“True. I’m speaking of it in a larger sense.”
“The big album in the sky,” he said, clarifying.
“No,” I said, stifling a snort, “just that, like history, it’s ongoing. Just because the pictures stop doesn’t mean the story does.”
He was quiet, long enough that I wondered if we’d been cut off. Then he said, “You’re right. I guess we all have those invisible pages, so to speak.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Like, say, for you, there will be shotsfrom in college, you working on the paper there, thanks to all those hours working at Defender and every other place in town.”
I swore, I could hear him smile at this. “You think?”
“Sure,” I said. “And Bailey’s pictures will have her, like, running the Tides or something after college. And Trinity pushing her baby across a different campus, whenshegets back to school.”
“You’ve thought about this,” he observed.
“It just makes sense, right?” I said. “A life isn’t just the pages you know, it’s everything. We just can’t see what’s happened yet.”
Somewhere near him at the Station, there was a burst of laughter, loud and sudden. When it died down, he said, “Okay, then. What’s your picture?”
“Of what?”
“The future,” he replied. “What’s the rest of your story?”
I thought for a second. What did I see, or want to see, ahead? “Something having to do with this place,” I said finally. “Proof that it’s not over, that I’ll come back. That’s what I want.”
He was quiet again. But this time I could hear him, just there on the other end of the line. “Well, for what it’s worth, nobody here’s forgetting you.”
I felt my face flush. It wasn’t nobody I was worried about. “I hope you’re right,” I said. “Now, tell me more about this picture and that terrible kiss.”
Just as he was about to launch into the story, though, Iheard a knock on my door. I scooted aside so it could open and my dad stuck his head in. “Hey,” he said. “You busy?”
“Um,” I said, gesturing at the phone at my ear. “Kind of. What do you need?”
“Just thought we could take a walk,” he replied. “Five minutes?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
He gave me a thumbs-up, then shut the door again. Slightly stunned, I said, “My dad wants to take a walk.”
“So he’s talking to you now?”
“Apparently,” I said, still wary. “I wonder what he wants to discuss.”
“Talking is good either way,” he said. “But mark our place, okay? Up next is some good stuff, including but not limited to when your mom and my dad became obsessed with the California look and tried to lighten his hair.”
I couldn’t help it: I flipped ahead until I found a shot of Chris sitting in a chair, a towel around his neck and his head over the sink while my mom was shaking up a plastic bottle. I recognized a framed needlepoint by the sink that CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF: it was still in Mimi’s bathroom. “Was it bad?”
“Awful,” he told me. “You’ll love it. Bye, Saylor.”
“Bye,” I said. But even after he hung up, I kept my phone where it was for another second of connection between us. Then I put it down, turning back to the album.
I grabbed all the pages that were left, turning them all in one motion to the back cover opposite that final one. If therewas more room, how would this story go on?
In that moment, I hoped to see my dad and me together, side by side, talking. Beyond that, who knew. I closed the book and went to find him.
At first, it was awkward. So we started walking.
“I’ve been meaning to explore around here a bit,” my dad said as we left the front entrance of the Tides and started toward the main road. “I bet a lot has changed in nineteen years.”
