Page 99 of Everything We Give

The next day, after a long conversation with Erik about how Al Foster wouldn’t be doing what he did asNational 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.”

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