Page 31 of Rootbound
“No worries, my place in Tahoe doesn’t have AC. Actually, the majority of houses don’t there, either.”
“I trust that everything else here is nice and comfortable, though?” he asks.
“Yeah, absolutely. It’s a nice place,” I say, meaning it.
“Henry did a great job doing the right updates to the old place and building this to match. The plan was to do two more for other guest ranchers, but I think it works best like this.”
“Henry built this?”
“Yep. We all helped a bit, but he’s the one who was able to translate all the old plans to a new reality. Guy’s a bit of a savant, actually.”
Unsure why, some defensive feeling crawls into my chest. I hope they really do know how lucky they are to have good help like Henry. And I hope they don’t take advantageof him. Building something on someone else’s property with no chance for his own profit seems like too much of a stretch to me.…
“Okay, well, I’ll just bring these inside for you, then,” he says.
I grab the last of the groceries and set them in the kitchen, only to find Charlie still shifting on his feet, a fan held at either side.
“Tait. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you right away, and for—earlier. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”
I give it a second before responding, admittedly enjoying his nerves again. Not sure what that says about me, but I’m also not dissecting it much further.
“It’s okay. This is all… a lot. And honestly, I’m not dying to hash it out quite yet either. As much as I realize that we’ll probably have to get it over with.”
He lets out a sigh and sets down the fans. “I don’t want you to think that I’m upset that you’re here, but I just have to ask, Tait. Why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean… Well, is there any specific reason that prompted you to come out here,now?”
Ah. There it is.The confirmation I’ve been waiting on; that this whole welcome act is not quite as genuine as they’d have me think. “You mean besides the job that hired me? I guess I don’t understand what you’re getting at Charlie.”
He flinches at his name, but I’m not sure what else he expected. To be called Dad? I think the fuck not.
“Okay, okay. I just—I had to ask,” he says lamely.
No he didn’t.
“Who do I need to get in touch with to discuss the scope of work and locations I should stick to?”
He regards me for a second, but accepts my redirect. “Henry has the production schedule and can show you around until cast and crew start showing up.”
I nod in thanks and head back in, not sparing him another glance.
A while after he leaves and after I’ve nibbled on a few of the grocery items I was most excited (and surprised) to come across, I email Fletcher and his assistant and decide to go ahead and CC Gemma so that she is updated, too. Isabel quickly sends me the appropriate expense report forms along with the insurance forms to fill out. I fill them out immediately and knock them off of my to-do list.
Gemma replies directly, and almost immediately.
Taitum. I have some ideas for you to focus on. I think they’ll be good jumping off points. I plan to be abstract enough, but I’d really like to know the family’s history on the ranch to relate it to the story plot. I’d like photography of more of the place in action, rather than just the scenery. The people, specifically, in action, doing everyday things. I’m struggling through a block on character development and deciding “who” I may be missing… Help me find them?
Thank you,dear girl,
∼G
I put my head in my hands and feel the dread morph into something else that crawls beneath my skin, a monster trying to take hold. The idea of putting in extra effort to get to know anyone, when they never wanted to know me, fills me with helpless rage. I need to find the divider in my brain that categorizes this as work, the one that might help me separate my own personal emotions about this place and these people. This is what I do—it’s what I’ve done for every single one of these types of assignments.
Capturing pictures of an ultra-modern mansion in the middle of a forest—something so cold-looking and devoid of life, surrounded by nature. Or photographing an Italian grandmother handmaking her pasta with three generations of women alongside; hands lined up in succession of worn and gnarled, to young and smooth. Sending those photographs with a summary of the conversations that took place during that day in the kitchen. I find the juxtaposition between the laborious work, the time-worn utensils, and the bubbling life that a menial task brings out in everyone.
I just need to get enough material here, and do it quickly. Whatever it takes to get this done, to get me back home and to the life I’ve worked hard to make my own. Because the resolve I have here is slipping. And why open myself up to this, now? Why open myself up to wondering what life would have been, when it’s clear that they never worried or wondered?