“Are you okay?” I ask. With so much else to think about, I’ve forgotten about this.
But he dismisses any problem with the wave of his hand. “Fine. Fine. I saw your note,” he murmurs. Then he eyes my camera. “You still doing that?”
I don’t take offense, don’t even brace for an attack. I’m more confident now than I was back then, when I read attacks into most everything he said. Maybe, having discussed my connection to him now with Anne and Jack, I’m that little bit shielded from hurt. Whatever, he did raise me as his—gave me his name, a home, food, clothes, orthodontia, college. The least I can do by way of thanks is to indulge him his moods.
“Still doing it,” I confirm. “Professionally.” Perching on the edge of the second chaise, I turn on my camera and pull up the last shot I made. “I took this just now.” Shading the screen with my hand, I show him the shot.
He dips his head to see better. “It’s just a slipper shell.”
“But look at its coloring. The sweep of the design is stunning. Nature is a miracle. Isn’t that what you used to say?”
“Your mother was the one who said that.”
No. He said it. I remember clearly. He said it during beach lessons—or so we thought of them, since he piled in so much information—and he said it more than once. But I wasn’t about to argue with him. Here was one memory that worked either way.
I hold the image before him for another few seconds. When he rights his head, visibly unconvinced, I set the Nikon on the webbing behind me. “I do real estate photography. Brokers hire me whenthey put homes on the market. So much of the shopping experience is online now. The pictures have to be good.”
“You can’t make much money.”
“Enough to support us.” Mom left me money, though there’s no point in telling him that. I would give most anything to have her, not her money. But at least the bequest allows me to spend more time with Joy.
“Where do you live?” he asks in aplease-remind-meway.
“New York,” I say, then, because he seems relatively fresh and because I have an agenda, I add, “How’s Paul?”
“Paul?”
“Schuster.”
“He’s good.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Sure do. At the office.” The flick of a frown here. “Well, I used to.”
“Is he still practicing?”
He nods. “We’re a team, Paul and me.”
“Then he’s still around,” I say, just to be sure.
“Yes. Well,” he pauses, frowns, “maybe no. I don’t know.”
I want to ask whether Paul ever visits him, and if not, why not. “I’d love to say hi while I’m here. Is the office phone the same?”
He starts to speak, then stops and slips me an apologetic look that breaks my heart.
Gently, I say, “There’s medication, Dad. It can help your memory.”
But he’s waving a handnobefore I’m done. “No doctors. No pills.”
Frustrated, I try, “Research is—”
“No,” he insists and, dismissing the subject, lifts his head to a trio of gulls that are flying toward pickings on larger stretches of beach.
Anne is pregnant,I want to say.You’d have a grandchild growing up here. Don’t you want to be part of that?But this isn’t my news to share.
Following his gaze, I, too, watch the gulls. The beauty of theirflight soothes our moods. And it’s pleasant, sitting here with him, cushioned in the smell of the sea. I tell myself to be silent. Only there’s so much I want to know. And having him alone is an opportunity.
