Last Flight Out. Jennifer Psy.D. Vaughn

look animalistic, wild, and so fucking intense it makes my head spin. Goddamn it, this sport kicked my ass then handed it back to me in a sling. I don’t want to, but I still love it with all my heart.

      No matter the shoot, no matter the day, I rely solely on instinct and seamless preparation so there are never technical glitches that pop up. I plan the entire shoot in my head, how I’ll have to make sure the shot is as sharp as possible, limit the light if I’m working for a clean black and white. The art of photography can be daunting to learn, so I’ve really tried to pave my own way. I take risks with my subjects, placing them in uncomfortable positions that may seem awkward but are guaranteed to churn out the most stunning results. I remind them that my lens works much like our retinas, registering an image as particles of light, which complete each other upside down. The camera’s inner wiring operates like our eye muscles do to flip the image right side up, fusing all those tiny particles of light to complete a picture. It is virtually the same way our brain processes what our eyes see to form a memory.

      By then they are staring at me, open-mouthed and dazed. Once I have thoroughly captivated them with the very entrancing process they usually stop the grumbling and contort to any level I ask.

      I prefer to fly solo when I take a job, no assistants on site. I also think it helps develop a certain level of trust between my subject and myself that might be lost when too many eyes are watching. As my reputation for exceptional work began to develop and I took on more high-profile clients I made a promise to myself to keep work entirely separate from my personal life. No dating clients, no heavy flirting on a shoot, or inappropriate nuances. My work is intense on its own merit. We work hard together, and while I might dig at my clients a little, I want them to leave feeling as if they gave me a glimpse of their souls and I treated them with respect.

      Melissa’s role is to stay put in New York with the busy work and we both like it that way. She’s a young single mother who needs the freedom to dart off midday and check on her son at daycare. She knows I’m meticulous about the details of my schedule, but not a total dick if he needs her, too. He’s a cute little guy, comes in sometimes to mess around with some of my pocket cameras. No father to speak of, asshole took off when he found out Melissa was planning to keep the kid. She never speaks of him, and I always make sure to spend a little bit of man time with the boy to show him all guys don’t suck.

      I box my equipment and walk it over to Melissa’s desk. She’s on the phone so I leave her a quick note with the shipping address in L.A. She already knows the drill, she’s done this a hundred times, so I give her a wave and head out of the office. My flight leaves early tomorrow morning out of JFK. I’ll hook up with the editor once I land, scope out our shoot location, and make sure my equipment is locked and loaded. Then I’ll head off to my hotel to chill, try to relax, maybe even hit the gym for a run if my legs haven’t been entirely cramped during the six-hour flight.

      Working out is still an important part of my life; you need a strong body to keep up in the world. I keep myself fairly well toned, but I’m not lugging around the bulk I needed on the field. Nevertheless, the old body isn’t getting any younger, and it’s endured more than it should have. It aches to high heaven whether I’m on a treadmill, or sipping a beer on my back porch.

      Experience has taught me that the hours leading up to an important shoot can be tense. I have developed a routine of sorts to settle the nerves; beginning with one glass of red wine which I will sip slowly to savor the warm feeling that spreads into my head. After that, I’ll pull out the one thing I refuse to travel without, my heating pad, and lie flat on the floor with the thing wrapped around my knee on high. One 800-milligram ibuprofen later, I will crawl up to the bed where my bones will let go and I’ll collapse into the soft mattress. No matter where my camera now takes me, I’m always just one step off the football field. Forever damaged by my own conceit, my body will never let me forget just how close I came. Sometimes, the memories hurt like a motherfucker with a rotten sense of humor.

      I head home to pack up a few things--some jeans, a decent-looking shirt and my favorite pair of Nikes. I bought them for my very first shoot, and wear them only when I’m working. My good luck charms that keep me grounded no matter who is sitting in front of my lens.

      Early to bed, and I surprise myself by sliding into sleep easily. Before the sun rises, I am up and in the shower, giving my knee a couple extra minutes under scalding hot water to loosen it up for the flight. I lock up my apartment, check my bag one last time and grab my cell phone and wallet. I glance down at the phone to make sure there are no new messages, then put it on vibrate and tuck it into the pocket of my coat. I switch off the lights and pull the door shut behind me.

      Here goes, I think to myself as I turn and walk down the steps to the street. I raise my right arm to hail a cab. As I climb in the driver catches my eye in his rear view mirror, offering no words but silently telling me he needs to know where I’m heading.

      “To JFK,” I tell him, but in my head, I’m thinking…to the biggest shoot of my entire career.

      We slide through mid-town traffic, starting then slowing again but overall making pretty good time.

      L.A. is waiting.

      Just a few more hours to go.

      Chapter 6: Ahmed

      The old stories came to me only because I asked. I wanted to know why I was the only child who didn’t have cousins, or two sets of grandparents. Why didn’t my mother’s family want to meet me? How was I half-Iraqi, but looked anything but? Why did my mother leave her home?

      Enough of her culture had seeped into my young brain by then to tell me I was living a very different sort of life. In spite of how my parents were raising me, with love and opportunity and generosity and kindness, I felt like a part of me was missing.

      After escaping her childhood home my mother spent only a brief time with the women who welcomed her into their underground world. After a couple days of rest and preparation, they handed her a small cardboard box that held travel documents and enough money to buy food and clothing. The rest, they told her, was up to her.

      During yet another dark night, the journey to her new life resumed. The women had arranged for her safe passage out of the country, but she needed to figure out how to get to her final destination. Hitching rides from kind strangers, and sleeping under the stars, she finally made her way to England, where she quickly enrolled in school. At night, she worked at a ground level pub along a quiet one-way street. The family who owned the place allowed her to sleep in the back room that was equipped with a bathroom and a small sink. They were kind and never asked questions my mother was not prepared to answer. They had a good idea that she was on the run from someone or something, but never pressured her to divulge her secrets.

      They had a son, who was a few years older than my mother and studying medicine at university. They often spoke of how proud they were of Easton and his brilliant mind. My mother listened politely at first to the glowing stories, but over time began to genuinely look forward to the tales they told of the fine stranger who seemed destined to spend his life saving others.

      By the time Christmas rolled around that year, my mother was fully engrossed in Easton and spent many hours dreaming of the moment he would arrive home for holiday break. The family had invited her to spend the holiday with them at their country home a few miles outside of the city. My mother had no car, so the husband decided he would help her close the pub early the evening before, then take her home with him. His friendly ways were unfamiliar to my mother, but she accepted this gracious invitation out of respect and curiosity.

      What was this Christmas all about? She wanted nothing more than to learn.

      Plans changed, however, when a last minute snowstorm blew in, canceling Easton’s trip home. Through their disappointment, the couple carried on with their plans, giving my mother her first glimpse at a tradition that celebrated light and promise and the sanctity of family. She spent several minutes carefully unwrapping what would be the very first gift ever given to her.

      It was a necklace on a gold chain with a tiny bird in flight. Its wings spread out, with sparkling diamonds at their tips. My mother told me she wore