Trail of Broken Wings (25 page)

I follow him back out and we ride the elevator silently upstairs. Inside his office, there are more pictures of his daughter from her birth on. Framed photos line the ledge against the window. His mounted degrees are set evenly on the wall behind his desk. Rich leather chairs and a plush sofa are our choices for seating. I pick one edge of the sofa and am not surprised when he joins me. “Nice office.”

“I had to kill someone to get it, but please don’t tell.” He grabs two bottled waters from a miniature refrigerator, opens one, and hands it to me. “They frown on those types of things.”

“Picky, picky.” I take a deep swallow from the bottle. “Do they expect you to be perfect?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” He chuckles as he takes a bite of his food.

We eat in comfortable silence, both happy to fill our stomachs. He passes me an extra fork when my plastic one breaks, and I offer him one of my paper napkins when his falls to the ground. Finally sated, we finish off our water and gather the trash. “That was nice, thank you.”

“You paid, so thank you,” he says.

He takes the trash from my hand, our fingers touching. I’m the first to pull away. I glance at my watch, an excuse to break eye contact. “I’d better get going.”

“The children will be eating right now,” he murmurs, glancing at his own watch. “We still have a few minutes.” He motions for me to retake my seat. Unable to come up with an excuse to refuse, I sit down. “Have I told you how thrilled I am you took the job?”

“Only a few dozen times,” I say, “but don’t let that stop you.” On a more serious note I say, “It’s been more fun than I thought.”

“Working with sick children?” He gazes at me questioningly.

“They find joy in the simplest things,” I say, trying to verbalize my feelings. “We forget that as adults.” There’s something in his look but I can’t quite make it out. Almost as if I have passed a test, as if he were waiting for me to say the right words but I did better. It pleases me while at the same time makes me want to run. The dichotomy of my life—want what I can never have, reject it because I am too afraid.

“They didn’t choose this fight,” he says, “so they try to remember what it was like when they weren’t losing.”

That makes sense. How many times did I yearn for normality in my childhood, only to have the expectation shattered when faced with
my father? My needs became secondary to his, so much so that in time I forgot what I ever wanted. “What made you want to be a doctor?”

“Both my parents were,” he shares. “I grew up in hospitals, around their friends—all of whom were doctors, by the way.” He smiles easily. “I never knew anything else.”

It’s hard for me to imagine being so confident about your life at such a young age. To know that you belong. “You’re lucky,” I say sincerely. “Not everyone has such a clear vision.”

“You didn’t.” It’s not a question.

“No.” I struggle not to reveal too much. “Growing up—there were more questions than answers.”

“You were supposed to go to law school.”

I tense, forgetting I had told him that. I start to shake my head, to tell him that, no, there was no conflict, no scars to hide, but he interrupts me before I can say anything.

“The world is very lucky you chose photography instead. You have a true gift.”

“I think it chose me.” I never imagined the joy I would get from taking pictures. From memorializing events and places with a snap of a camera. When I see the pictures I’ve taken, I stare at them in wonder, amazed at the beauty that has been captured forever. “I had no choice but to say yes.” Seeing the numerous awards David has won and the honors bestowed on him, I walk over, running my hands over the crystal accolades. “But I don’t save lives. Make people whole again. That’s the real gift.”

When I take a picture, it’s a multiple-step process. First, I view the scene with my naked eye. Assess the surroundings, the light, the scene to make sure everything is perfect. In a professional shoot I have the benefit of added light, but out in the field, I am dependent upon nature or circumstance. Once I have finalized the details, made sure my focus is clear, I look through the lens and start snapping. With digital, I have no worries about film or the cost. I can take hundreds of pictures,
quickly, capturing every second of movement. Once I have as many as I need, I upload them onto my computer, analyzing each one to find perfection.

On rare occasions, something hidden finds its way into the picture. A person passing by, or an animal in flight. A child playing or a look between friends. Something I missed, because I was so focused on the vision in my head, reveals itself in the picture. With the unexpected addition, I am mesmerized. The picture has a new life, one I would never have foreseen. It changes the story; what I had hoped to say becomes altogether different. The new story is superior, told in a way I couldn’t fathom. Those are the moments when I especially love what I do. When the picture becomes the storyteller and I am the recipient of the story it tells.

“A matter of perspective,” David says, bringing me out of my thoughts. He comes to stand next to me, his warmth filling the empty space. He pauses, watching me carefully, gauging my reaction before he says, “Your dad’s condition is unchanged.”

I am between the wall and him, with no place to run. “Yes,” I agree quickly. “But we appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“Checking his vitals every day?” He leans against the wall, effectively trapping me in. “Don’t mention it.” He stares at a space above me. Trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give your family more answers.”

The truth lies unspoken between us. My father’s death would not change my life, but his living would. I wonder what further damage he can inflict if he lives. I am already torn, and he can’t tear apart much more. But his death would leave me as I already am—irretrievably broken.

“Maybe there aren’t any,” I say, treading water. I have no place to hide, to flee to, without going past him. “Sometimes that’s life.”

It is how I soothe my soul—my explanation for why tragedy was mine when others lived a life filled with tranquility. When I was young,
I would watch nature channels, fascinated by videos of a cheetah or tiger crouched, waiting. When the time came, it would run toward a herd of animals, increasing its speed until it had joined those running for their lives. In a heartbeat, it would attack, choosing one while sparing the rest. The others kept running, the instinct to survive strong. Was there any way for the lost one to live another day or was death simply its destiny?

“Do you believe that?” he asks.

“I have to,” I say, brushing past him to find my own space. I look around, envisioning the room expanding, a hole that I can slip through and disappear into forever opening up in the middle of the floor. “Otherwise, how do you find the will to keep going?”

