It may have been an accident at first, but it sure wasn't an accident the second time. His great-grandpa's old camera had been neglected for so long in the attic that Carter had not even been sure it still would work, but a careful restoration brought it back into pristine condition, itching to be used again.
Carter had set up shop in his living room, cajoling his mother into sitting still on the couch so he could take her picture. The photograph that came out was of his mother, all right, but there was someone else there, too. His great-grandpa, original owner of the camera. He sat on the couch beside Carter's mother, legs stretched out in front of him and arms crossed, smiling. The image was not clear enough to have an idea of what he was wearing, but Carter's mom was sure that's who it was. They stuck it on the fridge and tried again. This time, grandpa was in the background, examining the refrigerator, while Carter's mom sat straight-backed in anticipation.
"He's here!" she said when the picture came out a few hours later. Carter couldn't tell if she was excited or petrified. As for him, he shrugged it off. The guy wasn't being noisy or upsetting his life, so it was fine by him if the ghost wanted to hang out in the house. No sweat.
He told his girlfriend about the incident, and it spread from there until he found himself gaining a reputation as a "spirit photographer," the go-to guy when you wanted to see what the dead were up to. Chances were about 20% that a ghost would be in your picture, then another 75% that you would recognize that ghost as a deceased relative or friend. It freaked some people out, but it gave others peace of mind. One older lady had wanted to use the picture as her husband's obituary photo, claiming it as the most recent picture of the fellow and saying it would give hope to the other people reading the section. "They are not gone," was the first sentence of the obit. He felt pretty bad for the dead guy, because for that shoot the woman had dragged him out to a nearby lake because she was sure that's where his ghost would be. Sure enough, the guy was fishing. Or pretending to, anyway. Carter didn't pretend to understand anything these people did.
He was getting so used to this business that he didn't even blink when a man called him to ask for a portrait so he could see his wife, who had been dead for six years. They picked a time and day, and next thing he knew, Carter was pulling into a driveway in a suburb. The sprinklers were on outside and the green front door had "Welcome" printed on it in orange lettering. He knocked.
A man in his mid-thirties answered the door, wearing a tweed suit and holding a hardbound book. Carter introduced himself and was immediately ushered in. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to make contact with her?" the man started saying, offering him a seat on a couch and spinning a wooden chair around to sit on it backward. "I promised her before she died that I would keep tabs on her as best I could, but it's terribly difficult. Last I heard was in the shower a couple weeks ago, when I could tell she was nearby. But that doesn't tell me squat. I want to know how she's holding up. So when I heard about you--"
Carter nodded, smiling. "It's only natural to want to make sure your wife is doing well. Where do you want me to set up?" he gestured to the box he was carrying, which contained his photography equipment.
"Oh, here's fine. I know she stays in the house most of the time, and she knows you're coming. Probably been primping herself all morning, knowing her."
The man watched Carter set up his equipment, making small talk. Then he held still while the picture was being taken and thanked Carter on his way out the door again. Carter was not fond of hanging around in strange houses. He made it a point to be about his business and understay his welcome every time.
A week later, he returned to give the man the finished photograph.
The man couldn't take his eyes off it. Normally, seeing the photograph was the moment when someone started to cry, or at least to smile faintly. But no, the man was looking concerned.
"What's the matter? Is that not your wife?"
"No, that's her." The woman sat at the feet of the man in the tweed suit who sat in a chair, hands on his knees and gazing up at him lovingly. She was wearing a tank top and sweat pants and she was barefoot. Such a look should have made any devoted husband happy. The man swallowed before adding, "She's pregnant."
Carter glanced again at the photograph. "Looks that way," he said before turning to head out the front door, check in hand.
"She wasn't pregnant when she died."
"Huh."
"She was on the pill."
Carter made an interested noise that was only partially true.
"Has this ever happened before?"
Carter paused, hand on the doorknob, and thought. "No, now that you mention it. This is the first time I have seen a pregnant ghost."
"Come back here and look at this again, please." He sighed and went back to stand beside the man, who was bracing himself against the counter, the photograph lying on the granite surface. His next sentence took a couple tries to get out. "Do you think the baby is mine?"
