This is why she’s here? Because she thinks I’m lonely? Because she thinks I’m having some sort of teenage angst?
“I am not lonely, Mom,” I snap. “I am alone. Those are different things.”
She flinches but doesn’t retreat. Instead, she lets go of whatever she is holding and caresses my cheek until I meet her eyes.
“I know, baby girl.” Her hands are behind her back again. “Maybe now is not a good time. Do you want me to go?”
She’s always so reasonable and understanding. It’s hard to be angry with her.
“No, it’s OK. I’m sorry. Stay.” I pull my legs up, making room for her. “What are you hiding?” I ask.
“I brought you a present. I thought it would make you feel less lonely, but now I’m not so sure.”
She pulls a framed photograph from behind her back. My heart squeezes inside my chest. It’s an old photograph of the four of us—me, my mom and dad and brother—standing on a beach, someplace tropical. The sun has set behind us and whoever took the picture used the flash and so our faces are bright, almost glowing, against the darkening sky.
My brother is holding on to my dad with one hand and clutching a small brown stuffed bunny rabbit with the other. For the most part he’s a miniature version of my mom with her same straight black hair and dark eyes. Really the only difference is that he has my dad’s darker skin. My dad’s wearing a matching Aloha-print shirt and shorts. Goofy is the only word I can think of to describe him. Still, he’s so handsome. His arm is wrapped around my mom’s shoulder and he seems to be pulling her closer. He’s staring straight into the camera. If ever there was someone who had everything he wanted, my dad was him.
Mom is wearing a red, strapless, flower-patterned sundress. Her damp hair curls around her face. She’s not wearing makeup or jewelry. Really, she looks like an alternate-universe version of the mom sitting next to me now. She seems to belong on that beach with those people more than she belongs stuck here in this room with me. She’s holding me in her arms, and she’s the only one not staring into the camera. Instead, she’s laughing at me. I’m grinning that silly, gummy smile that only babies can smile.
I’ve never seen a photo of myself Outside before. I didn’t know such a thing existed.
“Where’s this?” I ask.
“Hawaii. Maui was your dad’s favorite place.”
Her voice is almost a whisper now. “You were just four months old, before we knew why you were always sick. A month before the accident.”
I clutch the photo to my chest. My mom’s eyes fill with tears that don’t fall.
“I love you,” she says. “More than you know.”
But I do know. I’ve always felt her heart reaching out to protect mine. I hear lullabies in her voice. I can still feel arms rocking me to sleep and her kisses on my cheeks in the morning. And I love her right back. I can’t imagine the world she’s given up for me.
I don’t know what to say, so I tell her I love her, too. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do.
After she leaves I stand in front of the mirror holding the photograph next to my face. I look from the me in the photo to the me in the mirror and back again.
A photograph is a kind of time machine. My room fades away, and I’m on that beach surrounded by love and salt air and the fading warmth and lengthening shadows of sunset.
I fill my tiny lungs with as much air as they can take and I hold my breath. I’ve been holding it ever since.
LATER, 9:08 P.M.
OLLY’S ALREADY WAITING for me when I go to the window. In big, bold letters he writes:
LAB PARTNER
I pantomime my complete and utter lack of jealousy.
MADAM, I’M ADAM