“Is it?”
“Absolutely. You have a successful business. No one told you to do that. And now a child?”
“But it’s scary. Were you scared?”
“Terrified. But you can do it, Anne, I know you can. And youwon’tbe alone.”
Her eyes fill with a different doubt. “Would you really help? I mean, especially if we’re only half-sisters? I’m sorry, but I’m really struggling with that. What if you have a whole other family? What if there’s some man out there who knows you’re his daughter and who’s been watching you all these years?”
“Without saying a word?”
“Maybe, for some reason, he can’t.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” I suggest as I often have when my mind jumps on this train.
“But if it’s Roberto, there’s Danny and Tina—”
“—neither of whom have ever approached me about being related.”
“What if they don’t know? What if it’s someone else entirely, someone rich and wonderful and just waiting for the right time?” Her voice suggests a fairy tale shade, but I’m more realistic than that.
“What if it’s a one-night stand whose name Mom wouldn’t even remember, especially if she was tipsy,” I counter, “and since Momdidn’t usually drink, one martini could have done it, and we both know she and Dad were unhappy. I’ve considered the angles, Annie. I’ve wondered for years. Part of me always wanted it, because it would explain why Dad treated me differently. It would be the reason I was always wrong in his eyes—the reason why I was always standing at the very edge of the family photos, hiding from him in the shadow of Mom.”
She looks surprised, like she hadn’t remembered it that way. “Were you? Always?”
“Just look at those photos.”
“That’s sosad.”
“But I have a good life. I’ve made it a good one.”
“Still.”
“No.There’s a theoretical life. And there’s a real one. You’re my real one.”
Anne looks like she might cry. “But you’re happy in New York. How can you help me if you’re there?”
“I can be back and forth,” I say, because I would want to help her raise a baby. Half-sister or not, yes, I would—though as soon as the words are out, I feel a qualm. I avoided Bay Bluff for twenty years. Do I seriously want to commit to regular trips back? One thing I do know. “Joy will be beside herself.”
Anne gasps. “Omigod. Don’t tell her yet. And don’t tell Margo. Andwhateveryou do, do not tell Dad.” As soon as I raise a hand in pledge, she asks, “About Dad? Will you watch him tomorrow morning? Lina isn’t in on Sundays, so I always worry when I have to leave, but Sundays are big at the shop. If I leave early with Joy, will you walk him down for breakfast?”
That’s the plan. I’m not sure whether Joy is woken by excitement or the alarm on her phone, but she is already dressed when I crack open an eye. After she kisses me goodbye and leaves the room, I try to go back to sleep. But my mind has jump-started and is racing on a trackcrammed with thoughts. Jack, my parentage, new info on Elizabeth, Anne pregnant—had I expected any of this when I left New York? No. But here it is.
Craving a little immersion in what has always steadied me, I pull on my Bay Bluff sweatshirt, grab my Nikon, and, with no sign Dad is up yet, I go to the beach. I do leave a note on the kitchen table, though whether he’ll notice it or even be able to read it is up for grabs. I would be safer waiting for him inside. But my memories are vivid. The beach at dawn is too special to miss.
Sunrise is different from sunset, a crescendo in the day’s symphony, rather than its denouement, and our eastern exposure is prime. I’m not discouraged by narrow strips of clouds between me and the sun. Their purples and pinks are dramatic.
While the ocean gently gathers, rolls, and retreats, I photograph the scene in thirds—beach, water, and sky—then in simple halves of sky and waves. Avoiding the two boats, which introduce elements I don’t want, I stretch out on my stomach on the dewy dock and, putting the camera on the wood, photograph its narrowing arm reaching into the brightening horizon.
Sunrise comes fast. I’m always amazed at that, but then, when I’m engrossed, I lose track of time.
Elbows on the wood, I turn my head the smallest bit. East-facing windows on the Sabathian house reflect the rising sun. Ours must be, too. But Jack isn’t in our house. He’s in his, likely in bed.
Unable to resist, I take a picture, just one, though whether it will bring pleasure or pain once I’m back in New York is up for grabs.
Back on the beach, I shoot the wrack line with its new offerings, singling out several shells and a length of kelp. The light has blossomed into a fragile yellow when I see my father making his cautious way down the stairs. He looks typically Tom Aldiss, meaning too formal in his button-down and khakis. His silver hair, though thinner than it used to be, barely blows. For each normal step hetakes, on the next he places one shoe first, then the other beside it, like a very young child.
Straightening from the surf, I smile and wave. He doesn’t smile, but he does lift his cast in greeting. We meet at the bottom of the stairs, where he promptly heads for one of the beach chairs. Sinking into it, he is winded.
