Chapter Thirteen
We walk fifteen blocks from Henry’s apartment down to Washington Heights, until we peel off and head down a looping pedestrian path through the trees, shading us blissfully from the sun. There’s a low growl in the air and a faint fishy scent on the breeze—through a gap in the foliage I can see that the growl is from the rumbling of cars above us on the George Washington Bridge, and the fishy scent is from the Hudson River rolling out underneath it. I struggle to keep up with Henry like always, finding it frustrating that his only speed is way faster than mine.
The shaded footpath spits us into a long, narrow park with open patches of grass along the waterline. I take a big gulp of fresh air, tuning my ears to the sound of the city. A pleasant breeze presses my clothes to my body, and even though the park is full of people, I feel a sense of stillness, of peace.
Henry and I find a vacant spot under a tree next to a concrete wall that’s crumbling a little bit, though the remnants of a spray-painted penis on its surface are still visible.
“Banksy?” I joke as we settle into our spot facing the water.
“You know, I hear he’s moved on from political statements to phallic symbols.” Henry sits with his back against the trunk, stretching his feet out toward the water.
“Shame the whole thing is crumbling off. I’d like to have seen it erect.”
“I get the sense he’s compensating for something.”
“Banksy could be a woman, you know.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he says as he cracks his seltzer open. “My internal bias got me on that one.”
The George Washington Bridge is a giant, looming over the park—almost as its protector. I’ve driven on the GWB many times, but when you’re on it, it’s just a way to get from point A to point B—when you’re under it, you’re reminded of your size.
“It looks so big,” I say.
“The penis?”
I snort. “The bridge, you idiot.”
He crosses his legs at the ankles and follows my gaze to the ropy structure above us. It pulses with activity, yet remains steadfast, stoic.
“Big bridge, tiny lighthouse.” He points to a little red lighthouse sitting underneath the bridge—I hadn’t noticed it yet. It looks like a chess piece next to the giant structure. “It used to guide ships at night up the Hudson.”
“It’s cute,” I say, watching a bicyclist swoop around the lighthouse’s base.
“Now the light from the bridge makes the lighthouse irrelevant, but local legend says that the city couldn’t bear to get rid of it and the people fought for it to stay.”
I like that. A piece of history that might be overlooked by some, but celebrated by those who know its story.
I pull my knees to my chest. “I can’t believe you were at my job today.” I rest my chin on my knees. “So weird.”
“People act like New York is this big, huge place, but it’s really kind of small,” he says, batting a fly away from his face.
“I’m starting to see that,” I say. “Kind of.”
“You just gotta carve out your place,” he says. “You’re on your way.” He rests his head against the tree behind him and folds his arms over his stomach, closing his eyes. “Help me think of a passion to try next week. What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
“Nothing.” I fiddle with the edges of my sock. “Everything.”
“Did you go to college?”
“I dropped out in the last semester.”
“I didn’t go.”
I turn toward him. “Why not?”
His eyes are still closed. “My family couldn’t really afford school.”
“Guess we’re both hopeless, then,” I say.
“Guess so.” He takes his glasses off and cleans the lenses with the bottom of his shirt. I rest back against the tree, feeling the sleeve of his T-shirt brush against my arm.
I make a show of checking my phone so I can inch away from him without being obvious. Just a message from Sonya, nothing else. I click it shut.
“So…” I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “How did you know you wanted to be a photographer?”
His eyes follow a bird that flies from one tree to another, and then across the water out of sight. “It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it.”
He smiles halfheartedly and looks at me through the side of his eye. “Buckle up.”
I mime buckling a seat belt.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I had a speech impediment as a kid, nothing serious, but I didn’t talk much because of it. My parents were worried I’d never develop normal language skills, and I was petrified of talking to people. So my dad started taking me out every weekend to parks and restaurants and any other public places he could find. He’d strike up a conversation with a stranger about anything. He told me he was practicing, that I should try too, so I started to do it on my own. It was hard for me at first, but I started to look forward to it.”
He shifts his posture, bringing one knee up and draping his arm across it. “My speech started to improve, but I still wanted to conduct my interviews. I wanted to keep a record of all the people I talked to, so I started taking their pictures with disposable cameras. I liked that too, so I bought myself a real camera…and the rest is history. Or, sort of history. I’m still working on it.”
He picks at a blade of grass beside him and pulls it apart with his fingers.
“That’s really sweet, Henry,” I say. “Your dad sounds like a great person.”
“I’ve never said this out loud before,” he says, almost as quiet as a whisper. “But I think another reason I take pictures is because…” He swallows, looking away from me. “He doesn’t remember anything anymore. It’s like…he slips in and out. Sometimes if I show him a picture he gets it. Or he really tries to get it. If I show him an old picture of a neighbor, sometimes he can name them right off the bat. To me…getting that one moment of lucidity is worth it. I want to preserve it for him, to preserve it for myself. Because pictures are reality. Even if his reality is…changing.”
I realize just how different our experiences of grief are. Sam was gone in a second. Before I knew it, he was a memory. But losing someone slowly must be like having the person and the memory of them alive at the same time. He probably thinks about his dad every day. It makes me wonder why he’s here. Why he’s not at home.
“How is he doing? Your dad?”
He twists his mouth and tosses the blade of grass to the side. “Day by day.” I can tell he’s trying to keep it light, but I want to know about the dark.
“Why did you come back to New York?”
“You mean why didn’t I stay with him?”
I nod.
“My mom,” he says, almost smiling. “Practically kicked me out. Said I was getting in the way. I think she just didn’t want me to miss out on life…or whatever. I just never feel like I’m doing enough.”
