Just A Moment In Time

Will the unspoken attraction between Fern and Tom be enduring, like her photograph, or fleeting like the mayfly?

By Julie Cohen

She’s thirteen years old, lying in the grass in the park, as the noise of her brother’s football game goes on in the distance. Fern points her mother’s borrowed Polaroid at the slender insect perched on a leaf.

“Whatcha doing?” A body flops down on the grass beside her, and when Fern looks up, she has to catch her breath.

Tom Snow is the most beautiful boy in their school. He has soft blond hair, bright blue eyes, a smile that lights up everything. He’s 17 years old and he’s her big brother David’s best friend.

She’s been in love with him since she was 10. Which means, for Fern, that she doesn’t dare speak with him. She’s always been shy, the only quiet one in her boisterous, athletic family.

“Do you like insects?” he asks her, and she gathers up her courage to speak.

“It’s a mayfly,” she tells him, softly. “They only live for a single day.”

“Really? Only one day?” He leans closer and she can smell his hair.

She nods, her heart hammering. “One day to meet a mate, before they die.” “Nothing’s permanent, huh?” The mayfly flutters its gossamer wings and flies off.

“Oh no!” Tom jumps to his feet. She watches him: loping grace, hair catching the sun. He catches something mid-air and comes back, smiling.

“I caught it for you,” he says, and opens his hands. The mayfly sits, delicate and unharmed, on the centre of his palm. “Thank you.” “Go ahead – take a picture if you want to, before it gets away again.”

She points the camera at his hand, looking through the viewfinder to centre the image. Click; an instant photo comes out, grey-green and already beginning to show a ghost of an image.

The mayfly flies away. This time, they let it go. It’s only got today, after all.

Instead, they turn their attention to the photograph developing itself in front of them. Tan palm, crossed with lines, and in the centre, a lacy insect.

“That’s cool,” he says. “You like taking pictures?”

“I want to be a photographer some day.” She’s never said this to anyone before, because no one in her family has anything to do with art.

“Hey, Tom!” calls David. “You playing or what?”

“Coming!” He runs off, leaving her with the photograph, which she’ll tape to her bedroom wall to remember their golden moments that afternoon, when the boy she loved caught nature in his hands for her.

She’s 20 years old and it’s David’s wedding. His girlfriend – no, his wife – Candace is a sweetheart, as active and happy as David always is, and since she doesn’t have a sister, only brothers, she’s made Fern her maid of honour.

Fern has a long blue dress and flowers in her hair, and she’s standing at the side of the dance floor watching David and Candace have their first dance as man and wife.

They’re a perfect couple. Fern wonders if she’ll ever find love like that.

“Us next?” says a voice by her ear, and she doesn’t have to look around to know it’s Tom. He’s best man, though David and Candace have kept them so busy with wedding preparations that she’s hardly had the chance to speak with him.

He’s been away to university, and then working in London, and he’s even more beautiful than he used to be. He’s filled out, grown into his height. And he’s cut his hair, though it still curls a bit.

He looks ridiculously handsome in his tuxedo, like the hero of a romantic film. Every time Fern looks at him, she has this yearning in her stomach and her heart flutters with fear.

“You will dance with me, won’t you?” he asks her, smiling. “I’m not a very good dancer.” “I’m not either. I think it’s required of us, as best man and maid of honour.”

The song ends, the next begins. He leads her out on the dance floor and puts one hand on her waist, the other holding hers. And then she’s dancing with Tom

Snow. Lights from the mirror ball dance around them like glowing insects.

Fern wishes she’d had more champagne to drink. She wishes she were anywhere else but here. She wishes this would never end. “David says you’re studying photography at uni,” Tom says. They’re incredibly close. He smells wonderful, like some sort of grassy aftershave.

“Yes, I’ve got a year left.”

“That’s amazing. I remember you with that Polaroid, taking pictures of bugs.”

She still has the image of the mayfly on his hand, in a box of precious things.

“I like Polaroids still. I like their spontaneity. I’m doing my final exhibition with them.”

“Oh?” he says, and with a flash of awe she realises that Tom Snow isn’t faking, Tom Snow isn’t being polite. Tom Snow is interested in what she has to say.

They finish that dance, and then they dance another, talking about her pictures, his job, David, books they’ve read, music they like, and then he asks her if she wants another glass of champagne, and she says yes, and the next thing she knows they’re standing outside under the stars.

“Why haven’t we ever talked before?” he asks her. “Because I’m scared to death of you.” The champagne makes her honest. “Why?” “You’re so beautiful.” “You’re beautiful,” he says, and he dips his head and kisses her.

She kisses him back, and has to hold on to the lapels of his jacket because she feels like she’s spinning, weak, about to fall. At the same time she feels as if this is the most solid, the most real, she’s ever been.

The kiss lasts forever, the stars above them, the noise of the wedding reception so far away. And then he leans his forehead against hers.

