“When do you see Dr. Okafor again?”
“I have a checkup Monday.”
“And have you called your sister about getting tested to see if she’s a match?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it today.”
“Neevah,” he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I don’t care about whatever shit you and Terry have going on. She has the highest likelihood of being a match. You have to ask her.”
“Does this place have popcorn, too?” I stand to get away from the conversation. I’ve already decided I’ll call Terry. I don’t want to be nagged about it. I sound like a spoiled child, but between work and what my body’s been putting me through, I just want to turn off for a second.
“You’re hungry?” he asks. “I can cook something.”
I’m actually nauseous and cannot imagine food right now, but I nod so we can shift from the unpleasant task of begging my sister for a vital organ. He grabs the remote to turn off the video, but pauses, staring at the screen.
“Wait.” He pulls me to stand in front of him and links his arms around my middle, tucking his head into the crook of my shoulder. “Watch this.”
The onscreen image rolls into a different file. Digital, not film. It’s one of the musical numbers at the Savoy we recorded early on. Days, weeks in the making, relentless hours of hard work, and the scene comes and goes in a matter of minutes. Lucia’s meticulous attention to detail and her exacting demands are evident in every step. The dance is precisely executed, but there is a wild joy on my face, in the abandon of my limbs when I’m tossed and when I glide and when I kick and swing. The spirit of the Savoy inhabits every inch of the screen. The excellence and the pride and creativity that swept through Harlem and reverberated around the world—they’re all there. Even now, standing here in the circle of Canon’s arms, I’m an echo of those artists—their talent and persistence in the face of prejudice or war or poverty or any flaming darts the world threw at them. Instead of burning them to death, adversity lit a fire under them to make something the world had never seen. Innovating with their bodies and minds and voices. The chaos and necessity of imagination. And this is their legacy. I am their legacy.
Tears blur the beauty onscreen and I grip Canon’s forearms, sinking into the hardness of his chest.
“It’s fantastic,” I whisper, moved almost beyond words at the privilege of being in this film. “You’ve made something . . . Canon, this is so magnificent.”
“It is,” he agrees, excitement woven into the dark fabric of his voice. “You are. Everyone who sees this movie will see what I saw in you.” He turns me around to face him, his big hands resting at the curve of my hips.
“Which was what?” I ask, placing my palms flat against his chest.
“Light.” He cups my face, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I get it now—my mother’s fascination with light. She chased it for years, committing it to memory and film with every sunset. She taught me what to look for and when I saw it in you, I recognized it. I didn’t fully understand what it would mean for me, who you would be to me, but I saw that light and wanted it.” He nods to the screen. “I wanted it for Dessi Blue, and though I wouldn’t admit it, I wanted it for myself.”
“It was a crazy thing to do.” I chuckle, cupping the hard angle of his jaw. “Trusting some girl nobody knows with a movie this big.”
“I always know what I’m doing,” he says immodestly, grinning when I roll my eyes. “Enough about my brilliance. I mean, for now. We can revisit it later. Let’s get you some food.”
My stomach roils and I swallow another wave of nausea, but I smile and follow him back up the stairs.
We’re on our way to the kitchen when he stops and detours to a room through an archway down the hall. “Let me show you something.”
It’s a studio of sorts with a wide skylight, inviting light into every corner. A cushioned seat is built into one nook. The walls are filled, mere slivers of space separating the photos and shelves. Photographs of sunsets, ocean scenes, buildings, Canon at various ages, self-portraits of Remy Holt—her work takes up all the space on two walls. The other two walls hold shelves with more cameras than I’ve ever seen.
“Wow.” I walk over to inspect a vintage-looking Nikon. “This is some collection.”
“Hers,” he says, inspecting a selection of Polaroids showing Canon and his mother at the beach. “She was obsessed.”
I’m afraid to touch the cameras. It’s obvious they’re in excellent condition. They aren’t dusty, but shine and are neatly arranged.
“They still work?” I ask.
He picks up the Nikon and aims it at me. “Let’s see.”
The click of the camera startles me. “Canon! Don’t.”
One hand flies to my hair, covered by the silk scarf I slept in last night.
Lowering the camera, he offers a slight smile. “We don’t have any pictures together.”
“Is that true?”
“Someone may have snapped one of us on set or something, but I don’t have any.” He walks over to an old-fashioned camera on a stand. “Let me take a few.”