That catches him off guard. “I don’t know,” he admits finally. “I haven’t seen him for a while now. I text him most mornings, but he rarely replies.” Just saying those words makes Oliver realize what a terrible son he is. So what if he regularly drops off groceries at his dad’s door? It’s such a laughably small act, just a token gesture, really, more to do with making himself feel better than actually helping out his dad.
“Wanna go visit him?” Julia says. “I mean, his place isn’t far away, and it might be nice . . .”
“Sure.” Inside, Oliver is quivering with a series of nos. But somehow, his limbs move to leave the safe cocoon of Vera’s shop.
Julia suggests that they pick up some groceries, as well as pastries for his dad, so they walk to Stockton Street, where Julia picks out the best produce, before they stop by a bakery, where the three of them sit around a small table and Emma digs into a pineapple bun that’s as big as her face.
“I like pineapple buns,” Emma declares in her surprisingly deep voice.
Oliver breaks into a grin as he gazes fondly at his little niece. How the hell did someone like Marshall help create this wonderful creature? For a fleeting moment, Oliver allows himself to imagine that he’s out with his family, that Julia is his wife and Emma is his daughter. The shame comes in a jagged stab. God, that was a terrible thought to have, fantasizing about his dead brother’s wife and child. He clears his throat and asks Julia how the photo editing is going.
Julia’s whole face brightens up at the mention of it. “I’ve finished editing all Cassie’s photos, and they look amazing! Twenty-seven good ones in total, out of over four hundred. You have to tell me what you think.” She digs out her phone from her back pocket, locates the photos, and hands the phone to him.
Even back in high school, Oliver always knew that Julia had real talent. It was one of the things he was furious at Marshall about; he’d watched as Marshall gently coaxed Julia away from photography, and he’d told Marshall to quit it one day, which led to the two of them not speaking to each other for more than a month. He knows she has the talent, but even so, seeing the pictures of Cassie takes his breath away. Behind the camera, Julia turns into something else. Something that is part camera, part human. Somehow, she instinctively knows how to position her subjects to get the most dramatic angles, and how to manipulate the lighting to bring out their souls.
Although Oliver has never met Cassie or seen any of her videos, just from the photos that Julia took, he feels like he knows Cassie. He can practically hear her laughter—it would be full of life and have the slightest tone of bashfulness behind it. He can see the fire in Cassie’s eyes, the determined set of her jawline, so artistically touched by the late Californian sunset.
“Holy shit,” he says. “These are crazy good, Lia.”
Julia rolls her eyes, biting back the smile. “Oh, stahp.”
“I’m being serious. Have you sent them to her yet?”
“No. I’ll do it tonight. I was kind of worried about them, I guess. I was procrastinating a little.”
Oliver hands her the phone. “I don’t know what you’re worried about; these are mind-blowing. I promise you she’s going to be so happy with these.”
Julia pockets her phone with a smile. “Okay, dork. Thank you.”
There is so much that Oliver wants to say. He wants to tell her how happy he is that she’s picked up photography again. He wants to tell her that he’s missed her. How he’s longed to have her by his side. As a lover, yes, but most of all, as a friend. He’s missed being able to chat with her over lunch, or on their walks to and from school. He still remembers the way Julia carried her backpack, with her thumbs tucked into the straps. He wants to tell her all these things, but he knows that none of them is appropriate, not under the circumstances. And he’s so grateful for her company that he doesn’t want to risk annoying her. So he simply nods.
When they’re done, they pick up everything they’ve bought for Oliver’s dad and walk over to his place. Oliver rings the buzzer, and when his dad’s voice rasps out of it, Oliver says, “Hi, Baba, it’s me. With Julia and Emma.”
There is a pause, then his dad says, “I can’t. Not today.”
“But we got food for you.” Oliver glances at Julia and Emma, hating the plummeting feeling in his stomach. He can’t believe that his dad is refusing to see his own granddaughter. What the fuck is wrong with him? Sure, Oliver has always known that Marshall was his dad’s favorite, but surely this is crossing the line. Emma is his only grandkid. Most grandparents would be rushing down the stairs and picking Emma up in a flying hug. Emma, too young to understand what’s happening, is waving her index fingers like a tiny conductor and going, “Da-dee-da-dum,” under her breath. Oliver looks at Julia helplessly. She shrugs, then leans over to speak into the buzzer.
“Hi, Baba,” she calls out. “We’ll just leave the food by the door, okay? You can come and get it whenever you like. And if you ever want some company, just give me or Ollie a call.”
There is a long silence, and they place the shopping bags on the ground. They’re about to leave when the speaker crackles to life. Oliver turns back quickly, expecting the buzzer to go off and the gate to unlock, but all Baba says is, “Don’t come here again.”
THIRTY
SANA
If anyone had told Sana that at the age of twenty-two, she’d be not only a CalArts dropout, but a CalArts dropout who draws almost exclusively on sand, she’d have curled up and sobbed at what a failure she’s become. But the truth is, Sana can’t remember the last time she’s felt this happy about drawing.
Every morning at sunrise, she goes to Ocean Beach with her bamboo pole and there, next to the slow rush of the Pacific Ocean, she guides her stick across the sand, relishing the way it feels as she pulls and pushes and swipes. Sand is a whole new medium to work on, requiring so much focus on muscle control that Sana doesn’t have the headspace to hesitate. She loves the soft, scratchy feel of the sand parting beneath her stick, the reassuring shh sound that every stroke makes. Even the way that the sand feels under her feet, between her toes, is a comfort, rooting her to the earth, connecting her to nature, and grounding the anxiety that has for so long fluttered through her whole being. For an hour or two each day, the rest of the world melts away, leaving just Sana, the bamboo pole, and the sand.
Then Vera and Emma arrive with Vera’s trusty trolley bag and Sana waves at them, and a feeling of overflowing joy fills her chest as she watches the old woman and the little girl make their way across the beach toward her. She knows that Vera’s trolley bag contains way too much food, and that Vera will be constantly nagging her about having a healthy breakfast before coming out here, and that Emma will take out a pair of wooden chopsticks and hand one stick to Sana and say, “Let’s draw, Sana.” And Vera will shoo the two of them away to draw while she lays out the picnic blanket and food herself.