“Why’d this have to happen tonight?” he asks, a little breathless. “Because weddings are romantic?” “No – I mean why tonight?” He straightens, though he keeps his arms around her waist. “I’m going to Australia tomorrow.” Something sinks in her. “For a holiday?” “No. For a job. Permanently.” “Oh.” She bites her lip. Looks down. “Come with me,” he says. “You can find a job out there too. I know… I know this is new between us, but we could see

“WHY did this have to HAPPEN TONIGHT?” he asks, BREATHLESS

where it leads. I really like you, Fern.” It isn’t new to Fern. “I can’t come,” she says. “I’ve got another year of my degree.”

“Yeah, of course.” He lets her go. “It was a stupid idea. Forget I said anything.” “It wasn’t stupid, it’s just –” Her brother appears, flushed and happy. “So that’s where you’ve got to. Come on, you need to dance with us.”

He grabs both of their hands to pull them inside. Tom shrugs at her… and just like that, the moment is lost.

She’s 46 years old, and it’s her brother’s fiftieth birthday party, and as soon as she walks into the marquee, she sees Tom. He’s laughing with David and Candace.

Australia’s been kind to him. He’s lean, tanned, well-dressed. He’s got some grey in his hair, but it just makes his eyes bluer. She sees his posts on Facebook sometimes: he’s successful, active, always biking, diving, taking nature hikes. He’s been married and divorced. She’s left comments on his posts, then deleted them.

She’s still got that Polaroid she took when they were teenagers. Sometimes she looks at the photograph and thinks about the lines on Tom’s palm. Life line, love line… does either include her?

Or is she like the mayfly: just something that touched him once, and was gone?

He spots her, raises his hand in greeting and makes his way over to her.

“Fern!” he says, and kisses both her cheeks. He still smells the same as she remembers. “I was hoping I’d see you.”

“I didn’t think you’d fly all the way over from Australia.”

“I’ve moved back to England. I wanted a change of scene, after Mel and I split.”

“I heard about that. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

“It wasn’t – I mean, Mel’s a great person. But she wasn’t the right one.”

Something about the way he says that makes her cheeks flush.

“But what about you?” he says, grabbing her a glass of wine from a passing tray. “David’s been catching me up. So exciting! Exhibitions in London, New York…”

“It’s been a lot of hard work. And a lot of juggling.”

“I always knew you’d make a success of it. Ever since that day in the park, taking Polaroids of bugs. You’ve always had a passion.” He meets her eyes, looks away. “Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if –” “Fern!” She turns and there’s Nicholas, with the girls. Annie sees her cousin Halle across the marquee and goes, with a typical teenager’s slouch; Caro still hangs on to her father’s hand. She’s shy, like Fern was at that age. Like Fern still is, though she lets her photographs speak for her these days.

“Tom, this is my husband Nicholas, and our daughters, Annie and Caroline.”

“Great to meet you,” says Tom, holding out his hand to Nicholas, and surely Fern imagines the flash of disappointment that crosses Tom’s face.

She’s 60. It’s her brother David’s funeral. Fern is sitting alone, at the end of the second pew. Her sister-in-law Candace has their two grown-up children and their spouses with her, all crowded into a pew at the front.

Fern’s own children aren’t here. Annie’s at home in Scotland with a newborn and a toddler; Caro’s in the Arctic, measuring glaciers.

Since Nicholas died and the girls moved away, Fern’s got used to being alone. She can’t say she likes it. But she has her photographs, and the memories. Someone slides in next to her. Tom Snow is still beautiful to her, at 64. His hair is nearly all white, and he’s sad, but the sadness echoes her own. Without any words, he takes her hand in his. He holds it through the whole service.

Afterwards, in the receiving line, he stands slightly behind her, again saying nothing. But she knows he’s there, steady and watching out for her, and it makes it easier for her to talk to people.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, finally, when the mourners have dispersed to go to the wake at a nearby hotel. By mutual accord, they walk together along a quiet path through the churchyard.

“I’m sorry too,” she says. “And thanks. It’s good to see you.”

He nods. “We only seem to meet up like this. For David’s sake.” “He liked bringing people together.” “I wish we’d met up for our sake, too.” “Yes.” They walk in silence. Funny how she always used to be scared to talk with him, yet silence between them is somehow a comfort. Even after all these years, their separate lives.

“I wanted to call you when your husband died,” he says. “But it never seemed to be the right time.”

“It’s never been the right time for us,” she says. “Bad luck, I guess.”

“It could be the right time now,” he says. “Maybe.”

She reaches over and takes Tom’s hand. It’s the same hand that she photographed, so long ago, holding an insect that only lived for one day.

Nothing is permanent. But this connection between them, however delicate, has lasted nearly her entire life.

“Maybe it could be,” she says.

“Sometimes I WONDER about what might have HAPPENED if…”