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Rose quietly opened the camera shop door, keeping her gaze downcast. The scene played on a loop through her memory— the woman on the subway tracks, looking into her camera with a knowing smile. As if she always knew this would happen. As if she’d expected Rose to slowly but confidently reach for her camera at the sight of the drunk man pushing her in front of the train. She’d snapped the picture as the train hit the woman and she screamed and her bones—
“Can I help you?”
Rose looked up, startled. How long had she stood in the doorway? She moved forwards and let the door slam behind her. The shopkeep merely smiled at her. Yet another expecting expression, appearing to know something that Rose didn’t. She shivered and forced herself to paste on a friendly smile.
“I hope so. I lost my camera.” Not exactly a lie.
“Did someone steal it?”
“No. It got smashed. And lost,” she added. “The pieces are lost.”
“I’m sorry.” The shopkeep came out from behind the counter and picked up a half-empty bottle next to the cash register. “Here, have some whiskey.” She poured two shots of Jameson and slid one across the counter.
“Thank you,” Rose said. She picked up the glass and savored the sweet, herbal scent.
“It was a real camera? Not a phone?”
“Not a phone. I do not like phones.”
The shopkeep nodded in agreement. “Well, we’ll get you all set up with a new camera,” she said. She started walking over to one corner of the room. There were two faded yellow velvet chairs on one side of a short, ovalish dark walnut table. “But sit first, and drink a bit. You need to take care of yourself.”
Strange, Rose thought, but she said nothing. She tried to sit down gracefully, but the shock from earlier made her collapse. The chair was as plush and comfortable as it looked, and she sank into the cushions easily. She crossed one leg over her other thigh and leaned back.
“Are you traveling?”
“Yes, from Portland.” That was how she had ended up at the subway station where she—
“Oh, I’ve been there once. They have that cool library,” the other woman said dreamily. She stared off into the distance, as if imagining the sunlight filtered through the square paneled glass walls and the bustle of the city outside.
Rose paused. “That’s Seattle.” Her words came out harsher than she intended. She looked down, a little grateful that her guilt over being mildly rude towards the shopkeep drowned out her previous remorse.
“Oh.” Her voice sounded distant, distracted. She sat up in the chair. “I get them mixed up.” They sat in silence. Rose downed her whiskey.
After a moment, the woman spoke up again. “Did you grow up there?” How long was she going to stall on getting Rose her camera?
“Yes, when I was a kid.” Rose pushed out of the chair and set her glass on the table, hoping to indicate that she was ready to go.
“That’s nice. It’s nice to have roots.” Apparently, the shopkeep didn’t take the hint, because she poured another shot and held it up for Rose. She took it, even though she didn’t feel like drinking.
“What about you, have you been here long?” she said after a moment.
The woman finally stood up. But instead of going through cameras while they chatted, she went back behind the counter. Rose held back an agitated sigh.
“This store has been in my family for four generations,” she said.
Yeah, I can tell. This shop looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the 1800s.
“Wow,” was all Rose said in response.
The woman pointed behind her. “See that fiddle on the wall? It belonged to my great-grandmother.” She looked Rose in the eyes. “Her name was Rose.”
A chill shot through her body. “That’s— that’s my name.”
The shopkeep offered her a small smile. “It’s a beautiful name. Old-fashioned. You don’t hear it a lot anymore.”
Rose broke away from the woman’s oppressive stare to look at the fiddle. “The color is so light, what’s it made of?” The fiddle looked like any other except for the ivory-white coloring and the brown strings.
“An old breastbone.”
“Creepy.” She kept staring at the fiddle, avoiding the shopkeep’s intent gaze.
“It was the breastbone of her sister. Her name was Pearl.”
Against all logic, Rose glanced at the shopkeep’s name tag. Pearl, it read. She froze. Slowly met her gaze. Pearl smiled, a smile somehow warm and malicious.
“I’ll tell you the story.”
And Pearl began to speak of two salt-gathering sisters who lived some time long ago. Rose, the younger, was in love with a tree-dwelling astronomer. They’d look at the stars together and she’d speak of fire and decay and God. She wrote poetry for the Astronomer, expressing everything she felt for him, but he stole her ideas for an astronomy journal he edited.
“And so Rose grew to hate him, and then Pearl caught his eye…” Her voice trailed off, pink tinting her cheeks.
“I’m…” Rose didn’t know how to say what she felt. A little confused, she supposed, and more than a little frightened.
Pearl seemed to understand. “It’s okay, my dear. This is a circular story.” Before Rose could ask what she meant, the shopkeep began to speak again, her voice frantic and her eyes wild.
