Chapter 3: The Roll of Film
I kept the technician's note in a manila envelope on my kitchen counter.
I didn't hide it.
I didn't file it away.
I left it exactly where I could see it every morning while I made coffee, because I needed to stay clear about what this was.
This wasn't a misunderstanding.
This wasn't an accident that got out of hand.
This was a decision Priya made — and then remade every single day for a week while her lights were on across the street.
I called the repair shop again on Tuesday.
"The camera itself," I said.
"Is it gone?
Is there any chance of getting it working again?"
The technician — his name was Roy, I'd learned — didn't answer right away.
"The shutter mechanism is corroded through," he said.
"The film advance is seized.
I could source parts, but I want to be honest with you — the labor alone would run three, four hundred dollars, and I can't promise it holds.
Salt water is different from fresh.
It gets into places you can't reach."
"What about the film?
The roll she removed."
"If she pulled it out immediately after submersion, there's a chance.
Depends on whether light hit it.
Depends on how she stored it.
If it's been sitting loose in a bag for a week in summer heat…" He paused.
"I wouldn't count on it."
I thanked him and hung up.
Then I sat at the table and thought about what I actually wanted.
I wanted the film.
I wanted those thirty-six frames — my father's hands, his kitchen, the light through his window that last August.
I wanted them more than I wanted anything else in this situation.
The camera was a loss I could eventually accept.
The photographs were something else entirely.
I texted Priya.
*Hey.
Did you find the roll?*
Three minutes passed.
Then: *Still looking!
I'll check my other bag tonight.*
She wasn't looking.
She hadn't looked once.
I knew that the way you know things about people you've been friends with for eleven years — the way their rhythms feel when they're telling the truth versus when they're managing you.
I called Dana back.
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to be straight with me."
"Okay," Dana said carefully.
"When Priya told you about the camera — about the tide pool — did she say what she did with the film afterward?"
A long pause.
Longer than the first one.
"She said she put it in her toiletry bag.
To keep it safe."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"Her toiletry bag."
"That's what she said."
"Dana.
She told me she didn't know where it was.
She told me it was probably loose in one of her bags somewhere."
Silence.
"I'm sorry," Dana said quietly.
"I didn't know she hadn't told you."
I set the phone down on the table without ending the call.
I could hear Dana saying my name.
I looked at the manila envelope.
I looked at the camera sitting beside it, the leather still dark and warped along the base.
May you like
She knew exactly where that film was.
She had known since Portugal.