It’s past time for me to return to what I know best—hiding behind the camera so I control the vision the world offers me. But David’s next question stops me. “You all love him so much,” he says, oblivious. “What did he do that was so right?”

I spent an entire night watching Trisha drink herself into oblivion because she refused to have her happily ever after. I listened to her call out for Eric in her sleep, her heart broken because her mind knew what her soul refused to believe—that he was gone. I coexist with my mother in a home that houses so many secrets the walls are filled with them, and yet it is the only shelter she trusts, the one she returns to night after night. And Marin, my own flesh and blood, has evolved into a woman I barely recognize.

“He made our life his own,” I say, the only answer I have.

“In my day, we didn’t have such fancy things.” William turns the camera over in his hand, inspecting it from every angle.

At seventy-two, he is my oldest patient. Having just finished dialysis, he’s cranky. I helped him into the chair next to his bed and handed
him the camera. He refused it at first, saying he had no time for such things. I thought about leaving him, trying another day, but the way he turned toward the window, staring at nothing, made me try one more time. With a grunt to let me know he was doing me a favor and not the other way around, he held out his hand.

“It’s a digital camera,” I explain. “No film needed.”

“Really?” He glances at me, the first hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ve got kidney failure, not Alzheimer’s,” he says. “I know what digital is.”

“Right,” I say, amused at having been thoroughly put in my place. “You have one at home?”

“No.” He hands the camera back to me, his voice dropping. “Can’t afford it.” He reaches for the wheelchair nearby.

“They’re easy to use.” I roll the chair over, holding out a hand to him. Refusing my help, he struggles to rise from the sofa. “Just focus, click, and you have your picture.”

“What would I want to take pictures for?” He barely stands before starting to stumble. Again, I reach out to help him, and again he refuses my overtures. It’s a dance with no definitive steps. “Nothing I need to see again.” He finally settles himself into the chair.

“How about those flowers?” A bouquet of fresh carnations sits in a glass vase next to the plastic water pitcher. A “Get Well Soon” card has fallen to the floor. “That would make a nice picture.”

“Why? So I can remember them after they’re dead?”

I suppress a sigh, a deep one. This was the part of the job I wasn’t prepared for. I fear people. Having never understood what made my father tick, what made him react as he did, I am wary of others.

“No,” I try, “so you can enjoy them forever.”

“Haven’t you heard?” He points to his IV. “I haven’t got forever.”

“None of us do,” I say without thinking.

His gaze sharp now, he turns it toward me. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

I look through the lens and focus the camera before handing it to him. “No, just inevitable.” When he resists my efforts, I lay it gently in his lap. “But why not make the best of it while we can?”

He takes the camera and looks through the lens. From the other side I can see his worn eye blinking rapidly, trying to adjust. “You’re too close,” he says, bringing the camera down. “Move back so I don’t get your whole face in it.”

When he still struggles, I say, “Here, try this.” I reach around him and show him how to adjust the lens. “Better?”

“I guess.” He starts snapping pictures, one after the other. First he takes a few of me and then, bored, moves on to the water pitcher, the bed, and some of the outside through the window. Finished, he hands the camera back to me. “Congratulations, I’m healed.”

Suppressing a smile, I point to the flowers. “You missed those.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says, adjusting his tubes like an expert.

I reach over, rearranging the stems and petals. “You’re missing a wonderful opportunity.” Glancing through the lens, I bring the flowers into focus and adjust the center so they fill the screen. Once the picture is taken and printed, the flowers will have a whole new power—the ability to brighten any room. I snap a few photos and then glance at the LCD panel to review them. One especially is breathtaking. I try to show it to William, but he waves me away.

“I’m all finished for the day,” he says, turning his face.

“OK,” I murmur. “I’ll print them out for you and make a book.”

I’m about to gather my things when he barks, “Don’t bother with the flower pictures.”

“You don’t like them?” I ask, surprised.

“Not much to like,” he murmurs. With only a few options available in the small room, he climbs back into his bed.

“Let me help you.” I quickly move back to his side, but he rejects my offer again. The flowers have the hospital’s gift store sticker on
them. “I can take the flowers downstairs. See if they have another arrangement.”

“My daughter bought them. Won’t be happy if she sees that.”

He turns on the television, trying to ignore me. Unperturbed, I bend down to smell them, inhaling their fragrance, a contrast to the sterile smell of the room. “Nice of her. They’re quite beautiful,” I say, aware he’s watching me. “Your daughter doesn’t know you hate carnations?”

“They were her mother’s favorite.” He drops the remote. “Guess she thinks it’ll help me to remember my wife.”

“Your wife . . . ?” I leave the question hanging, wondering.

“Died a year ago.” He is angry, at me, at everything, from what I can gather.

“I’m sorry.” This is my cue to leave, to drop the subject. Nothing is gained from getting too close to people. From sharing secrets, dreams, and hopes. When you give a piece of yourself to someone, count on them to hold it safe, you become vulnerable. You depend on them, but they may not be the person you expected, the one you were sure could carry you. Then the disappointment becomes a burden to bear. It is better to keep yourself at a distance, never getting too close. I retrace my steps toward the door, ready to leave.

“Never thought I’d find love like that,” he says, challenging me. “When you do, you don’t ever want to lose it.” He turns off the television and turns away from me. “Thanks for the pictures.”

I shut the door quietly behind me. Nurses and doctors fill the hallway as they move in and out of patients’ rooms. Families come and go, some with balloons in hand, while others, weary from months of visiting, simply come as they are. I watch them, wondering about the love that binds. In the name of love, people do extraordinary things. Sacrifice their time, money, even themselves for another. Parents dedicate their lives to raising children, work endless hours to provide; siblings love their sister or brother as if they were one instead of two. Here
in the hospital, I see love displayed every day. Family members offering whatever they have in the hopes it is enough to heal.