Days have passed since I called Linda. Needing an escape, I drive toward the city and park, deciding to walk along the Golden Gate Bridge. A low fog hangs over the bay, with the sun barely peeking out from behind the clouds. The water is clear but choppy, crashing against the rocks as sea lions cavort nearby. I cup my palms together and blow into them, trying to ward off the chill. Tourists with cameras hanging off their necks bustle past me, pointing and snapping pictures of Alcatraz Island, situated in the middle of the frigid water. Raising my camera, I glance through the lens to see the prison as they do—a fortress that held some of the most notorious criminals of its time. Without taking a picture, I lower it and see it for what I believe it to be—a building that sits empty, with too many ghosts to tell the full tale of the lives that inhabited it.
“Excuse us,” a small Chinese man says in stilted English. “Would you mind taking our picture?” he asks, pointing to the large group standing behind him. A mix of young and old, clearly a family that has traveled together. The children are pushing one another while the men and women watch me expectantly, hoping I will capture this moment for them.
“Of course.” Taking his camera, I motion for them to stand closer together to fit in the frame. “A little bit more,” I say, glancing into the LCD panel. Behind them, the hills of Sausalito rise up, creating the perfect backdrop for their memento. I begin to snap the picture when a young girl, I would guess her to be eleven, starts to step away from the group. Only now I notice tears have streaked her face, and her lower lip is trembling. I lower the camera to motion her back in, but before I can say anything her mother wraps her arm around the young girl’s shoulder. Lowering her head, she speaks softly into the girl’s ear. In seconds, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, a smile and laughter fill the girl’s face. Nestling into her mother’s arms, she lights up for the camera, all her sadness gone with just a few words from the one she loves.
I arrive home after dinner. Since our argument, I have rarely been home, choosing to drive around for hours, taking pictures wherever I can. I have visited Dad a handful of times. Each time I enter the room, I expect to see him walking around, prepare myself for his reaction upon seeing me. But every time he still lies there, silent, and I leave, waiting until the next time.
“Sonya?” Mom calls out, though there is no one else she is expecting.
“Yes?” I drop my camera bag by the front door. Mom and I have reached an equilibrium. She does not demand to know my comings or goings or what time I will arrive home. For giving me the freedom of my own time, something I am used to, I offer her the security of my presence. They say there is a sixth sense a mother has regarding her children. If Mom has such intuition, she has never used it before. Now, however, it almost feels like she knew I was planning on leaving. Since I decided to stay, she seems happier, relieved.
“The hospital called . . .”
I flinch. Before she can say more, I whisper, my throat convulsing with the words, “Is he awake?”
“No.” She is matter of fact, devoid of any emotion. “You left your cell phone in the hospital room. The nurse called me to let me know.”
I glance back at my purse. It must have fallen out when I gathered my things. “Thanks. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” I start to walk away, toward my room, when she stops me.
“I didn’t realize you visited him,” she says softly.
I hear the question but don’t know how to answer. If anyone had told me I would choose to spend time with him, I would have laughed, assuring them they had no idea who I was. Now I wonder if I know who I really am. “That’s why you called me home, right? For me to be with him in his final days?”