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Amelie felt the hot tears stain her cheeks as they poured from the sides of her eyes, but she was powerless to do anything about them. She felt the man’s hand move upward and stroke her head once more. She shivered, but she didn’t answer.
“How does it feel?” the voice prodded. “How does it feel not to be in control of oneself?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, her words slurring as she spoke.
“Miss Rose. There are only two kinds of people in this world. Those who are in control. And those who aren’t. The more quickly one learns their power and more importantly, their position, the better off that person will be…”
Those words were the last thing Amelie could recall before she was jolted awake.
Amelie lay there that night, long after her dream and the panic had subsided, and tried her best to remember her father. The dream had unsettled her. Maybe she didn’t think of him enough. She knew she’d always tried to honor him and his memory in one way or another. Even to this day, she still wanted to make him proud. But as the years passed, so did her memory of him. Her mother rarely spoke of him anymore and didn’t seem to particularly like it when Amelie brought him up. Sometimes, Amelie would pour over old photographs of him and try to recall how he’d sounded, or what it felt like to be hugged by him, or try to picture what he might look like today. That was the thing she loved about photographs—it was what made taking them so important to her. Once captured, they were final. There was no end and no beginning. The pictures were it. They were all you had, your only portal into your past, and when your memory failed you, they simply became the memory.
Where her mother was all business, her father had been all heart. That’s where she got it from, he used to tell her. There was a lot that she couldn’t remember about him but what she did know was that life was never again the same once he was gone. Where her world had been full of color, all of a sudden, with his death, everything became black and white.
The Polaroid camera was the last gift he had given her before he left on the fateful trip of which he would never return. Just before dawn, Amelie forced herself out of bed and went to her closet. She still had the box the camera had come in. Sometimes, on days like this one when she missed him the most, she would take it out, turn it over in her hands, and picture the expression on his face when he’d given it to her. As she lowered the box down to eye level, she heard the familiar rattle of paper inside. It was then that she remembered the letters that she hid there.
Amelie had made herself extra copies of the letters Jack’s mother had written just in case something had ever happened to Jack’s. At the time, she assured herself that it was all in the name of safekeeping, but now she realized she did it for selfish reasons, too. The letters were achingly beautiful, and if she were in an honest mood, she’d tell you that she sometimes pretended they were written for her, and that it was her father who had left them for her. The letters gave him a voice when she could barely recall what his sounded like. In the quiet hours after dawn, she read the letters once again. By this time, she’d memorized many of them by heart. But that morning, it was one letter in particular that stuck out among the rest. It was that letter which influenced her decision not to contact Jack. She realized then that she needed to let things be for a while. She needed to get herself together.
My Dearest Jack,
I want to talk to you about “failure” and letting go. From the time you were a baby, and even as a small boy now, I can see how willful and driven you are. Sometimes, I sit and watch you try to figure something out, and I marvel at the way you exhaust yourself. You refuse to give up, not even for sleep. These days I’m here to redirect your efforts when needed, to give you advice, to help you through the struggle. But as we both know, by the time you read this, that won’t be the case. I can only imagine what kind of man you might be now, and it makes me so proud to think of you all grown up. I’m guessing that your determination and your persistence have served you well.
That said, I know your father probably won’t be the one to tell you this, so it’s important that I do. Failure is ok, Jack. Failure is necessary. I want you to understand that just as important as hanging in there and sticking it out sometimes, so is knowing when to let go. I hope that my death in some way has shown you that occasionally there simply is no other choice. Sometimes, your determination and persistence end up hurting not only yourself, but also those you love. I want you to know, my love, that it’s all right to fail. You will survive and come out stronger and wiser for it. It’s ok to say enough is enough and leave it be. In fact, not only is it ok, it’s a necessity in life. You see, failure teaches us something. Failure is often a guidepost that turns us in another direction. It allows us to course correct. In my life, every time I thought I’d failed or I was rejected—it was only because something (or someone) better was waiting in the future—waiting for me to become the person I needed to be, to learn the lessons I needed to learn.
What I learned from failure is that everything good in life comes in its own time. You, my love, have never been the kind to accept that sentiment. Your way is to force things, to make them as you think they should be. And that’s ok. But sometimes I want to ask that you don’t. It’s important that you learn to trust that inner voice of yours. I want you to understand that doubt means “don’t.” Don’t answer the call. Don’t rush to action. Let it be. Sit back and let it come to you. When you don’t know what to do, be still. The answers, they will come. But you have to know when to take a step back. You have to know when to let go. That way, when whatever it is you’ve been waiting for shows up, you’ll know it was meant to be. In the meantime, trust that what you put out will come back. It always does. This goes for hard work, money, energy, and most especially, love.
But you need to trust that it will, my love. You have to let go and have faith. Nothing worth having ever comes easy. Which means that “failure” is a necessary part of success.
Remember that.
I love you always, and I’m so very proud of you.
Love,
Mom
It would be several years before Amelie would find meaning in the dream that had woken her in her bedroom that night and filled her with panic. In the meantime, she consoled herself with the notion that if there was anything good that came from her inpatient stay in a mental institution, it was that it had affirmed that she wasn’t mentally ill, that she wasn’t merely a diagnosis. She was simply someone who needed to learn to express her emotions in a healthy way.
Two weeks later, Amelie flew to Rome where she would spend the following year and nine months finishing her degree, earning a Bachelor of Science in Photography. Rome turned out to be everything she wanted and more. The city was a beautiful distraction from everything she so desperately needed to be distracted from. Where she thought she’d loved France—Italy, it turns out was an illicit love affair. It was passionate, intense, and full of life. The country itself, she decided, was like her in many ways: defiant, intriguing, and a bit mysterious.
It was in Rome that Amelie found herself—where she came into her own, so to speak. She had the time of her life in a place where she was free to express herself, away from anyone who knew her. She was free to be who and what she was, and she felt more alive than she ever had. She spent her days studying and taking pictures. At night, she read and developed her art. On weekends, she traveled and ate and explored. She worked in cafes and took other odd jobs. She learned to sell her work. She had grand love affairs with Italian men and even a few women, here and there. But there wasn’t a single day that went by when Jack didn’t cross her mind at least once.
SIXTEEN
Four weeks before she was set to graduate, Amelie learned two things that would forever change the course of her life. One: she’d landed a job, her dream job, as Director of Photography at Travel Life Magazine. And two: a gallery in New Orleans wanted to show her work, but the caveat was that she w
as to be in attendance on opening day.
Five weeks later, she flew back to the States and then straight to NOLA. Amelie checked into her hotel, showered, dressed in her favorite little black dress, and headed to the gallery for the showing with ten minutes to spare before the event started. When she arrived, Amelie met with the gallery owner who showed her around. She was admittedly a little jet lagged and jittery, no doubt thanks to the two cappuccinos she’d consumed in the past hour. When the waiter appeared with a tray filled with champagne glasses, Amelie grabbed a flute and downed it.
The gallery owner, a man who appeared to be in his sixties, as far as she could guess, eyed her, amused. “We’re very excited to show off your work. This subject is near and dear to my heart.”
Amelie seemed surprised. “San Francisco?”
The man nodded. “I was born there. It was where my partner and I first met. It’s where we fell in love.” He smiled then continued. “When his work brought him out here, I followed.”
“Ah. Lucky guy.”
“I’m the lucky one, really. You’ll see why soon enough.” He scanned the room. “I’m pretty sure he’s around here somewhere...”
