When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards

      I was starstruck. I was sitting next to one of the best documentary filmmakers in the business. While I’ve never considered a similar career, I appreciate everything about the genre. Working next to Mick Bollard was as much of a draw as helping Cecilia face our past.

      He was somewhere in his early fifties, with a mop of graying brown hair that curled over his nape and the tops of his ears, along with raisin-dark eyes and a warm smile. He was dressed as casually as I was—faded jeans, buttoned shirt, a light windbreaker.

      He seemed to like what he saw, because his smile broadened. “I’m glad you’re coming along. I’m hoping you’ll answer some questions about Cecilia’s childhood.”

      “On or off camera?”

      “Up to you. It’s just that you seem to have lived through a lot of her foster-care experiences, too.”

      We were interrupted by a teenager who took the seat next to Mick. “I found the trail mix you like. The one with the cashews and apricots.” She turned to me, leaned over and extended her hand. “I’m Fiona Bollard.”

      “Fifi,” Mick said. “My lovely daughter. She’ll be traveling with us.”

      Fiona was about fifteen, but already self-possessed enough to have extended her hand and held my gaze. She was a pretty girl, with hair the dark brown her father’s must have been and the same lively eyes. Her face was longer, though, and her lips were a small, perfect bow.

      As if she was used to the next part, she explained her presence without being asked. “I’m homeschooled. Mick figures I’ll learn more on the road than I will in even the best private school.”

      I noted the use of her father’s first name and that Fiona had attributed that sentiment to him, not to herself. I wondered how she felt about missing the chance for social interplay with her contemporaries.

      Mick answered my unspoken question. “Fifi spends summers with her mom, and Glo gets her involved in all kinds of activities to make up for her gypsy life with me.”

      “He just needs somebody to carry equipment.”

      Mick slung his arm over his daughter’s shoulders. “Cheaper than another production assistant. You have children, don’t you, Robin?”

      As I nodded I thought about my two and wondered how they would like to have Fiona’s life. If a dose of it would give them her relaxed confidence, I would be happy to yank them out of school for a few months.

      We chatted a moment before another man approached. He was in his thirties, bearded and thin as a drinking straw. His hips were so narrow he had to be wearing suspenders under his sweatshirt, because I couldn’t imagine a belt that would hold up his jeans. Mick introduced him as Jerry, director of photography.

      “Which means that on this leg he’ll be doing everything that involves a video camera. Jerry’s one of the best in the business, and we’re honored to have him.”

      Jerry, who had a surprisingly deep voice, nodded to a group heading in our direction. “Looks like we’re about to start work.” As he spoke he flipped the locks on a wheeled case and pulled out a camera.

      I know how much technology has changed my own field and was prepared for the changes in cinema cameras, but this one was so much smaller than I’d expected. Thumbelina had replaced King Kong.

      There was no time to consider that further. The small group was attracting attention, and I saw that my sister was right in the middle of it.

      Cecilia was flanked by Donny and another larger man in a sport coat who hadn’t been with her at my house. A pale blonde pixie in her twenties followed behind with a wheeled suitcase, but Cecilia herself was toting a faux-leather bag large enough for a weekend of travel. She wore faded jeans ripped at the knee, like the ones we had scored at church rummage sales back in the day. In contrast, the sparkly four-inch heels and boho-chic embroidered cape hanging casually over her shoulders would never have graced a table at First Baptist.

      I started to move forward to greet her, but Mick was standing now, and he rested his hand on my arm.

      “You’re the photographer today, right? Not the foster sister?”

      “Sister,” I said automatically, and then chagrin filled me. “And of course you’re right. I need to get busy. This is going to take some getting used to.”

      “No doubt. And for my part? Sister. I hear you.” Mick left to greet Cecilia.

      As I grabbed my case and lifted out the best camera and lens to document this scene, more people recognized Cecilia and crowded in. I thought about Max Filstein and what he would say. Max is nearly always right, and this was turning out to be no exception. I probably wasn’t the best person for this job. Not only had I momentarily forgotten why I was here, but I hadn’t prepared my equipment. And even when I was organized and working on cue, could I be trusted to take the shots that were really needed? The ones that portrayed Cecilia in an unfavorable light? The ones where she was clearly tired, where she looked her full forty-two and then some? The ones where she exploded in anger or sobbed in despair?

      Right now, after too many years away from the career I had loved so well, I felt like a mute eight-year-old again, an unloved and unwanted child who had been given a camera by a compassionate therapist and asked to take photos of the most important moments and people in her life.

      Thirty years ago that camera, one of the first generation of disposables, had changed everything. Today I would take whatever photos were required. Because Cecilia and everything this trip represented were suddenly as important to me as almost anything I had ever done.

      And once again, I wanted to make myself heard.

      * * *

      Having a superstar on board doesn’t work magic with the airlines. We sat on the tarmac for more than an hour while rain pelted our plane and ground crews unloaded and reloaded cargo. We were never told why.

      Cecilia saw the delay as a public relations opportunity, and with the flight crew’s permission she went back into coach and shook hands with starstruck passengers, signed whatever they had handy, gave tips to three teens who had-rock star aspirations and serenaded an old man who swore he had every album she had ever made, including the vinyl of her debut album, Saint Cecilia.

      Jerry took footage of the visit to coach, and when I was granted permission I took photos and had subjects sign a model release app on my phone in case one was necessary later. I planned to make extensive notes about what was happening in today’s photos and those I took later, so I could pass them on to the writer if a book really materialized.

      None of it was easy for me. None of it seemed natural. I hoped that would change, because hesitation and second-guessing would affect my work.

      By the time the plane took off, Cecilia had made two hundred friends who would recount this meeting for weeks to come.

      “There are two kinds of performers,” she told me when she finally plopped back into her seat next to mine. I was sitting in first class, too, which I was pretty sure had more to do with being her sister than her photographer.

      “What kind are you?” I asked.

      “The kind who honestly likes her audience and wants to give them a thrill. The kind who hugs them tight when she can because life’s a bitch, and a little fun, a little glitter, makes it a lot easier. I have friends in the business who are so cushioned nobody gets close or feels close. They’re the performers who won’t let people take photos and Tweet during the show. And my God, video? YouTube scares them shitless. They never go into the audience to shake hands or chat. I drive security crazy, but I’d rather take a risk and be loved for it than be so safe nobody remembers my name.”

      “Everyone on this plane knows your name, that’s for sure.”

      “And so will their friends and their friends.”

      “That’s a pretty big piece of yourself you doled out back there.”