I haven’t known Henry all that long, but I can tell the kind of person he is. I know he is absolutely taking care of them, even from afar. “You’re a good son.”
“I don’t know if you’re right, but thank you for saying that.”
I return my gaze to the water. “Can I ask you something and you’re not allowed to be funny when you answer?”
“Sure.”
I take a breath. “Why did you really decide to help me? It’s a lot of trouble to go through for someone you just met.”
Henry sighs and shifts to an upright seated position. “I don’t know.” He taps the side of his seltzer can. “How much can I share without you being freaked out?”
“Depends,” I say. “On if what you’re going to say is freaky.”
He chuckles and takes a sip. “Not freaky, just a little pathetic.”
“Tell me, Henry,” I say, watching him turn from playful to serious.
The side of his jaw clenches and relaxes as he gazes over the water. “There was a lot more going on when I went home. I mean…with me. Before I moved back to Colorado, everything in my life was go, go, go. Never stop. But then when I got to my parents’ house, there was nothing. Being around all my dad’s stuff, the medication, watching my mom basically become a nurse…it was a lot. And I was forced to sit still and really think about things. I moved home to help out, but I…I was useless. I couldn’t bring myself to care for him. I couldn’t bring myself to do much of anything. I felt like such a failure all of a sudden. I stopped wanting to take pictures because I couldn’t find a moment worth capturing. You think it’s noble that I moved home to help out, but really I just added to my mom’s list of people to care for. I was not at my finest.”
“I’m sure you were helpful.”
“I absolutely was not. Hence my mother kicking my ass out and forcing me back on my feet. It was so hard to be here, away from them, at first. So hard. Sometimes it still is. But I didn’t start to feel better until I started doing things again, going for walks, cleaning my apartment, small things at first, and then bigger things…like inviting a total stranger on a mission to find her passion.” He laughs through his nose. “When I got back here, I knew that if I didn’t keep things moving, if I didn’t keep going, there was a chance I’d end up…”
“Feeling like shit.”
“Yep.” He scrubs his hand down his face. “Feeling like shit.”
“So you were lonely,” I say. “And you wanted to keep busy.”
“I also like hanging out with you, Bennet. You’re very charming when you’re not vomiting in the men’s room.” He turns to me, smiling. “I could’ve picked anyone to be my adventure buddy, you know. You’re very lucky.”
“Yeah, right.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
He returns his gaze to the bird, now flitting overhead. “Sometimes, when I meet people, I still feel like I’m out doing those interviews. Like all I know how to do is ask questions and collect stories and file them away on a shelf. My dad and I never talked to those people again, you know? After that first interaction, there was never any follow-up. So I sometimes find it difficult to get to know people on a deeper level, and they end up just being stories, sitting there on my shelf, making my life seem full, when really…it’s not.” He swallows, glancing down at the grass. “People expect me to be one thing, and I think they’re disappointed when I’m not that thing all the time. I don’t let a lot of people in, Bennet. I think maybe you and other people assume, because I’m like outgoing or whatever, that I must be good at being vulnerable, but the truth is, this is the most I’ve talked about my dad to anyone. It’s too hard. I haven’t felt…I haven’t felt particularly safe to talk about it. But, I don’t know…I kind of feel like talking about it with you.”
I want to touch him, but I squeeze my hands into fists. “I’m really glad you told me. And I…” I clench my jaw, trying to get the scramble of words in my brain to form into sentences. “Anytime you want to talk about it, I want to hear it.”
He smiles softly and nods. “Thanks.”
“And you can put me on your shelf, or whatever. I mean, if you want to.”
He laughs and returns his gaze to me—his luminescent smile cuts through the near-somber tone of this moment. “I think what I was just trying to say with the whole shelf thing is that I’m trying really hard not to do that with you.”
We stare at each other for a fraction of a second, and I almost feel like I’m looking at a different person. He’s not a simple optimist. His personality can’t be explained away by calling him an extrovert and nothing else. He thinks about life, about people, and he misses his dad. He has a story—a sad, sweet story that plucks the few strings that are left in my heart. It makes me feel mushy and uncomfortable and curious and anxious all at the same time.
We break away to look out across the Hudson in front of us. The sun begins to tuck behind the buildings, turning the sky candy-pink. “I’ll do my best too,” I say.
We spend the rest of the afternoon making up life stories for the people in the park. We guess which pairs are married, which pairs are siblings, who wants to break up, who is the jealous one in the friend group. We make up voices for them and long, extensive backgrounds. We stay there under that tree until the park closes. I hug my arms to my body as Henry walks me to the train station.
When we stop by the subway entrance, the corners of his mouth bloom into a smile. “Saturday?”
I nod. “I’ll be there. Wherever there is.”
He steps toward me and opens his arms, but he freezes, realizing we don’t usually hug goodbye. Laughing, he sticks out his hand instead. Without thinking, I bypass his handshake and wrap my arms around his waist. After a beat, he drapes his arms around my shoulders. I relax into him, muscle by muscle.
When was the last time I had a real hug? And one that feels this good?
I catch waves of spearmint on his shirt and close my eyes against his chest, breathing deep.
When I open my eyes, I realize that I’m…lingering.
I jerk away from his body, taking two steps back from him. “Sorry,” I say, brushing my shirt in the front. I realize the reason it felt so wrong is because it…didn’t really feel all that wrong.
He lets me out of the embrace and smiles, mercifully ignoring my brief panic. “See you later, Bennet.”