“But, honey, romance or not, there’s a reason why you’re both here. Together. Whenever things like that happen to me—sitting next to someone at a movie theater who knows exactly the person I need to talk to—well, there’s a reason. And a purpose.”
Synchronicity, reason, purpose—those words reminded me of my first phone call with Stesha: “Sometimes, you got to get out of your daily rut to get clarity about your life. That’s why a lot of people go on Dreamwalks.”
Safer territory, that’s what I needed. I gestured in the direction of the slumbering street. “Is everything okay with Ernesto?”
“Well,” Stesha began heavily, “the government mandates that you have a specially licensed tour guide to take you on the Inca Trail. Ruben can come, thankfully, but we like to have extra help for our guests. His second in command broke his foot in a soccer game yesterday.” Stesha frowned at the empty tea cart with so much desperation that the receptionist saw her and pantomimed that caffeine was coming. After a joyous “gracias!” Stesha plunked herself down on the sofa and patted the space next to her.
“So what does that mean?” I asked, lowering myself to her side.
“Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Grace. You know, I had asked you to keep her company. But now, even though we’ll have a guide and a few porters, they’ll all be busy. And… she’s not moving around as well as she did on our last trip together.”
I nodded even as I replayed my observations about Grace yesterday. “I can stay by her all the way. Well, at least for as much as she’ll let me. She seems pretty independent.”
“That’s all you can do.”
“Can I do anything else?”
“That’s helping a lot.” Stesha breathed out, releasing her tension.
“It’s pretty amazing that someone her age is going on this trek,” I said carefully, thinking about my neighbor Mrs. Harris, who couldn’t have been much older than Grace or Stesha, but an outing for her was a ten-step stroll to her porch.
“We can usually do a lot more than we think. Isn’t that how it works?” Stesha said, visibly relieved when the tea service arrived. I followed her to the serving cart. Instead of handing me a cup, she held my hand, her face softened with a bemused smile. “So forget about Quattro.” She shrugged, squeezing my hand tightly before letting go. “Figure out why you yourself are here.”
The van descended into a seascape of gritty brown clouds that looked like millions of sand grains magically suspended in air. The sight was so spectacular, it knocked me out of my regret that I didn’t even get to say good-bye to Quattro before we left the hotel and transported me right back to Stesha’s final advice this morning. I hadn’t even considered that there might be a reason outside of my father for me to be on this trek. I was already unpacking my camera. This shot alone could have been the reason.
“This,” Stesha said in a hushed voice from the front passenger seat, “is the Sacred Valley.”
“Can we pull over?” I asked eagerly, even though I heard the Gamers’ medley of impatient sighs. They were already irritated that we’d been late to load into the van this morning, and stopping now would only delay our reaching the trailhead, still an hour’s drive away. But when were any of us going to see this mirage of a floating beach ever again in our lives?
“I think so,” Stesha said, leaning over to Ernesto, who immediately pulled off to the side of the road. “Two minutes, okay? Ruben will be waiting for us.”
My parents followed me as I hopped out of the van. I quickly found an interesting angle and framed the shot. A breeze dragged the clouds down into the valley. Trees pierced through the clouds so they looked like stubborn sentries determined to remain on high alert. I got my photo, then on a whim, spun around to capture my parents, standing on the cliff edge as if they were planning to take flight. Dad was staring hard at this sandy veil as if he were memorizing it, Mom breathing in so deeply, she could have drawn every molecule of air inside herself.
“Look, Dad,” I said, as I pointed out the misty line where the clouds converged with clear air. “Do you see that?”
Dad flinched.
I mirrored his pained grimace. No matter how careful Mom and I were, our word choices themselves were unintentional land mines. “Look” and “see” had become the ticking bombs of reality.
But Dad recovered with his usual easy grin for me and agreed, “Beautiful.”
As he left my side for the van, I swallowed the lump of guilt in my throat. Why was this happening to my father? Our family? Only now that my parents were about to board the van did Hank lumber out with his camera. He said to me, “This looks like something that could be straight out of a game, doesn’t it? You know how much money I could make off of this?”