate it, if I was the one who did the spoken translations. But between us, it’s dominoes refers to more than the game.

It’s not dominoes yet. I sign it twice, Julien’s eyes moving between my hands and my face.

He holds his breath for a few seconds, then lets it out.

“Not yet,” he says.

Not yet.

He signs it back. Not yet.

I stand up straight, relax my shoulders, and breathe deep. Julien copies me, his eyes distant. He barely notices the mirroring. I know, because I barely notice it.

Julien, I sign.

He furrows his brow.

Fix your face.

I run my hand over my face, fixing it in the mirror of the two of us. By the time my palm is at chest-level, Julien’s expression is calm.

It’s not a lie, letting quiet excitement come into my eyes. I am genuinely pleased for Jameson and Lily.

The baby’s going to be small, I sign. And really soft.