IAN
Don’t look directly into the sun. You’ll burn out your retinas. My parents had the good sense to warn me. It’s what we’ve taught Caty. She listens, and in that matter, I did, too. But sometimes, looking at the sun is unavoidable. I’ll catch a glimpse of a reflection off the window of a passing vehicle. Or I’ll stand under a tree and look up into the skirt of branches to take a photo. A leaf bends and twists, the sun appears, and bam! The outline of the leaf or shape of the car window is seared on my eyeballs. And man, does it burn. I blink, and continue to blink, and eventually the bright spots go away.
I have two clear images of my mom that have left an impression on me. I carry them with me, a virtual keepsake. But rather than a shape captured by the sun that fades and disappears, they are branded in much the same way an image is recorded when light passes through the camera aperture and photons strike the film. Like a photo, the memories have faded over time. They aren’t quite as sharp, but they’re permanent. I can’t blink them away. They haunt me.
I remember my mom, gun in hand, the moment she looked at me, face stricken, as the awareness of what she’d done set in. The look of horror that actors portray in motion pictures doesn’t come close to the real deal. Genuine fear consumes you. It’s palpable, even to an observer. It tastes of dust and asphalt and oil. I can still taste her fear. I can still see the moment she realized she was lost to me. She’d accepted she couldn’t be the mother I needed.
My second memory is of the three of us, my parents and me, on a lakeside picnic. I was eight and my dad had a rare Sunday off work. We spent the afternoon fishing under my mom’s watchful gaze, her back against a tree, a book of poems open on her lap. We took a break for lunch, and I asked what she was reading. Walt Whitman’s “O Me! O Life!” She offered to read it to me and I said no. I was an eight-year-old kid more interested in cramming a PB&J sandwich into my mouth and washing it down with a Coke so I could get back to my fishing pole. I didn’t want to listen to my mom recite romantic prose. It wasn’t until a college literature class that I read the poem. The professor had us dissect it line by line. Had I known then the meaning behind the poem, I would have asked her if she was questioning her own existence. Did she wonder if her life had meaning? Was she feeling helpless? Had she known then the road she intended to travel, the one that led her away from me? I would have taken the time to listen. I would have made sure she was all right.
What I do know about that day is how content she seemed. How she couldn’t not smile when she talked with my dad. How they shared a laugh, their foreheads bent as they whispered to each other. How my dad’s lips lingered on her cheek when he kissed her before joining me at the shore. To the outside observer, we might have appeared to be the perfect family on a Sunday outing. It was the calm before the storm of my life. It’s my last good memory of the three of us.
When Aimee and I arrive at the Tierneys’, we descend upon a similar scene in their backyard. Catherine rests with her back against the giant sycamore that shades the grass, a book open and facedown on her lap. Hugh sits cross-legged on a plaid blanket drinking from a plastic teacup. His shirt has grease stains and his chin is smudged with oil. He was probably in the garage working on his Mustang. But he keeps his pinkie up when he lifts the cup to his lips as Caty instructs. As I watch them, I can’t help thinking of that Sunday afternoon long ago.
Aimee senses I’m drifting. I’m not quite in the moment, and she clasps my hand. I look down at our linked fingers, then up into her eyes.
“Time,” she says. “Give it time. The pain will lessen, it really will.”
I believe her. She would know. But right now, I’m still too raw to make that step forward. “I’m not sure what to do about my mom.”
“I know you aren’t, and that’s OK. You’ll figure it out. Trust your instincts. They’re good to you. They led you to me.” She smiles, and for the moment, I’m lost in her, who we were on our own and who we have become together and where we’re going. Then Caty squeals and the moment is shattered.
“Daddy! Mommy! You’re back!” She runs straight for me. I lift her in my arms and she smothers me with kisses. “I missed you,” she coos, resting her head on my shoulder.
“I missed you, too, Caty-cakes.”
“Did you see your daddy? Mommy said you went to your daddy’s house.”
I look at Aimee over our daughter’s crown of curls. She shakes her head. Caty doesn’t know he’s sick.
“I want to meet him,” Caty says.
I want her to meet him, too. Instead, I showed my dad pictures of Caty on my phone. He had asked about her, but he doesn’t want her to visit. Her one and only impression of her grandfather would be of him on the brink of death hooked up to an oxygen tank. His words, not mine. I don’t agree with him, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s to be respectful of another person’s wishes.
That’s when it hits me. My eyes burn as though I’ve looked into the sun, and in a way, I have. It’s all so clear now. I know what I want, what I’ve wanted all along. I pinch my face to keep myself from falling apart in front of my in-laws. Aimee takes Caty from my arms.
“Hey, you OK?”
I nod stiffly. “Do you mind if we skip lunch here and go home? I have some things I need to take care of.”
“Sure,” she says.
