As soon as I hear the click, though, I do think about what I’m doing. I think about what my mom said, about me not having used my camera for so long, and of it being there in the hospital in spite of that fact. I know I didn’t imagine it there, but like my mom, I can’t figure out how or why it would’ve gotten there if she or my dad didn’t bring it. I’ve quickly become used to not knowing things for myself, and to taking everyone else’s word for it, but this bothers me. It doesn’t feel right, and I want to figure out why.
I look out at the expanse of blue ocean, sparkling in the sun, and lift my camera again, trying for a different angle. It makes me think of a quote my mom read somewhere and then told me when I first started taking pictures. She told me to pay attention to my attention. To try to stop and notice the things that drew my camera to my eye and made me want to capture them, because those were the things that somehow meant something to me. The idea had seemed romantic to me, so I’d taken her words to heart, and almost always found my way back down the beach, and followed it all the way to the harbor, with its water and sunlight and all the boats that knew how to navigate between the two. That’s where I head now.
I’ll take the last few shots on the roll and bring the film to In Focus, and maybe that will help me figure something out. It’s a thin hope, but I hold on to it as I walk, pushing my pace faster than is comfortable, to match the building urgency I feel in my chest.
By the time I reach the harbor, I’m out of breath, and in more than a little pain, but the sight of boats lined up on the docks, bobbing gently in their slips, makes me smile. This place doesn’t look any different. It’s exactly the same, and that small thing calms me. I take the stairs down to the main walk and head down to M Dock, where Second Chance is. Or was. I have no idea if it’s still there, but I want it to be, so badly. Something in me needs it to be.
Anticipation flutters in my chest, and when I get to the gate for M Dock, I strain to see the far end of the dock, where I remember Second Chance being, but there are too many other sailboats in the way. I try the handle, but the gate’s locked. The dock is quiet, empty of people, which means there’s no one to let me in. I jiggle the handle again, like maybe it’ll open if I want it to badly enough. The metal clanks softly as I pull, but it remains locked in place.
I look down at the keypad, wishing I knew the code. And then, before I have a chance to think about what I’m doing, I reach out and punch in a series of numbers. There’s a soft click, and I pull on the handle again. It opens. I stand there a moment, shocked. I don’t even know what numbers I just typed in, but they worked. The gate is open.
I check again to make sure no one is looking before I slip in. Then I close the gate softly behind me and step onto the dock. It sways a little beneath my feet, which makes me smile because I remember that feeling. It used to make me nervous as a kid to feel the dock shift like that, and to see the water through the planks of wood, but it doesn’t anymore. Still, I take my time, walking slowly and scanning the weathered boats as they sway lazily, tethered in their slips.
“Hey! What are you doing here?”
My heart leaps into my throat and I jump and spin back in the direction of the voice. The movement sends a sharp pain through my ribs.
An older man, dressed in fisherman’s coveralls, steps off an ancient Boston Whaler and onto the dock, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just was—I wanted to see if—”
His eyes zero in on the camera around my neck. “Walker’s not around. And he doesn’t want to talk to any of you, anyway. So get outta here. It’s old news. Find someone else to harass.”
I can’t think of any time anyone has talked to me like this. It’s mortifying. “Oh no, I’m not a reporter, sir. And I wasn’t looking for—” I stop as his words sink in. “Walker lives around here?”
I’m not sure he believes me. He doesn’t answer.
I take a step forward. “I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Liv.” I extend my hand. “The girl Walker saved from the accident a couple of weeks ago?”
The old man’s eyes widen. “Oh. Bruce Jordan’s girl.” A smile transforms his face. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t realize it was you. I just thought, with the camera, that you were another one of those reporters.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Completely understandable.” I pause, nervous all of a sudden at the possibility of Walker being somewhere nearby. But this could be my chance to meet him and say thank you. I give the old man a smile that feels as timid as I do, but I make myself ask anyway. “I just wanted to talk to him for a minute. Can you tell me where to find him?”
He frowns. “Nope. Sorry, darlin’. He took off for a couple days. Needed to get out of here after all that, I guess. That kind of thing can get to you, you know.”
I nod. He has no idea. “Do you know where he went?” I ask, feeling a little braver.
“Out to the Channel Islands, is my best guess.” He motions in their direction, but the thin layer of haze out over the water keeps them hidden away, like Walker is apparently trying to be. “When he gets back, I’ll tell him you came by, how ’bout that? What was your name again?”
“Liv,” I say. “Thank you.”
I don’t make a move, and neither does he, and I’m trying to figure out if it would be strange of me to walk the rest of the way to the end of the dock, just to see if my boat is still there.
“You have a good day, Liv,” the man says. He nods at the gate, and I have my answer.
“Thank you. You too, sir.”
I turn and walk back toward the gate, not feeling like I have a choice, and trying not to be too disappointed about not seeing the boat. At least I know where to find Walker now. Maybe I’ll try again in a few days. Or maybe when I’m working I’ll run into him.
I slip out the gate and it clanks shut behind me, but I don’t leave just yet. I don’t know how many shots are left on my roll of film, but I want to get to the end of it, so I position my lens through the metal bars and take a long shot of the dock, and then another of a seal lounging on a nearby buoy. I look around, feeling a little lost. At the moment I don’t feel particularly inspired to take any more pictures. I just want to see what’s on the roll, even if it means wasting a few frames, so I turn the camera over, flip the crank up, and slowly wind the film back until the number in the counter shows zero. Then I take it out, put it in my purse, and walk.
A family of tourists comes toward me on the sidewalk, the two kids toting bags of saltwater taffy, their parents following a few paces behind, Styrofoam cups from Splash Café in their hands. It reminds me of any time we’d have friends from out of town come in. We’d bring them down here, to the Embarcadero, the quaint little part of our coastal fishing town, and walk them around to all the shops, hitting all the important spots—chowder, coffee, and the candy store, with its slabs of fudge and taffy puller in the window.
Today, my important spot is In Focus, the camera shop.