“And so Rose ran into the forest and asked a great bear to maul the astronomer, and to turn the cruel sister into a black crow, and put the corpse and the crow in a cave. So the crow started to starve, and she’d have no choice but peck out the eyes of her lover and eat them!”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this!” Rose burst out. Childish, she knew, but from what Pearl was insinuating…
“Don’t you remember?” Pearl leaned forward over the counter, eyes narrow and accusing. “The bear named his price: one pot of honey, one piece of stardust, one secret baptism…” She paused. Her voice lowered. “And a photo of a ghost.”
Rose shook her head violently and took a step back, bumping into a stand displaying vintage cameras. No. There has to be another explanation. But her mind drew a blank. Taking a picture of that woman about to die— wouldn’t that count?
Pearl kept talking. Over the next hour, she relayed the entire story to Rose, who stood in shocked silence. And then the memories began to trickle back. Little bits at a time— her mother’s face as she lay dying, the warmth of the soldier as they danced, the smell of the river as her sister fell. Salt, trees, stars, coldness, rage, flickering through her mind like the soft flame from a dying match. Rose drank her whiskey, hoping, praying it would do something to make her forget this.
The scenes became more fleshed out the more Pearl wove her— no, their— tale. There were other people in the House of Usher, a father and a brother walking above her as she lay in a vault. Scheherazade told stories to Shah Zaman as the sun began to rise. The astronomer wrote down every word Rose said as she looked into his telescope. She looked upon her own face in one of these memories as a child being dipped into the sea. But wasn’t she the one holding her? What kind of bulls—
Screams erupted in her mind. The soldier after Rose shot, Scheherazade when she realized her new friend’s betrayal, Lady Usher as she leapt upon her. And always fresh in her memory, the woman at the station as the train ripped through her.
Pearl, she realized. They’re all Pearl.
Rose couldn’t stay here any longer, couldn’t breathe any longer. Her lungs grew tighter as each part of her own plan fell into place. Another, new memory came to her— herself delivering the four items to the bear. But she had everything with her now. Was that still her? What part of herself had left her at the station?
“But will you do what I asked, maul the astronomer and turn my sister into a crow?” Rose that wasn’t herself pleaded.
The bear scoffed. “I’m not a murderer or some kind of crazy person. I just like honey.”
“I hate you.” She choked on a sob and bolted back into the forest.
Rose blinked. She was still at the camera shop. She was present. Was she? She didn’t know anymore. Pearl stared at her, her expression unreadable. Did she know what would happen from here?
Rose was thrust back into her other self’s body. She stood behind her older sister next to a raging river. She couldn’t help herself. She pushed, and Pearl tumbled into the rapid waters, swept up in the current within the blink of an eye. Rose didn’t move until she couldn’t feel the wind and rain against her skin anymore. The camera shop was back. Pearl faced the fiddle on the wall.
Rose turned away from her and dazedly walked through the rows and rows of cameras. God, she needed a drink. Or two. Or five. Guilt consumed her soul with every step. It wasn’t even her fault, really. Rose from the past was the one to blame. She was the one who needed to let the past die. But the denial didn’t last long. They were one in the same. She had to tell herself that her revenge quest was over, too.
In the corner of her vision, a camera caught her eye. Most of it was the usual metallic gray, but the body was pearlescent. Of course, thought Rose bitterly. I can’t ever leave her behind.
Pearl rang up her purchase without a word. Rose paid, unable to meet her gaze. She should apologize. Say she wished she knew why she thought vengeance was a good idea. But her memories were still fuzzy. She wouldn’t know how to explain. Maybe the Rose from another lifetime would, but all she could say was:
“The subway driver… Do you have his phone number?”
Pearl nudged the camera and her change towards her with a sigh. “Yes.”
Why had she even asked that? She only saw his face for a moment. For a split second, Rose wondered if the driver would be a part of this story too. Another cog in the machine that was her life. She pushed the dismal thought away. There were other people in her life besides the ones in Pearl’s— no, their— story. But maybe there wasn’t. How would she know?
Pearl gently took hold of her arm and neatly wrote down the phone number. The pen just barely pressed into her skin. After she finished, she put the pen down and gestured to the door behind Rose.
“See you soon,” she said. “And thanks for stopping by.” And then she disappeared into the back of the store. Rose stared at the exit for a while, hopelessly wishing she would come back and tell her more. If she knew what lay ahead, surely she could tell Rose how to avoid this ever happening again. Or how to carry this knowledge into the next lifetime. But instead of begging for answers, Rose left the shop with a brand new camera and the number of the subway driver written on her arm, the past dead and gone.