Applying fresh lipstick, I stare into the medicine cabinet mirror; it’s a tiny bathroom, tiled black and white, circa sixty or more years ago. It’s also a man’s bathroom, in its coloring and simplicity—in fact, I’d go so far as to call it a gay man’s bathroom, in its immaculate styling and clean, almost severe, lines. Along the taupe walls are framed black and white prints, grouped artistically, and I find myself staring right into the eyes of Alex Richardson.
Laurel has those same eyes. Beautiful like his, so clear and open and fathomless. The picture of him is exactly eye-level to me, and it’s a close-up—Alex in a simple black turtleneck, leaning forward so that he stared right into the barrel of the camera lens that day. So that he’s staring right into my eyes this day.
There are secrets here, I think, peering into Alex’s wise, comprehending eyes. I don’t understand how to handle them.
You are strong, he whispers near me. Strong enough for them all.
Shivering, I gaze into his cool eyes again. And yet I find such warmth there. Looking up, I discover another black and white picture, this one of Michael holding Andrea on his lap. She’s only a baby, smiling and toothless, snuggling close to her lifeline. Michael’s hair is disheveled, standing on end like he’s just woken up; he’s young and arrestingly handsome, gazing at his daughter in pure adoration, cup of coffee in hand.
Maybe it was a Saturday morning and they were relaxing together, enjoying family time; maybe Alex jumped up to grab the camera, as all new fathers are wont to do, eager to capture a priceless moment. But unlike most parents, I think Alex realized somehow that his life was fleeting—one reason this home is covered with photographs taken by him. He made sure his family was documented, archived for posterity.
He made sure of that because they were a family, exactly like he told their daughter. Maybe more of a family than I’ve realized until now: only there’s this gaping, empty crater left in the middle of them where Alex used to stand.
Slipping through Michael’s bedroom, something makes me hesitate, and I notice another grouping of framed pictures on his dresser. Maybe I’m searching for more clues to understanding this family’s mysteries, or maybe I’m searching for more Beautiful Alex pictures, I’m not really sure. What I discover is a faded photograph of a woman, from that era when Kodak added a white border to each image, imprinted with a date stamp on the edging. But I don’t need help pinpointing the time period—the woman’s rayon party dress, cat-eye glasses and glamorous style clearly date the picture to the mid-1960s. She’s a redhead, too, like Alex. Maybe this is his mother? She’s holding a baby crooked in her arm and beaming at the camera. A new mother, obviously.
There’s something in her smile that puzzles me, though, something familiar and vaguely troubling. Holding the frame within my hands, the woman begins to remind me of Andrea, I realize. So I’m right: this picture must be of Alex and Laurel’s mother, what with the red hair and that same delicate smile of Andrea’s. But why is she only holding one baby—and more importantly, what about this image unsettles me so?
When Andrea pops her head through the doorway, it gives me a jolt. “Hey!” she announces, grinning at me. “I came to get my Felicity doll to show Aunt Laurel.”
I cover my chest with my hand, willing my heart to slow down, and she asks, “What’re you doing with Grandma Warner’s picture?”
Again, I stare at the haunting image of the redheaded woman. No wonder he fell in love with Alex, I think, almost laughing out loud: like all men, he went looking for his mother. “She’s really pretty,” Andrea says, studying the picture in my hands, leaning into me. “I have a crocheted blanket that she made in my room, but it used to scare me when I was little. It smells kinda weird and musty.”
“Did she make it for you?”
“Oh, I never met her. She made it for Michael when he was a baby, right before she died.”
Michael’s own mother seems eerily like a member of Alex’s family, almost as if, in meeting Alex, Michael were completing some lost portion of his history. I can’t imagine how traumatic it must have been for him, never knowing his mother; we haven’t really talked about our families much yet, so I’m still learning. But one thing this photograph makes abundantly clear: his life has always been haunted by loss. Staring at the faded photograph in my hands, I’m not sure I can ever adequately fill those empty places in his life.
Andrea vanishes into her bedroom, returning with two dolls in her arms. She introduces each of them to me. One is a fellow redhead, the doll named Felicity. The other is a brunette named Samantha, and in a low voice she explains, “Michael and Daddy gave her to me over a year ago. For Christmas.” Their very last Christmas together as a family. Her voice grows confessional, feather-soft, as she hugs Samantha against her chest. “I know Daddy picked her out, ’cause I heard them talking about it.”
“Can I see?” I ask, and very gingerly—as if Samantha were made of eggshell china—Andrea passes her into my arms. “You have to be really careful,” she explains, sucking on her lower lip. “’Cause her leg’s loose. I don’t know why, but it is.”