Chapter 47 #2
There are Christmas photos—the chaos of opening presents, the three of us in matching flannel pajamas next to Margie’s gas wall heater, our chins sticky with chocolate from our stockings.
And there we are, taking turns skipping across a hopscotch board drawn with chalk on the concrete pad outside Ruth’s house.
I trace a finger over the pages showing our bike races at dusk. There’s a shot of Will with a freshly skinned knee. Another captures Cory’s busted chin. He still has a scar from that.
On the next page, I spot the aftermath of the sparkler that scorched Will’s eyebrow.
There’s one where Will is standing next to my bike, guiding me, worry on his face while Cory speeds ahead. I must’ve just gotten my training wheels off. I don’t remember this day, or that Will ever looked at me with such kindness as a kid.
It’s funny the way our memories get stained.
A few pages over, I instantly recognize the talent show in second grade, me standing on the stage looking pale in the light from Margie’s flash. I don’t remember the song, but I remember the fear.
“I think Ruth was more nervous than you were.” Mom points to a spot in the corner of the photo, where I hadn’t noticed Ruth and Will standing in the wings, mouths open like they’re silently singing along with me.
There are photos of our Memorial Day camping trips. Lopsided tents placed in a row. Margie and the three of us holding sticks with speared hot dogs over a too-small fire. Ruth reading a book in a lawn chair, trying not to smile. Gooey s’mores between sticky fingers.
On another page, I find photos of the day we buried Scooby, all of us trying not to cry over the dirt grave. There’s the little pile of flowers I placed next to the painted rocks from Will and Cory.
And there’s the secret clubhouse Ruth built us when we were nine. It looks so small now. A little shack set back against the tree line, with a messy sign created by Cory that read No Grown Ups Allowed!
It was our secret place, our favorite place, despite the fact that Cory changed the password every week, and neither Will nor I could ever remember it.
In one photo, Cory is holding binoculars, peering through them as if standing guard. In another, we’re bundled in sleeping bags on the plywood floor—one of the many times we tried and failed to stay out all night. Something always managed to scare us.
There are dozens of photos of birthday parties filled with torn wrapping paper, candles being blown out, and, for Will and me, those matching, crooked party hats.
We always hated that. Since our birthdays are less than two weeks apart, we were made to share parties every year. Cory, born in the summer, got his own.
Deeper into the book, there’s a handful of photos from the winter formal.
Margie’s crying, hugging us both. Will’s in a stiff suit, and I’m standing a few feet away from him in a dress I didn’t really like.
Cory is in the background with a slice of pizza in his hand.
Four years older than us, he rarely attended the same school functions.
And there’s the day Cory moved out. I remember that dented box truck they borrowed to haul his mattress and the other hand-me-down furniture destined for his first apartment.
It feels like it sat for days parked in front of Margie’s house.
There’s just a single photo of Will and me standing next to him, while the rest are of the moms posing at his side as he pretends to be annoyed.
The next few pages have more photos of Will and me.
One of each of us before our driving tests and then another when we finally got our licenses. Will failed the first time and had to wait a whole two weeks to retake it—he forgot to check his blind spot. I teased him endlessly about the fact that I got mine first.
There are several from prom and then graduation. It’s impossible not to notice we’re always standing far apart, with the moms as our glue.
I turn the page, looking closer.
Finally, there’s a photo of the two of us together where we don’t look disgusted with each other, though I don’t remember anything about that day.
We must be around sixteen or seventeen. We’re on the couch together, Nintendo 64 controllers in hand.
Will has spread out, taking up most of the space and resting his back against my side.
We’re eating Twizzlers and Sour Skittles, both smiling lazily at whatever is on the screen.
The same page holds a few photos of the day we left for Havenport. Shots of us loading our boxes into the car, Ruth buzzing around in the background, directing. Mom and Margie barely holding it together while Will and I stand as far apart as possible.
Then there are more of the moms together. In some, they’re around kitchen tables, chatting over glasses of wine.
In others, the room is filled with smoke and their eyes are glassy, though they’ve carefully hidden the evidence off-camera.
There are pages upon pages of them writing postcards, baking snacks, working in the garden, dancing to Mom’s record player—laughing, always.
It fills something in me I didn’t realize was empty until this moment, seeing her this happy. Remembering how it always was.
“Do you think you missed out on anything? After you and Dad split up. I mean…did you ever consider dating anyone else? Falling in love? Were you scared to get hurt again?” I guess I’ve always thought the pain wasn’t worth it, but there has always been a part of me that wondered, especially now.
Her smile is distant, like she heard the question, but her head is still lost in the memories scattered across the page. She taps her fingers on the corner of the book, knuckles swollen with arthritis.
“Opal, love is everything.” Her eyes meet mine.
“It’s the only thing that matters. And it would’ve been worth falling in love and getting hurt a thousand times over to have what your father and I had.
Just because it ended doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.
But…I never felt like I needed it again.
Not because I didn’t want to get hurt, but because I had all the love I could’ve asked for.
” Everything about her features softens.
“You kids. My girls. Love can be friendship, too, you know? And we were all so full of love, I’m not sure there was room for anything else. Anyone else.”
Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for something, an answer I don’t have. “That doesn’t mean I think you should run away from the romantic sort of love if you’re lucky enough to find it.”
I see it there, the truth.
She’s always known what I’m just figuring out.
I can’t meet her gaze, so I turn back to the photos.
This book is as messy and chaotic as Margie, all out of order.
On the next page, we’re kids again. Ruth is braiding my wet hair as I sit on the couch in my Little Mermaid nightgown.
There’s a photo of Cory curled up asleep with orange Cheetos dust smeared around his mouth.
Another shows the three of us eating cereal out of bowls with built-in straws, hair messy from sleep. I’m wearing a faded Shania Twain T-shirt that probably came from the concert.
There’s one of Mom and Margie applying lipstick side by side in our bathroom mirror.
And then—I stop, looking closer.
There’s one from college. It should’ve been in the other book, I think.
I ease closer, studying the photo.
Mom, Margie, and Ruth are standing near the Pavilion on Havenport’s campus, all sporting purple shirts from the same university event.
At the end of the line, Ruth’s arm is wrapped around a man I don’t recognize at first. Another student, maybe, but…they’re both wearing wedding rings. And when I look closer…
“Who is this?” I ask, lifting the photo so Mom can get a better look.
She doesn’t seem to need it, though. “That’s Ruth’s ex-husband.”
Something sinks in my chest. “Is his name George?”