The Wish(43)

“You have your own darkroom?”

“My dad built it for my mom, but I use it, too.”

“You must be an expert.”

“My mom’s the expert, not me. When I have a problem with a print, either she helps or Richard does. Sometimes both of them.”

“Richard?”

“With Photoshop, I mean. He automatically understands anything computer related, so if it’s a Photoshop issue, he can figure it out. It’s irritating.”

I smiled. “I take it that your mom taught you photography, right?”

“She did. She’s taken some incredible shots over the years.”

“I’d like to see them. The darkroom, too.”

“I’ll be happy to show you.”

“How did your mom get into photography?”

“She said she just picked up a camera one day in high school, took some photos, and got hooked. After I was born, neither my mom nor my dad wanted to put me in daycare, so she began to freelance with a local photographer on weekends, when my dad could stay with me. Then, whenever we moved, she’d find work assisting a new photographer. She did that up until the twins came along. By then, she’d started homeschooling me—and taking care of them—so photography became more of a hobby. But she still goes out with her camera whenever she can.”

I thought about my own parents, trying to figure out their passions, but aside from work, family, and church, I couldn’t come up with anything. My mom didn’t play tennis or bridge or anything like that; my dad had never played poker or whatever it was guys did when they hung out together. They both worked; he took care of the yard and the garage and emptied the garbage, while she cooked, did laundry, and cleaned the house. Aside from going out to dinner every other Friday, my parents were pretty much homebodies. Which probably explained why I didn’t do much, either. Then again, Morgan had the violin, so maybe I was just making excuses.

“Will you keep up the photography once you get to West Point?”

“I doubt I’ll have the time. It’s a fairly regimented schedule.”

“What do you want to do in the army?”

“Maybe intelligence, like my dad? But part of me wonders what it would be like to go the special forces route and become a Green Beret or get selected for Delta.”

“Like Rambo?” I asked, referring to the Sylvester Stallone character.

“Exactly, but hopefully without the PTSD afterward. And again, we’re back to talking about me. I’d like to hear about you.”

“There’s not much to say.”

“What’s it been like? Moving to Ocracoke, I mean?”

I hesitated, wondering whether I wanted to talk about it or how much I would tell him, but that feeling lasted only a few seconds and evolved to Why not? After that, the words just began to spill out. While I didn’t tell him about J—what was there really to say, other than that I was stupid?—I told him about my mom finding me puking in the bathroom and picked up from there, talking about everything right up until the moment he’d shown up to tutor me. I thought it would be harder, but he didn’t interrupt me often, allowing me the space I needed to tell the story.

By the time I finished, there was only half an hour left before the ferry was going to dock, and I was saying a silent prayer of thanks that I’d bundled up. It was freezing and we retreated to the van, where Bryce pulled out a thermos and poured two cups of hot chocolate. His parents were chatting up front and we said a quick hello before they went back to their conversation.

We sipped the hot chocolate as my face slowly returned to its normal color. Through it all, we continued to chat about regular teenage things—favorite movies and television shows, music, what kind of pizza we liked (thin crust with double cheese for me, sausage and pepperoni for him), and anything else that came to mind. Robert and Richard clambered back into the van just as Bryce’s dad was starting the engine and the ferry was about to dock.

We drove along dark and quiet roads, past farmhouses and mobile homes decked out in Christmas lights. One small town gave way to the next. I could feel Bryce’s leg pressed against my own, and when he laughed at something one of the twins had said, I thought about the easy way he seemed to relate to his family. His mom, probably thinking that I might be feeling left out, asked the kinds of questions that parents always asked, and even though I was happy to answer in a general way, I still wondered how much Bryce had told them about me beforehand.

When we reached New Bern, I was taken with how quaint it was. Historic homes fronted the river, the downtown area was lined with small shops, and lampposts at every intersection were decorated with illuminated wreaths. The sidewalks were crowded with people making their way to Union Point Park, and after parking, we fell in alongside them.

By then, the temperature was even colder, my breath coming out in little puffs. At the park, more hot chocolate was proffered, along with peanut butter cookies. It wasn’t until I took the first bite that I realized how hungry I was. Bryce’s mom, seeming to read my mind, handed me another as soon as I finished the first, but when the twins asked for seconds, she told them they’d have to wait until after dinner. The conspiratorial wink she gave me immediately made me feel like I belonged.

While I was still nibbling, the flotilla began. Broadcasting live from beneath a tent, the local radio station announced via loudspeaker the owner and type of each boat as one by one they slowly floated past. For some reason I guess I was expecting yachts, but aside from a handful of sailboats, they were either similar in size or smaller than the fishing boats I saw in the docks at Ocracoke. Some were festooned with lights; some sported characters like Winnie the Pooh or the Grinch, and still others had simply placed decorated trees along the decking. The whole affair had a sort of Mayberry vibe to it, and though I thought it might arouse a feeling of homesickness, it didn’t. Instead, I found myself focusing on how close Bryce was standing next to me, and watching his dad point and grin with the twins. His mom merely sipped the hot chocolate, her expression content. A short while later, when Bryce’s dad leaned over and tenderly kissed his wife, I found myself trying to remember the last time I’d seen my father kiss my mother in the same way.