The next day, after a long conversation with Erik about how Al Foster wouldn’t be doing what he did as National Geographic’s photo editor if he weren’t damn good at his job, I send off thousands of raw images to him, noting the ones his team should consider for the feature. Trust him to make your images look good, Erik had advised. It’s his reputation, too. I also e-mailed my essay to Reese. Then, late in the evening, after Aimee left with Caty to meet Nadia at the café to discuss redecorating the walls, I book a ticket to Las Vegas for the following morning. I’m gone before my wife, daughter, and the sun are up.
Swift Cleaners is open when I arrive. Customers carry in soiled clothing and walk out with plastic-covered pressed suits and shirts. Each time the door opens, I can smell the kerosene-like vapor of hot fabrics and solvent. I don’t go inside. I watch the activity through the window because on the other side is the seamstress’s table. The sewing machine is covered, and rainbow rows of thread are neatly aligned. A rack of clothes is nearby, hems cuffed and pinned. My mom pinned those cuffs. She touched those pants, and she’s sat in that chair, the leather stretched and worn from years of use. This is where she spends her days, has spent every day since the day after her release from prison.
How often did my dad visit? Did they talk about me? Did my mom ask about me? Did she ever think about me? Has her mind settled? Is she at peace with the choices she made about her life? Is she happy without me?
My questions are endless and I’m so deep in thought that I don’t at first hear the question posed to me.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
An elderly man, his pants buckled at his ribs, the short-sleeve plaid shirt tucked inside, smiles. “Are you coming in or not?”
I turn around. Across the street is a coffee shop. Tables line the windows. “No, thanks,” I tell him and jog across the street, dodging cars and a bicyclist.
I order coffee, black, no sugar, and keep an eye on the tables. When a mother and her two toddlers vacate one, I slide into the seat, pushing aside crumpled napkins and muffin crumbs with my arm.
From where I sit, I can see out the window, back across the street, through the dry cleaner’s large front window to where the seamstress sits. The sign posted in the door notes she’ll arrive by nine.
I remove my jacket and fold it over the chair beside me. I set my phone on the table, glance at my watch, and sip my coffee. And then I wait.
“Ian.”
I pull myself away from the window and glance up at Aimee. Caty smiles beside her. I blink, feeling a rush of confusion. “You’re here.”
“I got your note.”
“For you to call, not . . . You flew here?” I still can’t make sense of her and Caty standing there.
“We took the plane, Daddy. Mommy let me sit by the window. We flew into the clouds.”
“Lucky for us there’s a flight out of San Jose to Las Vegas every ninety minutes. I hope you don’t mind we came,” Aimee says, looking nervous. I’m sure she’s wondering if she made the right decision to follow me here.
At first, I thought I wanted to be alone. But now that they’re here? I’m relieved. I don’t want to do anything without Aimee by my side. I stand and rope my arms around her. I hug her tightly. “No, not at all. I should have asked you to come. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“Have you seen her?” Aimee whispers so Caty won’t hear.
I nod and point out the window. My mom sits in her chair, hunched over her machine. I feel Aimee’s slight intake of breath.
“Have you talked to her?”
I shake my head.
“Have you been sitting here all day?”
I nod. “Since eight thirty.” It’s now after five. My mom works until six.
Aimee leaves my arms and seats Caty at the table. She takes out paper and crayons from her large shoulder bag and gives them to Caty; then she orders a chocolate milk from the counter.
I sit back in my seat beside the window and drink my coffee. My fourth one for the day. It’s gone cold.
“Did you go to school?”
Caty shakes her head. She pushes a piece of blank paper toward me and hands me a brown crayon. Fuzzy Wuzzy. It makes me laugh and I show Caty the label.
“Mommy said you were sad. I always hug Pook-A-Boo when I’m sad, but I didn’t bring him.”
“Where is your bear?” I ask.
“On my bed. He was still sleeping when we left.” She points at the crayon. “You should draw a bear. Maybe it’ll make you happy.”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
Caty grins and together we color. Aimee returns with Caty’s chocolate milk. Caty pushes a blank sheet toward Aimee. “Color with us, Mommy.”
“In a moment, sweetie, after I talk with your daddy.”
Aimee sits beside me, her eyes imploring. “You scared me, Ian. You’ve been holed up in your office for two days and when I woke up this morning, you were gone. You left so suddenly. What’s going on?”
She didn’t straighten her hair this morning, probably didn’t have time. I touch a curl. It feels like silk. “I’m trying to fix it, what I did wrong.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
I look out the window at my mom. She’s helping a customer. “She cut her hair. It’s short.”
“She’s beautiful.”
I nod. “She smiles a lot. I don’t remember her smiling much.”
Aimee rests her hand on my thigh. I feel the heat of her through my jeans and turn back to her. “I didn’t listen to my dad when I should have. For once, I’m going to do as he asked. I’ll manage her finances. I’ll keep her books; I’ll pay her damn bills. And I won’t contact her. I’ll stay away like he asked and she wants. But first . . . first I needed to see her. All these years I thought I needed to apologize to her. I kept taking those damn pictures. But really, I just want to know she’s OK. I want to know that she’s happy.”
