“We’re already climbing Rainier,” Dad said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s three months from now.…” Mom’s voice trailed off as each of us filled in the blank. It might be too late in three months. Her face brightened. “Machu Picchu.” Mom held up their frayed napkin of dreams, stained with age, and pointed at its primo spot at the top of the list. “We’ve always wanted to see Machu Picchu.”
“Reb said the trail passes have already been sold out for the season,” I murmured.
Dad latched on to the excuse. “See? This is so slapdash. It’d be a total waste of money.”
“So okay, maybe not Machu Picchu. What about Patagonia? Or Kili? Something’s got to be in season now.” Mom held the thick guidebook out to Dad, but when he didn’t take it, she opened it randomly. “Or a month from now. We have enough saved for three big trips. We could take each of the kids on one. Spend some quality time with each one alone.”
“I won’t do this,” Dad said firmly. “Not to you, not to the kids. I won’t be selfish.”
Selfish.
“The boys haven’t needed our money for years, and I’ll work full-time.…” Mom’s voice faded. We all knew Mom’s refusal to travel for work because she wanted to stay close to home had limited the projects she was offered since so many executives required on-site support for their keynote speeches. How could she travel when Dad would need her soon? She glanced at me like I might betray her again by sharing that thought. “Shana, why don’t you give your dad and me some privacy, okay?”
Unable to think or breathe, I was only too happy to leave my parents, as they began to talk about how Dad had had to take over the family business. And set aside his own college education. And then the twins arrived. And then unexpected me.
Selfish.
My heart tilted as I rounded the main stairs and stopped at the second set of narrower steps, which led to Dad’s attic office. As always, the treads were stacked with travel books that Mom collected from around the house for him to reshelve. Where other girls got bedtime stories, I got death-defying stories from memoirs filled with the epic adventures Dad had intended to have… before the diagnosis ground his dreams to dust.
Once in my bedroom, I banished the package to the corner, still unopened. I couldn’t bring myself to unpack the camera. How on earth could I possibly be a photographer when Dad had sacrificed that same dream career to take care of us?
The eggplant dark of early evening shrouded the room. I was glad for it. The presence of my new camera felt reproachful, but I didn’t know where to store it—my microscopic closet was already crammed with shoes, books, old art projects. Then I glanced at the hope chest and knew I’d found the perfect coffin. When I opened the lid, I caught the familiar whiff of cedar along with the expensive perfume Dom had given to me on our third-to-last date. I had tucked that bottle away along with every gift Dom had given me because they were too painful to see out in the open. As I nudged aside the boxes filled with other childhood mementos that Mom had saved, I touched the plastic container that held my first camera, bright red, inherited from Dad. My hand recoiled.
Selfish.
The night after the ophthalmologist confirmed that Dad was going blind, Mom had come into my bedroom to check on me. Sitting beside her on the bed, I asked, “Is Dad going to be okay?” Mom’s answer had been an emphatic “yes,” but she had worried her bottom lip.
Dad would never be okay if he didn’t take this chance to travel and photograph. I knew that. I lay down on my bed now, my eyes tearing. I was selfish to stand in his way. What was the worst thing that could happen to me? Repeat junior year because I bombed Chem?
Selfish.
My entire life of the best still lay in front of me; Dad had spent a life settling for second best because of us. Me.
Selfish.
I finally opened the package, labeled with my name, and withdrew the brand-new camera from its plastic bag. Once it was freed, I blew a speck of dust from its sleek black exterior. The weight of the camera felt right in my hands, but I knew which hands would appreciate it more. Which hands should have been documenting life. Which hands were empty now.
So I picked up the phone and dialed a number I knew by heart: Reb.
“Hey, are there still two spots left on your trip?” I asked.
“Oh, my gosh! Your parents actually want to go?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Then I’m pretty sure there’s room for them.” Reb continued in a breathless rush, “You have to go with them.”
“How? You said there were only two spots left.”
“There are. But if you’re okay helping Grandma Stesha out during the trek, I’ll ask her if you can take my place.”
“I can’t do that.”
“This is probably going to be the only time you’ll ever photograph Machu Picchu with your dad.”
My eyes overflowed with tears at her offer. I bit my lip. “I know.”
“So just say yes.”