“Is that what you thought?” She seems surprised. “I asked you to come home because it had been long enough.”
“Not for me it wasn’t,” I admit quietly, shuttering my eyes when I see her recoil. “I’m sorry.”
“Then why did you come?” she asks, begging me for something she may not want to hear.
I pause, trying to find the words to explain to her why I made the decision. How do I tell her I almost didn’t come home? That I had ignored the message, even gone so far as to call Linda to set up an overseas assignment. But at the last minute I decided against it and booked a flight home. “To say good-bye,” I admit.
I start to leave the room when she asks me, barely a whisper, “To whom?”
I walk away without giving her an answer, leaving her to find her own.
When Linda calls me back, she does not sound happy. “I came up with three jobs. Three. None of them paying anything near what you are used to.”
“It’s a short-term thing Linda,” I assure her. “I just need something to stay busy while I’m here.”
“One is in San Francisco. The local zoo wants to do some damage control after one of their animals got loose and attacked a patron. Pictures of the pretty animals as they are being fed, bathed, etcetera. For a media campaign.” Linda is not a fan of zoos, flies, bugs, or anything related. I can hear the disgust in her voice and cannot help my smile.
“Sounds tempting.”
“Really?” She sighs. “The next one is in the vineyards north of you. Napa, Sonoma, etcetera. Another media campaign.”
“I’m surprised the wineries don’t have their own photographers.”
“It’s from the city councils. For a brochure to attract more tourists during the off season. Again, the pay is not so impressive.” I am sure her mind is already calculating the lost commission over the next few months and does not like the numbers. “The last one is at the local hospital. Stanford. They are looking for a photographer for a therapy-type project. Working with patients—sick ones.” An edge I have never heard before from her enters her voice. “When I put some feelers out through my contacts they responded immediately, but I told them you would not be interested. Last thing you need is to deal with other people’s tragedies when you have your own to handle.”
It is early evening. I can hear the crickets that are always chirping. The Stanford campus is still alive with students attending late classes. I wander near the library, dipping my feet into the fountain in front. Students are seated on the low concrete steps, earphones blaring with music while they study in the warm breeze.
Watching them, I envy their hopes and dreams. Their belief that anything is possible. That the future is theirs to determine, to create. They are invincible; they are sure. I don’t remember feeling like that ever. Even when I had hopes for the future, I knew my past would always walk alongside. My companion for a lifetime.
After letting the hours tick by, I finally drive back home under the guidance of the moon’s light. The house is quiet; I assume Mom went to bed hours ago. Feeling restless, I down a glass of warm milk and flip through the TV channels in my room but nothing catches my interest. Lying down, I toss in my bed, uncomfortable with the familiar surroundings. My thoughts wander to the discussion between Mom and me. To all the times I’ve visited him as he lies dying.