This morning, a note on the board that Paige didn’t get to catches my eye. Second Chance, it says, and I think I know what it means.
When we were little, my dad used to walk me and Sam down to the harbor on Sundays, and we’d “pick out” our boats. My dad went for the fishing boats, planning his retirement as a fisherman out loud. Sam always chose the biggest, flashiest boats that belonged to wealthy summer tourists. But my favorite boat in the harbor was a beat-up old sailboat called Second Chance—mainly because it looked like it was waiting for one. The once-white paint on the hull was dingy and peeling away, covered in barnacles below the waterline, and the faded wood of the cabin was almost as bad. It was cracked and rotted in places after years of exposure to the salt, and sun, and weather, and the canvas covers on the boom had practically disintegrated. I used to imagine how it would look if someone actually did give it a second chance, and what it would be like to sail out of the harbor and into the wind and the open ocean, on some grand adventure.
Later, when I got my camera, one of my favorite places to shoot was the harbor, with all its sights and sounds, and water and sunlight. I’d take shots of the sea lions lounging on the buoys; the tall masts of the sailboats, silhouetted against the bright blue sky; the sun setting over the bay, boats on the horizon. But what I loved best was taking pictures of that boat—catching its profile against the sunset or zooming in on the barnacled bottom just below the water’s surface. It was my favorite subject.
My eyes drift down to my desk, where my camera case sits next to my computer. I run my fingers over the case, then sit down and unsnap it. I take out the 35mm Nikon and reach for the strap to put around my neck like my mom has always drilled into me. This is an expensive piece of equipment. Always wear the strap. She’d let me pick out a special one that looks more like a scarf than a strap even though it was more expensive—I think because she thought I’d be more likely to actually wear it. And she was right. I always wear it when I go out to take photos.
I slide the silk loop of the strap around the back of my neck, take the lens cap off, and bring the camera to my eye, feeling the familiar weight of it in my hands, scanning the room until I have my mirror in the frame, my own reflection obscured by the sunlight streaming through the window and the camera itself.
Click.
I love that sound. It makes me feel calm and happy. I look out the window at the already sunny day and decide I want to take a walk down to the harbor. See if my boat is still there, take some pictures. Routine.
When I go downstairs, camera around my neck, and tell my mom my plan, she looks a little surprised.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Please? I know my way, and my ribs are already feeling a lot better. See?” I demonstrate by turning my torso side to side, which hurts, but I tough it out. I need to get out of the house.
My mom laughs. “It’s not that. I’m okay with you going out for a walk. Some fresh air will be good for you.” She pauses, then smiles. “I just haven’t seen you with your old camera for a long time.”
I glance down at it. “It’s not that old,” I say.
She gives me a funny look. “No, I guess not. I bet I’ve still got some film stashed somewhere if you wanted to start playing around with it again. You used to love it so much. You probably still would if you picked it up again.”
“What do you mean, used to?” I ask. “Did I stop taking pictures or something? Is that why you brought it to the hospital for me?” None of this is making any sense.
She takes a sip of her coffee, shakes her head. “I never brought it to the hospital, honey.”
“It was there,” I say, though doubt starts to creep in even as I say it, because of the look on her face.
“No,” she says. She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. And I don’t remember packing it up to bring home either. Maybe you were just thinking about it while you were there, or you were . . . confused?”
“No,” I say, more forcefully. I pause, replaying the memory in my mind. It is a memory. “It was there, with all the flowers and everything. Someone brought it to me—maybe Dad?”
“I don’t know why he would’ve brought it,” she says, puzzled.
“Maybe he thought it’d be familiar?” I offer.
“That’d be an odd choice. You haven’t used it in a long time. Years, probably.”
“What? Why?” The thought that I stopped taking pictures bothers me almost as much as the thought of me not being friends with Jules anymore.
She looks a little taken aback, like I’m overreacting. “I think you just got busy with other things, sweetheart. Between school, and volleyball, and Matt, you haven’t had a lot of extra time on your hands, that’s all.” She reaches out and puts a hand on my knee. “And you do take a lot of photos on your phone. It’s just quicker and easier than using that.”
I don’t say anything.
“There’s no rule that says you can’t start shooting film again. It’d probably be good for you.” She smiles. “You used to have a pretty good eye.”
We’re quiet a moment, but the words used to seem to linger. They feel different this time, though. Different from all the other things I’ve been told I used to do, because taking pictures feels like something I just do. In the present.
“There’s actually some film in here already,” I say. “So can I go for a walk and shoot the rest of it?” I have that wanting-to-be-alone feeling again. Even though it hasn’t worked yet, I keep thinking that if I can just sort things out in my own mind, my memories will come back to me—or at least the pieces will feel like they make sense.
My mom smiles. “Of course. Shoot it to the end of the roll, then you can drop it off at the shop. My purse is on the counter—take some cash. It’ll be fun to see what’s there when you develop it.”
TWELVE
AT THE END of our cul-de-sac, I kick off my flip-flops and step onto the sand, digging my toes in to let the warmth really sink in. The salt in the air is stronger down here, and I can hear the low thunder of the waves just beyond the dunes.
I feel the strain of the first few uneven steps in every muscle between my ribs, so I take the trail slowly, careful not to push too hard, but more excited to see the beach with each wave that I hear. It feels good to be out here in the sunshine and fresh air, even if it is just for a walk. It takes me only a few minutes to pick my way over the trail to where the dunes melt into the wide, flat expanse of beach and ocean and sky so perfect I lift my camera and snap a shot like a reflex.