The Wish(63)

“You don’t,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Yeah, well”—I gave a wry smile—“just wait a month.”

*



The next week and a half was a blur of test prep for finals, getting a head start on next semester’s assignments, and photography. I had a quick examination with Gwen, who said that both the baby and I were doing well. I also started paying for the film and photography paper I was using; Bryce’s mom ordered in bulk so it was less expensive. Bryce was hesitant to take the money, but I was using so much film, it only seemed right. Best of all, with every roll I seemed to be getting a little bit better.

Bryce, for his part, almost always developed my film at night, when I did my extra schoolwork. We would review the contact sheets the next morning and decide together which images to print. He also helped me make flashcards when I thought I needed them, quizzed me on the chapters I needed to know in every subject, and pretty much had me ready for anything by the time my finals came around. I’m not going to say I aced them, but considering where my grades had been, I almost pulled a shoulder muscle patting myself on the back. Aside from that—and watching Bryce tighten the drive belt in my aunt’s car—the only big thing left to do was have my aunt teach us how to make biscuits at the shop.

We went in on a Saturday, a few days before my parents were to arrive. My aunt had us wear aprons and went through each step with us.

As for the secrets, they really came down to this: It was important to use White Lily self-rising flour, not any other brand, and to sift the flour before measuring because it made the biscuits fluffier. Add Crisco, buttermilk, and a bit of (super-secret) confectioners’ sugar, which some people in the South might consider blasphemous. After that, it was all about being careful not to overwork the dough when you mixed it together. Oh, and never twist the biscuit cutter; press it straight down after the dough has been rolled out. Then, when the biscuits are fresh and hot from the oven, coat both sides of them with melted butter.

Naturally, Bryce asked a zillion questions and took the lesson way more seriously than I did. When he took a bite, he practically moaned like a little kid. When my aunt said that he could share the recipe with his mother, he looked almost outraged.

“Not a chance. This was my gift.”

*



Later that afternoon, Bryce finally showed me the photo he’d taken of me and Daisy when we’d been checking out the village after the storm.

“I printed one for you, too,” he said, handing it to me. We were in his truck, parked near the lighthouse. I’d just taken a few sunset photos, and the sky was already beginning to darken. “In truth, my mom helped me print it, but you get the point.”

I could see why he’d wanted one for himself. It really was an endearing photo, even if I happened to be in it. He’d cropped the image to capture only our faces in profile and he’d caught the instant when my lips touched Daisy’s nose; my eyes were closed, but Daisy’s were brimming with adoration. And best of all, my body wasn’t shown, which made it easy to imagine the whole oops! thing had never happened at all.

“Thank you,” I said, continuing to stare at the image. “I wish I could shoot as well as you do. Or your mom.”

“You’re a lot better than I was when I first started. And some of your shots are fantastic.”

Maybe, I thought. But maybe not. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you think it’s okay that I’m in the darkroom. Being that I’m pregnant, I mean.”

“I asked my mom about that,” he said. “Don’t worry—I didn’t mention you—but she said she worked in the darkroom when she was pregnant. She said that as long as you use rubber gloves and aren’t in there every day, it isn’t dangerous.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I love watching the images start to materialize on the paper. One second, there’s nothing there…and then little by little, the picture comes to life.”

“I totally get it. For me, it’s an essential part of the experience,” he added. “I wonder, though, what’s going to happen when digital photography catches on. My guess is no one will develop pictures at all anymore.”

“What’s digital photography?”

“Instead of film, images are stored on a disk in the camera that you can then plug into a computer without having to use a scanner. They might even have cameras where you can see the pictures right away on a little screen in the back.”

“That’s a real thing?”

“It will be, I’m sure,” he said. “The cameras are super expensive now, but just like computers, I’m sure the cost will keep dropping. In time, I think most people will want to use those kinds of cameras instead. Including me.”

“That’s kind of sad,” I said. “It takes some of the magic away.”

“It’s the future,” he said. “And nothing lasts forever.”

I couldn’t help wondering whether he might also be referring to the two of us.

*



As my parents’ visit drew near, I began to feel antsy, a low-level nervousness that hummed beneath the surface. They were flying to New Bern on Wednesday and would take the early ferry to Ocracoke on Thursday morning. They weren’t staying long—only through Sunday afternoon—and the plan was for all of us to go to church and say our goodbyes in the parking lot right after the service.