“But you won’t go talk with her?”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t want that.”
Aimee is quiet. She watches me for a long moment. Eventually, I turn away, drink my cold coffee and twiddle the crayon, spinning it on the table. Still, Aimee watches me. Then suddenly, she stands and removes her sweater. It’s missing a button and there’s a tear near one of the holes.
“I’ll be right back.”
Caty looks up, surprised. “Where’re you going, Mommy?”
Aimee glances from Caty to me and back. She reaches for Caty’s hand. “Come with me. We have a very important errand.”
My heart rockets into my throat. “What’re you doing, Aimee?”
She rests a hand on my shoulder. “Trust me,” she says, then leaves the coffee shop.
I swing around in my chair and watch her and Caty wait for the light at the corner. It changes, and they cross.
“What are you doing?” I murmur.
What are you doing? What are you doing?
My palms sweat. I rake my fingers through my hair.
Aimee pulls open the glass door to the dry cleaners, stands aside for Caty to enter. The door swings shut behind them. Through the window, I see them approach my mom. Envy ricochets through me, heating my arms and legs. I want to be the one to talk with her. Does she sound the same? Do her hands still flutter when she talks? Does the left side of her lip still pull higher than the right when she smiles?
But I can’t go to her, not if I want to respect her wishes, to honor my dying father’s request.
I see my mom lean down to talk with Caty and I want to weep. She’s your granddaughter. She looks like you. Do you see it, the honey color of her hair, the dimple in her chin?
Aimee points at a blanket folded on a shelf and my mom shows it to her. They talk for a bit until my mom folds the blanket and puts it back. Aimee then shows my mom her sweater. She points at the missing button and the small tear where the wool has unraveled. My mom nods and smiles.
I want to shout, I’m over here, Mom. I’m OK. I did all right.
She takes Aimee’s sweater and gives her a receipt. She waves good-bye and I shake my head. Not yet, not today. I’m not ready to say good-bye.
Aimee and Caty leave the dry cleaners and my mom sits back in her chair. I want to ask her what she thought of my wife. Did she enjoy meeting my daughter? Could she love my family?
It pains me I’ll never know the answers.
Caty settles back in her chair, grinning. “That nice lady over there and I have the same color eyes. And she knows all about coloring with crayons.” She picks through her crayons. “If I put these three together—brown, orange, and yellow—I can make my eye color on paper.” She shows me the crayons. Mango Tango, Sienna, and Goldenrod.
When did she color? In prison? Was it part of her therapy?
“That’s great.” My voice cracks. I look at Aimee, expectant. Tell me everything! Her eyes glisten. She rests her hand over mine on the table.
“I didn’t tell her who we are, but I asked about her job, and I asked what she likes about living here. She loves to sew. She showed me a quilt she’s working on. It’s beautiful. The stitching is intricate with a complex pattern. She’s an artist, Ian. She complained about the oppressive heat, but wouldn’t think of living elsewhere. People are kind to her here. She was kind to me and she adored Caty. She’s doing OK, Ian.” She squeezes my hand. “She’s doing more than OK.”
My throat constricts. I close my eyes and nod. Then I feel Caty’s hand cover ours.
“Are you happy now, Daddy?”
A sob barges its way into my throat and I disguise it with a rough laugh. “Yes, Caty-cakes. I’m happy now.” I clasp Aimee behind her head, my fingers digging into her scalp, and press my lips firmly to her forehead. “Thank you,” I whisper harshly into her hair. I kiss her temple, her ear. “Thank you.”
Overcome with emotion, I keep my face buried in her hair as I hold her, this woman I love who has given me so much: her hand in marriage, a family of my own, and in a way, through her, she’s brought my mother back to me. I kiss her lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Eww, no kissing in public.”
Aimee and I laugh, and together we turn to the window. We stay that way, her hand over mine, my arm around her shoulders, Caty coloring, until my mom leaves. A few minutes before six, a blue Honda pulls up to the curb in front of the dry cleaners. A brunette with large-framed sunglasses sits behind the wheel. Within moments, my mom packs up her station and leaves the dry cleaners. She smiles at the Honda’s driver and settles into the passenger seat. The driver glances over her shoulder and eases into traffic. I watch them drive away until they disappear, turning a corner one block up. I’ve seen what I came here to see today.
I scrub my face with both hands and rest my forearms on the table. “Whad’ya think? Time to go home?”
Aimee taps her chin. “I don’t know. We are in Vegas.”
“Think we can find a suite with two bedrooms?”
She grins. “I like your line of thinking, Collins. I bet we can find a dessert buffet, too.”
Caty’s face lights up like a Vegas hotel. She claps. “Oh, yes, please. Can we stay?”
“As long as my two best gals are with me, I’ll stay anywhere.”