A picture of us decorated the front. Aunt Celina had been in the picture with Mom and Dad. I was just a toddler. Aunt Celina frowned. Mom smiled. And Dad glared at the camera. It was one of the few pictures with all of us together. Dried petals bordered the image. I leaned in and inhaled the scent of roses.
I miss you, Mom.
I flipped to the next page, took in the pictures, and went on to the next. A few photos I’d seen a hundred times—my eight-year-old-self upside down on a bed and pointing at glow-in-the-dark stars plastered on my ceiling, Dad dressed up as Santa every Christmas, and our cheesy themed yearly pictures. One year we’d worn Star Wars characters. I was Obi-Wan Kenobi. Mom was Princess Leia, and of course, Dad embodied Darth Vader. He always loved the bad guys.
I shut the scrapbook for a minute and closed my eyes.
Maybe, I should do this another time.
Why did the best memories have to hurt sometimes? After Mom’s funeral, I must’ve lay in bed staring at these same images.
Damn, I miss you.
I opened the book and got to my parent’s wedding. These pictures always pulled a smile out of me. Aunt Celina had been Mom’s Maid of Honor. She’d been the only white woman on Mom’s side of the wedding party. The rest were my mom’s cousins and college friends. Different shades of beautiful black women. I’d grown up with most of the women and called them my pretend aunts. When Mom’s birthday or Mother’s Day arrived, they always called to check up on me.
Fuck. I need to call them too.
I studied the picture. The women all wore baby blue cocktail dresses and garish blue jewelry around their necks. White stockings covered their legs. And scary blue feather hats topped their heads.
Wow. No matter how many times I look at this photo, those dresses remain ugly.
I laughed and shook my head at Aunt Celina’s uncomfortable posture in the dress.
She was cringing inside.
Even Mom had admitted to how horrible those outfits were.
Chuckling, I looked at Dad’s side. His brother had been his Best Man. I’d never met my uncle. He’d died in a car crash, when I was five. The rest of the men were ones I’d never met. Mom had said they were old college friends that Dad no longer wanted to hang with. I’d often wondered if that made him sad.
When I was a little girl, there were plenty of times when he went off into the basement and sat in the dark, never making a sound. He would just sit on the floor and stare at the wall.
I knew this because a few times I snuck in to watch and make sure he was okay. He must’ve known I was down there watching him like a creeper. I could never sneak up on him.
I thought back to what my aunt had said long ago.
“Your father has always been crazy.” Aunt Celina grabbed a bottle of wine off the counter. “Don’t worry about him. He can take care of himself.”
“But Dad says he’s building a church. I’m supposed to be okay with that, and not go up and check on him?”
“Yes. I have eyes on him. He’s fine.” She checked the bottles label and frowned. “This won’t do.”
“What do you mean you have eyes on him?”
“Just some people in town.” Aunt Celina shrugged and perused another wine bottle. “You know? Good neighbors that I can call on to see how he’s doing. You know how mountain people are? Good-natured. Bored and always willing to help.”
Now I knew Aunt Celina had more than a few neighbors watching him. It was probably a whole group of Russians. That gave me some relief.
I was about to turn the page, when I noticed one of the guys in Dad’s wedding party. The tattooed one that always made me wonder. He’d been one of his ushers. Black faded stars inked his neck and peeked out from his collar. It made me think that he had more tattoos under that shirt. His face looked hard too, but it could have been my new active imagination.
I flipped some more pages and searched for more images of the man. He popped in a picture here and there. He had brown hair and a massive built. He attempted to smile, but it came off too rough, like he would kill someone if they flashed another camera in his face.
Movement came from behind me.
I turned around.
The door opened.
Jean-Pierre stepped through. “Good. You found the boxes.”
“I did. Thanks for having my things shipped here.”
While I’d planned on being in Europe, I still hadn’t picked where it would be. Dreams of playing in an orchestra was still at the top of my list, even though I spent more time fantasizing about Jean-Pierre.