I gaped at him, thinking of the photos in her box, of the gap in time and how much sharper and more beautiful the pictures had been when she’d started up again. Of course. She had taken them with the Leica.
My father handed it back to me and I took it from him carefully, as if it were a priceless vase or a newborn chick. “It’s yours if you want it,” he said. Then he added, “I mean, I know there are restrictions and all, but it was your mother’s. Maybe you could just keep it as a souvenir and not actually use it.”
Finally, I found my voice. “Are you sure? Lark said it’s pretty valuable. You could probably sell it for a thousand dollars, maybe more.”
He shrugged. “It’s not mine to sell.”
I thanked him, but a strange sadness filled me as I imagined taking it back to Lancaster County where it would cease to be useful to anyone. My mother had loved this camera. She had loved what it could do to a snippet of time and light.
When I got to Lark’s, we headed to a neighborhood park a few blocks over, looking like two good friends out for a stroll in the generous California sun. But there was uneasiness between us.
“Did your dad get home okay?”
“He did. Thanks.”
We took a few more steps in silence.
“You came to say goodbye, didn’t you?”
“I came to say thank you.”
She cracked a weak smile. “And then goodbye.”
I felt bad for her, remembering how kind she had been since the night we met. As I glanced at her there beside me, I realized afresh how much she had helped me sort things out while I was here, and not just with Dad and Brady. With her kiss she had, unknowingly, shown me how much I loved Rachel and yearned for the life that awaited me back home. “Yes,” I said. “I’m leaving Sunday night.”
She shook her head and laughed lightly. “Just like that.”
“No.”
Lark looked at me. “What do you mean? If you’re leaving, you’re leaving.”
“Lark—”
“Is it because I kissed you? Is it because I told you how I felt about you?” Her voice was tight with disappointment. “’Cause we can go back to being just friends for now, if you want.”
I shook my head, wishing she could understand. “It’s because that’s my home. It’s where I want to be, where I’m supposed to be.”
“You’re choosing Rachel over any kind of life here.”
“I’m choosing to be Amish, Lark. That’s who I am. That’s the life I am suited for.”
She was silent for a few moments. A runner jogged past us.
“You didn’t even give living here a chance. And this thing with your brother? You’re just going to take off with him so mad at you? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“A lot has happened in the last couple of days. Brady and I finally talked. My dad and I finally talked. We understand each other now. And they understand why I need to go back. I finally understand why I need to go back.”
She said nothing.
“Do you remember when I first met with you and I told you how I came to be raised by my grandparents? You said it was crazy how I ended up with them.”
“I didn’t say that.” She frowned.
I smiled. “You did. I told you my dad made it my decision on whether or not to stay with my Amish grandparents and you said, ‘Wow. That’s crazy.’ ”
I glanced at her, seeing that her cheeks had turned a faint but rosy pink.
“No, it’s okay,” I assured her. “You said I belonged with my father, and you were right. Kids do belong with their parents. Most of the time, that’s the best place for them to be. But when my mother died, my dad faced a decision no dad is prepared to make. Maybe what he did wasn’t the wisest choice or even what my mother would have wanted him to do, but God brought good out of that decision, Lark. That’s what He does. He can take even our most misinformed choices and make good out of them. And I can’t help thinking that whatever desirable qualities you see in me were born out of the way I was raised. I was raised Amish.”
“But you don’t have to stay Amish.”
We had reached the park. I motioned to a bench in a sunny alcove by a bed of still-blooming impatiens.
“You’re right,” I said as we both sat down. “That’s the very thing I didn’t realize until I came here. I thought I had to discover who I was. But who I am is not something I need to discover. Who I am is something, with God’s guidance, I decide. Just like you will decide who you will be.”
“But what about your family here? What about the life you could have here?”
I knew that there was more to her question than that. What she was really wondering was if I’d stopped to consider what part she might play in my life if I stayed.