The day I found that article I had been angry at my mom for something she’d said to me over the phone. Dad asked me, after the call, to give her a chance to explain, but I was too mad to listen. When I read the Globe interview, though, I was so proud of her it hurt.

I put the article back into the folder, and I put the folder, with its worn edges, back where I’d found it. I never asked my dad why he was keeping press clippings about my mom, but it made me suspect that he still loved her.

Over the phone Dad asked, “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still angry about the summer?” He sounded resigned.

I realized that I wasn’t anymore. “No, I’m over it,” I said. Maybe that video from Tasha had cemented it. It hadn’t made me wish I was on the Vineyard at all. And tonight I was going over to Steph’s apartment, and the thought of it made my heart race.

“I’m glad. Your grandmother told me you’ve been making some new friends in the area?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to tell me about them?”

“One of them does yard work for Joan—you met her, actually. The others are her friends.”

“They’re older?”

“Maybe by a couple years,” I hedged.

“These are girls, right?” Dad asked, sounding suspicious.

“Yeah, Dad. They’re girls.”

“Okay. Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it.” I wasn’t about to tell him they were lesbians.

“I’d better get going. I’m in a good spot in the book. I think I’m on track now.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

“I’ll talk to you next week. I love you, Ari.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

—

Later that afternoon, I brought the Rolleiflex into the house. Joan was in the living room reading a book when she saw it. “Where’d you find that?” she asked.

“It was in the studio. Is this your old camera?” I sat down beside her on the couch and handed it to her.

“Yes. I’d forgotten where it was. It’s been so long since I’ve used it.”

She unsnapped the cover to reveal a black box with silver knobs and levers, and two lenses stacked on top of each other. It wasn’t that large and fit comfortably in two hands, but its weight and square corners made me think of those giant old cameras where photographers would cover themselves with a cloth to look through the hood.

“How does it work?” I asked.

She removed the lens covers and pushed up the top of the box, then pressed something that caused a circular glass piece to pop out. “You look down through the top of it,” she said, showing me. “This is the viewfinder. Hold it in your lap and look through it. You can focus it with this knob here.”