Free Darkroom by Joshua Graham

is gone.
    I take the negative from the enlarger and clip it to the wall-mounted light box. Here’s the shot. Identical to the printed picture.
    But there is no girl.
    I’m certain I saw it.
    My mouth is dry, my veins are about to explode. I wasn’t even thinking about her before I developed the picture. I’m choking on the fumes in here. Need some air.
    For the next few minutes, I sit at my kitchen table sipping a mug of coffee and staring at the unremarkable black-and-white photo of the pond. There’s got to be a scientific explanation for this. Perhaps it was a subliminal thought, some psychological occurrence where you see things planted by the subconscious.
    I wasn’t imagining it, the details were too clear. And yet, there’s nothing in the picture that even hints at the girl now. The darkroom door is still ajar; the overhead fluorescent light flickers dimly.
    Outside, clouds that earlier seemed to be thinning with the pledge of afternoon sunshine have turned charcoal. Peals of thunder rumble in the distance, sending a cold shiver through my body.
    For the next two hours, pacing like a caged panther, I deliberate over going back and making another print. Finally, I decide. I will develop another print.
    This time, nothing happens. The second one is identical. No ghostly images of dead bodies floating in the pond.
    But I’m sure of what I saw.
    The voice of the radio announcer resounds in my head: “ … authorities are asking anyone with information on her last known whereabouts to contact the Missing Persons Squad, or the 20th Precinct … ”

15
     
    “No, I don’t want to give you my name …
    “Right.
    “Because I don’t want to get … Look, I don’t know what else to say; would you please just have them check the pond?” Too nervous to continue, I end the call to the 20th Precinct. The last thing I need is to be connected to this case. There’ll be endless questions: “Why do you think we should trawl the pond?” “How do you know about this?” “What’s your relationship to the victim?”
    Great, I forgot to block the outbound caller ID. All I wanted was to alert them to a possible lead. It was the responsible thing to do. I don’t need a reputation as a crazy prank caller. I should never have called. They’ll surely trace the call back to me.
    But how could I sleep knowing I kept silent, while even the tiniest possibility exists that there was truth in that image I saw.
    It’s probably best to forget it and get back to work. Ordinarily, I’d go to the park for inspiration, but considering what today’s foray yielded, I’ll seek an alternative.
    Though I’m loathe to take on the responsibilities of a couch potato, I succumb to the lure of channel surfing with the occasional break for The Price Is Right, Dr. Phil, Channel 9 News. By the time I get to Oprah, I’ve had enough. I must get out of the apartment. Starbucks sounds good right about now.
    On my way out of the elevator, Frank smiles and tips his hat. “Better bring an umbrella, Ms. Carrick. Looks like rain.”
    He’s a saint. Kind of reminds me of an old uncle who pinches your cheeks and smiles all the time. “Frank, I’m sorry about this morning. I’d gotten a bad email and … well, then I got some even worse news after that, and …” He’s smiling at me the way Dad used to when I was in elementary school and had a bad habit of thinking out loud. Nonstop.
    “You got an umbrella, Ms. Carrick?”
    “I’ll have to go back up to get one.”
    He reaches behind the desk. “Here. People leave ’em around and never come back for ’em. I got dozens.” He hands me a bright yellow number with a rubber-duckie-shaped handle. Perfect.
    “Thanks.” I marvel at the blinding hue. “No chance of my getting lost in a crowd with this.”
    “Why would you want to get lost?”
    “I don’t know, sometimes … Anyway, thanks again.”
    “You got it, Ms. Carrick.”
    “Could you please just call me Xandra? ‘Ms. Carrick’