“I had to kill someone to get it, but please don’t tell.” He grabs two bottled waters from a miniature refrigerator, opens one, and hands it to me. “They frown on those types of things.”
“Picky, picky.” I take a deep swallow from the bottle. “Do they expect you to be perfect?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.” He chuckles as he takes a bite of his food.
We eat in comfortable silence, both happy to fill our stomachs. He passes me an extra fork when my plastic one breaks, and I offer him one of my paper napkins when his falls to the ground. Finally sated, we finish off our water and gather the trash. “That was nice, thank you.”
“You paid, so thank you,” he says.
He takes the trash from my hand, our fingers touching. I’m the first to pull away. I glance at my watch, an excuse to break eye contact. “I’d better get going.”
“The children will be eating right now,” he murmurs, glancing at his own watch. “We still have a few minutes.” He motions for me to retake my seat. Unable to come up with an excuse to refuse, I sit down. “Have I told you how thrilled I am you took the job?”
“Only a few dozen times,” I say, “but don’t let that stop you.” On a more serious note I say, “It’s been more fun than I thought.”
“Working with sick children?” He gazes at me questioningly.
“They find joy in the simplest things,” I say, trying to verbalize my feelings. “We forget that as adults.” There’s something in his look but I can’t quite make it out. Almost as if I have passed a test, as if he were waiting for me to say the right words but I did better. It pleases me while at the same time makes me want to run. The dichotomy of my life—want what I can never have, reject it because I am too afraid.
“They didn’t choose this fight,” he says, “so they try to remember what it was like when they weren’t losing.”
That makes sense. How many times did I yearn for normality in my childhood, only to have the expectation shattered when faced with my father? My needs became secondary to his, so much so that in time I forgot what I ever wanted. “What made you want to be a doctor?”
“Both my parents were,” he shares. “I grew up in hospitals, around their friends—all of whom were doctors, by the way.” He smiles easily. “I never knew anything else.”
It’s hard for me to imagine being so confident about your life at such a young age. To know that you belong. “You’re lucky,” I say sincerely. “Not everyone has such a clear vision.”
“You didn’t.” It’s not a question.
“No.” I struggle not to reveal too much. “Growing up—there were more questions than answers.”
“You were supposed to go to law school.”
I tense, forgetting I had told him that. I start to shake my head, to tell him that, no, there was no conflict, no scars to hide, but he interrupts me before I can say anything.
“The world is very lucky you chose photography instead. You have a true gift.”
“I think it chose me.” I never imagined the joy I would get from taking pictures. From memorializing events and places with a snap of a camera. When I see the pictures I’ve taken, I stare at them in wonder, amazed at the beauty that has been captured forever. “I had no choice but to say yes.” Seeing the numerous awards David has won and the honors bestowed on him, I walk over, running my hands over the crystal accolades. “But I don’t save lives. Make people whole again. That’s the real gift.”