“Why?” David fails to hide his shock.
Unwilling to give up control over me, Dad refused to allow me to move into my assigned room. “I don’t know,” I lie, not able to explain. I had begged my father to allow me to live in a hall, but he repeatedly refused me. Finally, I went to the dean of the school and explained my situation. A firm letter was sent to my house stating that unless I abided by the rules of the school, my admission would be reviewed. Unwilling to chance such a humiliation in front of his friends, he relented.
“Maybe he wasn’t ready to let his little girl go.” Grabbing his wallet from his back pocket, he opens it to reveal a photo of a young girl, maybe six years old. “As the father of one, I can imagine how hard it would be.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“I give my ex-wife credit for that.” He holds my gaze. “And you? Do you have any children?”
“No. I’ve never been married.” His question reminds me who I am. Who I will always be. “Not even a boyfriend.”
He tries to mask his disbelief, does not ask why. Likely the best conclusion he can come to is that my travels are to blame. I am a mistress to my photography. My viable excuse to every man who gets too close, who demands more. The darkness that is my companion leaves little room for the light of love.
“How old is she?” I ask, changing the subject.
He lights up. It was my childhood envy—watching fathers love their daughters.
“Five.” He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck. “Her name is Alexis. My ex and I have joint custody.”
“You’re very lucky.” The words aren’t perfunctory. The picture showed a beautiful girl with a smile that warms the heart. Children are my favorite to photograph. There is a beauty in childhood innocence.
“Where are you traveling to next?” he asks, tucking the wallet back into his pocket.
“I haven’t decided.” At his confusion, I attempt to explain, “I pick a place I’ve never been, and hope I find what I’m looking for.”
“Which is?”
Not answering his question immediately, I attempt to explain. “Two years ago, I spent time at a monastery in China. Lived with the monks, watched their daily life. Every day they woke at the same time, ate the same meal.” There was an odd comfort in the repetition. “Sitting side by side, they would meditate for hours.” Their faces held a contentment I rarely saw again. “But they were completely removed from the world.”
“Solitude?” He guesses, seeming surprised at the thought.
“They seemed happy,” I say, a note of defense in my voice. The square footage of the room starts to shrink. I have revealed too much, making myself vulnerable. I consider walking into the bathroom to my right and locking the door. A viselike grip encircles my throat. My father’s body lies still under the pristine white sheet. I had forgotten about him, but like a dark shadow he looms above me, always there, always watching. “I should let you get back to your patients.” Not waiting for him to leave, I do, knowing I will be back, because I have no choice.
I meet Trisha at a secluded park in the hills of Saratoga. It was a narrow drive on a one-lane road that circled the mountain before climbing toward the peak. There, overlooking the town and its neighbors, we find a patch of grass and settle in. Because it is the middle of the day, there are only a few hikers and some ambitious mothers with their toddlers in tow. Otherwise, we have the area to ourselves.
Welcoming the shade from a large tree, I lean against the trunk watching as Trisha unpacks a light lunch, laying it out on the plaid tablecloth as if we are readying to eat a five-course meal.