"How far along do you think she is? If you want me to come back in nine months so we can take a look, I'll be glad to do so. By then, the baby should be born, assuming a nine-month gestation period, and possibly old enough to look like you or not."
The man moved to sit down again in the chair. "Margaret?" he said, glancing around the room. He looked at Carter, who shrugged. After a pause, the man took in a deep breath and asked Carter if he had his camera in the car. Then he asked for another photograph.
Carter jogged out to his car, returning with the box to find the man sitting on the chair again, eyes closed and forehead damp. His shirt collar was loosened. Hearing the photographer return, he opened his eyes and nodded. "Ready when you are."
"Right here again?"
"Right here again."
He returned again a week later with the new photograph. In this one, the woman was sitting on the floor directly in front of the man, cross-legged and looking at the camera. She was still in the tank top and sweats.
The man examined the photograph and let out a breath that had probably been withheld for the entire week. "It's mine," he said.
"How can you tell?"
"I told her to look at the camera if it was mine."
Carter would have chosen something other than looking at the camera, because the picture was on the freaky side.
"Now what do I do?"
Carter didn't say anything. He started examining the living room, wishing he could leave but still waiting for his check. There was a canvas print of the man with his wife that had evidently been taken prior to her death. She was a trim woman, with an easy smile and careful hair. The man looked much the same, dressed in a comfortable-looking button-down shirt, collar loosened, and black slacks.
He considered asking the man what he had been dreaming about say, a couple months ago, but he didn't want to intrude on the man's sex life. He already knew enough, thank you very much.
He received his check and soon found himself making a monthly visit to the man's house so they could track the pregnancy. Each time he went, the man had bought some new piece of furniture or painted a room, doing what he could to prepare for a baby he wasn't sure was going to be alive. When Carter suggested the baby probably wouldn't need a gate to keep it from falling down the stairs, the man said, "Do you have any idea how terribly difficult it is to raise a child? A human child is hard enough! But think of Margaret giving birth when she is in this condition! As many ghosts as you see every day, Mr. Hall, I assure you that a pregnant ghost is not normal!"
After that, Carter went back to keeping his thoughts to himself.
A few months later, he got a phone call in the middle of the night. "It's coming!"
"The end?"
"The baby!"
"How can you tell?" he kneaded his eyes with his left hand.
"Margaret told me!"
"I thought she couldn't talk to you."
"Just get over here."
Carter rolled out of bed, stretched, and yawned his way to his car. The man's house, when he got there, was completely lit up. Classical music drifted out the front door. The man sat in his accustomed chair, facing a couch and coaching the air. It was undoubtedly too early for this sort of thing.
"Get me some water from the kitchen," the man said without looking up as Carter let himself in the open front door.
He filled up a glass and silently handed it to the man, who shook his head and returned it. "In a bowl."
So he scavenged through the cupboards to find a bowl, listening to the man tell his deceased wife that she should keep breathing, reminding her that he wasn't going anywhere, that they were in this together.
He brought the bowl over along with a rag. "How is she doing?"
"Oh, she's hanging in there like a champ. I love you so much, darling. Almost there!"
The man tilted his head to the side for a moment, then yelled, "PUSH!" He reached beneath his chair to retrieve a blanket, thrusting it at Carter. "Keep breathing, baby."
Carter sat on the floor, holding the blanket, watching this man assure the couch that she was a fabulous woman, that everything was going fine. He decided against bringing up the idea of possible complications that would normally result in a C-section.
It was 5 a.m., still pitch black outside, when the man moved to sit on the couch beside the area where Carter presumed Margaret was sitting. He was smiling broadly. After a moment, he whispered for Carter to get his camera.
A week later, he brought the man the photograph. He looked like the only source of life in the otherwise empty home, but in the picture, a happy man was sitting on a couch, arm splayed out to surround the shoulders of a tired-looking woman who was holding a naked baby girl.
The man thanked Carter for his services, asked him to come again in another month, and said they were going to call the baby Janice.
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