I knew exactly where my jugular and my carotid were. I hoped there was a tub in the bathroom upstairs because cleanup would be a snap, as the commercial says.
In the upper hall, I picked my way through the towers of boxes, and on the other side of the bathroom door a tower was topped by a box marked M R. The same box Randy had taken out of my house and put in his truck. On top of it was a Mac laptop with an L--shaped dent in the lid. My dad’s computer.
I glanced over my shoulder and then back at the box. I might as well take a peek before I killed myself. The box was stamped in several places with the warning PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL. I knew this warning was for me. If Dad had wanted me to see what was in this box, he would have shown me.
I looked behind me again and moved the laptop to the floor, then picked at the packing tape of the box and carefully, slowly pulled. My heartbeat sped up with each breath. I folded back the box sides. File folders. I don’t know what I expected, but my disappointment had sharp edges that cut deep. I was about to the close the box back up when a flash of color between the folders and the side of the box caught my eye. I pulled it free and found it was a photo of . . . me.
I’d never seen a photo of myself. My dad didn’t own a camera, and when I’d brought one home from the dump, it had disappeared. I’d asked Dad what had happened to it, but he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about. There were no photos of me as a child. As far as I knew, no pictures of me—-or Dad or Mom—-existed anywhere.
I brought it close to my face. I’d read the term “cognitive dissonance” and knew that was what I was experiencing right now. Because this photo had to have been taken within the last year or two, but when and where? And why didn’t I know someone had photographed me? A chill stole over me as I realized maybe someone had been stalking me and taking my photo and I’d never known.
But as I stared at the picture, I realized there was something about it that wasn’t quite right. I flipped the photo over, and scrawled on the back was 987.
What did that mean?
I turned it over and studied the image again, especially my face. The heart shape of it. My round hazel eyes. My dimples. But . . . not my hair. Not my eyebrows. The hair was shorter and curly, the eyebrows were thin. The eyes were rimmed with liner, shadow and mascara, which I’d never worn, had never even owned. I only knew about them because of TV commercials.
I turned back to the box and reached in to search for more photos. Where there was one, there were bound to be more.
“Petty?”
Mr. Dooley’s echoing voice made me jump straight up and I dropped the photo, which fell to the floor facedown. As I bent to pick it up, I realized my thumb had covered up part of what was written on the back. It didn’t say 987. It said 1987.
“You okay up there?”
“Fine,” I called as I flipped the photo over once more. The photo that wasn’t of me.
It was a picture of my mom.
While I knew next to nothing about her, I do actually remember her a little bit. I remember her in flashes and snippets, in three different mental movie clips. The first one is of me sitting on my mom’s lap and Dad sitting next to us. Mom’s telling me to “Look! Look!” And she’s pointing at a little TV to our right. And just as I look, these snow--topped mountains pop up on that TV like toast, and I’m amazed. How did she do that? And she and my dad are laughing.
The next clip is of me sitting across from her and we’re gliding. My mom is moving backward, and the sky and clouds and trees are bending around her face. She wears round sunglasses. I can’t move my head because I’m wearing a puffy orange vest. We’re in a rowboat on a lake, and it’s late afternoon. My mom is rowing, and then she stops and pulls the oars into the boat. It’s sunny but cool, and the sun on the water makes me squint. She gives me a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich and a box of juice with a straw in it. It’s just my mom and me and our sandwiches on the lake.
In the last clip, Mom is lowering me into the bathtub. “You want to play the game?” she says, and then the doorbell rings.
The only images I have of Mom are the ones in my head. Except for the one I now held in my hand.
Where had it come from? I wanted to dig through that box, but I heard the front door open and the old farmer say, “Thanks a lot, Keith.”
“That’s all right,” Mr. Dooley said. “See you in church.”
The front door closed.
I slid the photo in my bra, sealed the box back up, and put Dad’s Mac on top. I was sweaty and cold, and that picture burned against my skin. I felt like it was glowing through my clothes.
What else was in that box?
I came down the stairs, shaking. “I want that box in the upstairs hall,” I blurted.
Mr. Dooley froze and didn’t answer right away. “I’m sorry?”
“I want that box.”
A longer pause. He turned to me but didn’t speak.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Petty, I heard you. No need to shout. That box is the property of the trust.”