Out of Focus

I stare at the photo in front of me. Clear as day, printed in film in an age where everything’s always kept on the cloud. Clearly, this photo is important to me. The woman in the centre of the frame is my wife, my beautiful, beautiful wife. Her strawberry blonde hair, smile brimming with happiness and those lovely almond eyes that faintly reflected my smitten face. I know this, but only from the context. And I need to think about this, because I can’t remember ever taking this photo. Panic and dread curl their long, gnarled fingers around my chest as I struggle to breathe. I never took this picture.

My wife, though, provides her ever present wit and sass when she gives me a remark to focus on instead of the picture.

“What, busy staring at a younger me dear? Hoping to fall in love at first sight again now that I’m old and weathered?”

She rarely goes a single day without some remark, but we’ve spent decades together, and I know that she loves playing up to the old married couple stereotype. She was, after all, an actress before she retired. And I, a photographer, always joked that I could always capture her true intention behind her acting. And so we’ve stayed happily married till we were old and wrinkled. But that’s the thing, I’m a photographer. It was and still is my passion, my life’s work. Every photo, every moment that’s been immortalized in time, I’ve been behind it. And I remember. I remember every single photo I’ve taken right down to one of my very first shoots where I met my wife all those years ago. I can’t have taken this one. I need to get to the bottom of this.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Dear... are you... alright? You’ve been staring at that photo for days now.”

Outright concern. That’s bad. She teases, she snarks, she loves to play and be mischievous. When things are serious, it all goes away. When I had to go under the knife for an emergency surgery, she looked straight at me with her lovely eyes, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time our gazes met. Telling me in no uncertain terms that she loved me. Then, when I later came to after general anesthesia, she showed me a video she took when I was still groggy of her convincing me that the moon was made of cheese. So when she’s serious, something’s bad. And now as we sit at home, she’s looking deep into my eyes again. I can’t hide anything. She knows I’ve been troubled by this picture, just not why. And so I decide to tell her. To confess to all my doubts. What could the reason be? Was this some body snatcher? An evil ghost that makes photos? I’ve never been superstitious, but it was either this or my pride as a veteran photographer of 50 years on the line. I look my wife straight in the eyes.

“I never took this photo. You are in it. I am in it. But this shouldn’t be here.”

And she stares. She just stares at me. Silent. From the very edges of my mind, I feel it. The monster responsible for this. And she knows. She knows that I know. And what’s worse, she knows why I’ve been quiet for so long. Because a demon that ripped my mind out and crawled into my skin to take this picture would be a much, much better reality for this photo. I can once again feel hands squeezing my heart and airways, climbing up and out of my throat. My vision tunnels, I start to collapse, but my wife catches me. She catches me and helps me stand, like she’s done so in the past, which she’ll keep doing till we part, because we’ve been there for each other for 4 decades and running.

“We are calling an ambulance. Now.”

I wish she would at least joke that I’m too old and feeble to drive myself to the hospital.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been 3 weeks since I discovered the photograph of our honeymoon I never took. It feels larger than life on top of the fireplace, all it’s happy memories replaced by a vague, empty dread. I remember when I was younger I used to love eating at this one pizza place with arcade machines. Looking back, the food was genuinely vile and it was shut down by the health inspector for a cockroach infestation. But as a child, It was the best place to be. Now, whenever I see the new refurbished clothes store that stood in its place it reminds me of the inevitable march of time. And now, I have a whole new pizza parlor turned clothing store sitting above the fire. At least there’s no cockroach infestation.

My wife is back to her usual self, but I know that she’s putting on her brave face. Even if I’m no longer at my peak, I’m still pretty good at capturing her emotions. The way her eyes linger on mine for a split second longer before we sleep, the slight wobble in her voice at the end of her sentences. I can’t help but notice, just like how a camera can’t help but capture every minor detail in frame. My daughter is a writer, and a while ago she introduced me to a horror story where glimpsing a monster, even a photograph of it, is enough to send it hunting you down to kill you violently. I may not be superstitious, but I am very easily scared. And honestly, that horror story used to keep me up at night, wondering if my job would eventually get me killed. But recently, a different monster has been keeping me up at night.

I don’t like thinking about it. My wife doesn’t like thinking about it. We don’t speak it’s name, hoping it stays away like the boogeyman or Bloody Mary. But at least you could avoid them by not invoking their presence. Now it almost feels like thinking about it is enough to let the monster slowly march into my brain, crushing the space I have left to think. And I can’t stop thinking about it. How could I? It’s in me. And where teenagers huddled under blankets at a slumber party giggled and screamed as they talked about Bloody Mary, the world of medicine had no uncertain terms. Beta Amyloids. Tau Plaques. Alzheimer’s Disease. It makes me remember those sleepless nights trying to learn what an F-number or an ISO is. And I can’t sleep. And my wife knows.

“Stop tossing and turning and get some shut eye already! You promised me we’ll rewatch all my favorite musicals tomorrow and It’ll be a cold day in hell before your sick ass can stop me!”

And yet her hand clutches mine tightly. Her voice pauses for just a split second more than it usually would at “sick ass”. It scares us both, but she’s staying strong for me. In a way, it’s almost more calming knowing she’s scared too. Because she cares. I clutch her hand tightly too. I guess tomorrow I can worry about trying not to look too bored on the 22nd rewatch of some guy singing about taxes and kings. And even if I doze off I’ll have an excuse. I shut my eyes, and let myself drift into nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Change is scary. My wife is too old, and I am too old. She cannot take care of me anymore. And my daughter is in another country. She married a nice man, he takes care of her, but they can't abandon their life just for me. I don't want her to abandon her life just for me. And so I stand outside the old and worn down reception of a care home. I don’t remember a lot of things now, but I’m not as angry about it. But I do know that I am still proud of being a photographer. I remember opening day of the care home, I took a picture of it. My wife donated a lot of money to build it. Because I wanted her too. Because my parents also had dementia. She was happy as well. The people here say that I can stay here for free because I am a VIP. Good news is appreciated nowadays. My wife is seeing me off. She says she’ll visit, so we can finish the 27th rewatch of the taxes and king musical. I’m happy she still has it in her to joke. But I don’t know anymore. I can’t hear when she pauses. Or how she says it, I only know her words. And I know she knows this too. She wants me to keep the honeymoon photo. Or at least the original copy. She says that my pride would never let me keep the copy she photocopied for herself. She’s right, it looks really bad. You can’t see my reflection in her eyes in the photocopy, which removes the nuance and composition of the shot. So I wanted her to keep the original. But we both have bad memories with it now. Bad, and good memories. I gently hold the photo as I wave her goodbye. The caretakers then show me to my room.

~~~~~~~~~

Today I woke up to go to work. I have to meet an actress and take her picture for an ad. But there is an old woman next to my bed when I wake up. It’s very creepy that she stared at me sleeping. She says something about not having time left. Me too, I need to go to work. I get out of bed and she does not stop me. But then I see a picture. There is a very pretty lady in the picture. Her hair is a nice color and her smile is very wide. Her eyes reflect the photographer, I think this is a very nice composition. She clearly loves the photographer very much, and this must be an important photo. But I don't remember taking this photo, so it is not mine. The lady is very pretty, and I wish I can spend more time with her. The old woman by my bed asks me what I think of the lady. I tell her that it's love at first sight. She looks like she almost cries. Someone in a colored uniform guides the old woman out of my room. Now I’m tired, and I fall back asleep.