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But before I could ask what he thought he had figured out, Jesse was pulling over to the side of the road and stopping the car. He was stopping the car behind a small building I knew very well. Griffin’s restaurant.
“This is where we’re going?”
“Yep,” he said, turning off the ignition.
“Why?” I asked.
But I was pretty much talking to no one, because he was already out of the car, walking around to open my door for me.
“Follow me,” he said, as I stepped outside.
And I did.
I followed him to the front of the restaurant, where I saw the large, red sign—the one matching the red door, the one previously resting beside it, nameless—now hung up, and ready for the world to see. No longer blank. A name on it. In lovely black, block letters. Just one word, just a one-word name:
HOME
I looked up at it, taking it in. “Home,” I said. “I like it.”
Jesse just nodded, giving me a small, unrecognizable smile. Then he unlocked the door and held it open for me.
I walked inside, and I was at a loss. How could I explain it? How could anyone begin to explain it? The moment where everything becomes unstuck: the world around you suddenly moving both slower and quicker, until you are completely and totally present in it. Your everything.
The empty walls of Griffin’s restaurant were now full. They were completely full of the most beautiful frames you’d ever seen: black and metal and wood and mirrored frames.
My photographs inside each one.
All of my photographs, like nothing had happened to them. Like they didn’t meet their demise among blueberries and little boys and barbeque sauce. Like they were here, like they’d always been right here. Exactly where they belonged.
I touched the wall in disbelief. A grand Flemish town house beside an even grander Nantucket Craftsman; a modern Cape Town flat next to a converted Prenzlauer Berg church.
“How did he do this?”
Jesse was standing right behind me, his hands folded in front of him. “It’s amazing . . .” he said. “When you’re willing to do the work, it’s amazing what can be saved.”
I was overwhelmed, though overwhelmed felt like too small a word to hold what I was feeling.
I turned toward him, tears filling my eyes, falling down my cheeks.
“So is that it? Is that the secret, or something?” I asked.
He tilted his head, looking at me. “What?”
“Is that your secret to love? ”
“Oh! ” He nodded, understanding. “No, but that would’ve been a good one too.”
My tears turned to laughter as I reached out and hugged him, drying my eyes on my sleeve. I held my sleeve there, against my face, more tears spilling out. And from over my shoulder, I was looking at the walls again—my walls—taking in all I could see.
“Mine was simpler,” he said.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Sometimes,” Jesse said. “We just pick right.”
38
When we got back to the hospital, Gia was heading out of the revolving door. Gia and Emily, more accurately, were heading out the revolving door together—right toward us.
