in cinema cameras, but this one was so much smaller than I’d expected. Thumbelina had replaced King Kong.
There was no time to consider that further. The small group was attracting attention, and I saw that my sister was right in the middle of it.
Cecilia was flanked by Donny and another larger man in a sport coat who hadn’t been with her at my house. A pale blonde pixie in her twenties followed behind with a wheeled suitcase, but Cecilia herself was toting a faux-leather bag large enough for a weekend of travel. She wore faded jeans ripped at the knee, like the ones we had scored at church rummage sales back in the day. In contrast, the sparkly four-inch heels and boho-chic embroidered cape hanging casually over her shoulders would never have graced a table at First Baptist.
I started to move forward to greet her, but Mick was standing now, and he rested his hand on my arm.
“You’re the photographer today, right? Not the foster sister?”
“Sister,” I said automatically, and then chagrin filled me. “And of course you’re right. I need to get busy. This is going to take some getting used to.”
“No doubt. And for my part? Sister. I hear you.” Mick left to greet Cecilia.
As I grabbed my case and lifted out the best camera and lens to document this scene, more people recognized Cecilia and crowded in. I thought about Max Filstein and what he would say. Max is nearly always right, and this was turning out to be no exception. I probably wasn’t the best person for this job. Not only had I momentarily forgotten why I was here, but I hadn’t prepared my equipment. And even when I was organized and working on cue, could I be trusted to take the shots that were really needed? The ones that portrayed Cecilia in an unfavorable light? The ones where she was clearly tired, where she looked her full forty-two and then some? The ones where she exploded in anger or sobbed in despair?
Right now, after too many years away from the career I had loved so well, I felt like a mute eight-year-old again, an unloved and unwanted child who had been given a camera by a compassionate therapist and asked to take photos of the most important moments and people in her life.
Thirty years ago that camera, one of the first generation of disposables, had changed everything. Today I would take whatever photos were required. Because Cecilia and everything this trip represented were suddenly as important to me as almost anything I had ever done.
And once again, I wanted to make myself heard.
* * *
Having a superstar on board doesn’t work magic with the airlines. We sat on the tarmac for more than an hour while rain pelted our plane and ground crews unloaded and reloaded cargo. We were never told why.
Cecilia saw the delay as a public relations opportunity, and with the flight crew’s permission she went back into coach and shook hands with starstruck passengers, signed whatever they had handy, gave tips to three teens who had-rock star aspirations and serenaded an old man who swore he had every album she had ever made, including the vinyl of her debut album, Saint Cecilia.
Jerry took footage of the visit to coach, and when I was granted permission I took photos and had subjects sign a model release app on my phone in case one was necessary later. I planned to make extensive notes about what was happening in today’s photos and those I took later, so I could pass them on to the writer if a book really materialized.
None of it was easy for me. None of it seemed natural. I hoped that would change, because hesitation and second-guessing would affect my work.
By the time the plane took off, Cecilia had made two hundred friends who would recount this meeting for weeks to come.
“There are two kinds of performers,” she told me when she finally plopped back into her seat next to mine. I was sitting in first class, too, which I was pretty sure had more to do with being her sister than her photographer.
“What kind are you?” I asked.
“The kind who honestly likes her audience and wants to give them a thrill. The kind who hugs them tight when she can because life’s a bitch, and a little fun, a little glitter, makes it a lot easier. I have friends in the business who are so cushioned nobody gets close or feels close. They’re the performers who won’t let people take photos and Tweet during the show. And my God, video? YouTube scares them shitless. They never go into the audience to shake hands or chat. I drive security crazy, but I’d rather take a risk and be loved for it than be so safe nobody remembers my name.”
“Everyone on this plane knows your name, that’s for sure.”
“And so will their friends and their friends.”
“That’s a pretty big piece of yourself you doled out back there.”
Her smile was like a burst of sunshine. “Yes, wasn’t it?” She glanced at me. “I love it.”
She did, I could tell. She was glowing. Cecilia is never happier than when she’s the center of attention. Growing up, she had so rarely been seen that she was making up for it now. On the other hand, I consciously chose to continue watching life from the sidelines so I could put my own editorial spin on it with a camera.
“Will you ever get tired of this, do you think?” I asked.
My question sobered her. I love Cecilia’s profile, topped off today with an elaborate braided knot of glistening auburn hair. Even an old-fashioned paper silhouette of my sister would be expressive. She’s more than just a singer. She’s acted in some good movies and some not so good ones, but at no time on or off film is Cecilia’s face ever truly blank. I’m not sure we see what she’s really feeling, but we always see something.
“I get tired of being mobbed.” She turned away and closed her eyes. “I get tired of being grabbed and crowded. When I’m alone at home I really like the quiet and the space. I didn’t always. For a long time it gave me too much time to think.”
“And remember.”
“That, too. We’ll be doing a lot of that in the next weeks. I haven’t been back to Randolph Furnace since my mother left me at my grandparents’ house for almost a year. She came back and got me when I was maybe six, and that was that. I must have been six, because I started school in Pennsylvania. Unless they had kindergarten...”
“That’s one of the problems with our childhoods. Unless a social worker was around to document whatever was going on, we lost the details. Now it’s just vague memories.”
“You don’t have many of those.”
I had made sure of that. “You’ve never talked much about yours.”
“I’m foggy on dates, but I sure have memories.”
“Do you have any good ones of Pennsylvania?”
For a moment it seemed as if she didn’t want to answer, but then her shoulders lifted under the elaborate cape. “My grandparents. I loved them. Maybe that’s why I never went back to Randolph Furnace. They died while I was still a child, and by then the mine had closed and the town was practically deserted. I held dying against them, I guess. You know, dying when they knew I was out there somewhere in the world with crazy Maribeth.”
I knew the answer but asked a question to keep her talking. “Your grandfather was a miner?”
“Not
