“That’s good, right?”
“It’s a living,” he grunted. He took a sip of his coffee. I shifted in my seat again, wondering if my bladder would start screaming at me, giving me an excuse to go back into the house. It didn’t.
“I’ve enjoyed learning photography,” I ventured.
“Oh,” he said. “Good.”
“Would you like to see some of my photographs?”
It took him a few seconds to answer. “I wouldn’t know what I was seeing.” In the silence after his answer, I could see the steam rising from his coffee before quickly vanishing, a temporary mirage. Then, as if knowing it was his turn to move the conversation forward, he sighed. “Linda says you’ve been a big help around the house.”
“I try,” I said. “She gives me chores, but that’s okay. I like your sister.”
“She’s a good lady.” He seemed to be trying hard to avoid looking in my direction. “I still don’t know why she moved here.”
“Have you asked her?”
“She said that once she and Gwen left the order, they wanted to live a quiet life. I thought convents were quiet.”
“Were you close growing up?”
“She’s eleven years older than me, so she took care of me and our sisters after school when I was little. But she moved away when she was nineteen and I didn’t see her again for a long time. She’d write me letters, though. I always liked her letters. And after your mom and I were married, she came out to visit a couple of times.”
It was as much as my dad ever said in one go, which kind of startled me.
“I only remember her visiting us once, when I was little.”
“It wasn’t easy for her to get away. And after she moved to Ocracoke, she couldn’t.”
I stared at him. “Are you really doing okay, Dad?”
It took him a long time to answer. “I’m just sad is all. Sad for you, sad for our family.”
I knew he was being honest, but just like the things my mom had said, his words made me ache.
“I’m sorry, and I’m doing my best to make it right.”
“I know you are.”
I swallowed. “Do you still love me?”
For the first time, he faced me, and his surprise was evident. “I’ll always love you. You’ll always be my baby girl.”
Peering over my shoulder, I could see my mom and my aunt at the table. “I think Mom is worried about me.”
He turned away again. “Neither of us wanted this for you.”
After that, we sat without speaking until my dad finally rose from his seat and went back inside for another cup of coffee, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
*
Later that evening, after my parents had gone back to the hotel, I sat in the living room with my aunt. Dinner had been awkward, with comments about the weather interspersed with long silences. Aunt Linda was sipping tea in the rocker while I lounged on the couch, my toes tucked under the pillow.
“It’s like they aren’t even happy to see me.”
“They’re happy,” she said. “It’s just that seeing you is harder for them than they thought it would be.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not the same girl who left them in November.”
“Of course I am,” I said, but as soon as the words came out, I knew they weren’t true. “They didn’t want to see my photographs,” I added.
Aunt Linda set her tea off to the side. “Did I tell you that when I worked with young women like you, we had a painting room set aside? With watercolors? There was a big window that overlooked the garden and nearly all the girls gave painting a try while they were there. Some of them even grew to love it, and when their parents visited, many wanted to show off their work. More often than not the parents said no.”
“Why?”
“Because they were afraid they’d see the artist’s reflection, instead of their own.”
She didn’t explain further, and later that night, while cuddling with Maggie-bear in bed, I thought about what she’d said. I imagined pregnant girls in a bright, airy room in the convent with wildflowers blooming outside. I thought about how they felt as they lifted a brush, adding color and wonder to a blank canvas and feeling—if only for a brief moment—that they were like other girls their age, unburdened by past mistakes. And I knew that they felt the same way I did when I stared through the lens, that finding and creating beauty could illuminate even the darkest periods.