Chapter 11
I received another email from Joy. She had more information, so we’d decided to hop on Zoom tonight.
“I dug up a few pictures from photo albums that belonged to my mother. Hold on, I’ll share them.”
I reached for my coffee and waited for Joy to share the pictures on the screen. The first two were pictures of Tom Jones with
a woman. They were dressed for a special occasion, as her silver sequined dress, metallic shoes, and shimmery shawl were the
kind of wardrobe pieces a woman took out when she needed to shine.
“My mother,” Joy said.
“She was beautiful.” She was, and it was easy to see she was in love with Joy’s father. She wore her open heart like she wore
her pretty clothing.
“She said he didn’t like getting his picture taken. These two were actually taken without his permission. You can see he’s
not looking at the camera.”
I inspected them until there was nothing else to look at. I signaled I was done by leaning back in my chair. Joy took the pictures down and then put up the last one. It was a booking photo from a police department.
Sadness pressed into her voice. “This is one I pulled myself, from the archives in the public library. Unfortunately, it’s
the only face-forward picture I have of him.”
I noted the resemblance was to both of us. “He has strong genes.”
“We have strong genes,” Joy added. “I’ve watched enough TV to safely assume my father didn’t like having his picture taken because
he was a criminal. They never want to leave a photo trail.”
I nodded, understanding. I wondered about the details of his crime. Although Joy didn’t seem burdened by what he was, I decided
to save that question for a time when we knew each other better.
Joy asked the next question cautiously. “Do you or your mother have any pictures of your father?”
My lips tightened on the words, “Not anymore. There were a few, but they were destroyed in a fire when I was pretty young.”
I tilted my head to the left like an image was going to conveniently appear. “I try to remember his face, but I can’t see
it all. I see him in pieces . . .” My words trailed off.
“A fire.” Joy repeated it for a reason, I was sure, but not one I could read. “Does he have relatives?”
“None that I know of. His mother died. I tried to find an obituary, but the internet wasn’t a thing back then.”
“I guess some people don’t. We’re the only close matches in Ancestry.”
“The operative part being ‘in Ancestry.’ I’ve been in here for ten years, and you’re the first real paternal match.”
Joy covered a yawn. It was late, even in her time zone.
“I have an early meeting in the morning, but I’ll email you these pictures. Maybe you can root around and see if you can find something else. Show them to your mother. I’ll see you later, cousin.”
My heart warmed as I smiled. “A’ight, cuz. I look forward to getting to know you.”
Joy and I ended the video call. Minutes later the pictures came through, including the mug shot. Joy also included her phone
number.
I sent her a text message thanking her. We’d graduated from Ancestry messages to email to Zoom. It was time for personal phone
numbers.
I took a picture of the mug shot and one of the other pictures of Tom Jones and texted them to Beck with the question: “Does
he look familiar?”
While I waited for Beck, I examined the picture of him with Joy’s mother again. His height, his stance, his smile. It was
all so familiar.
And then the hand in my memory gripped mine, enveloping my fingers. It slipped away just as it always had. Metal clicked,
and sobbing began.
“Stop all that. This is going to get worse.”
Coarse words said so firmly, they cut into me. If this mystery didn’t get solved soon, I was going to have to get hypnosis
or something to get to the bottom of this memory. I knew the answer lay in the photo I was looking at.
“Who were you to my father?” I asked. “Who are you to me?”