Bossy(70)

Where the fuck was I when they were doing pictures?

Probably ignoring everything and hoping it would go away. I made so many excuses to avoid being around Dad and Annette in the last few months. I was always walking my non-existent dog or “stuck in traffic”.

Claire looks so pretty in her picture. I wonder what I would have done if I’d been there. We’d have reconnected in totally different circumstances. Maybe things would’ve been easier for us.

Or maybe we’d never have hooked back up at all.

I notice that Mom is missing, and Claire’s dad too. A nice and neat, new little family. How convenient. Annette wiped the house clean of our messy pasts.

Taking off my shoes, I step into the hall and yell, “Anybody home?” Knowing my luck, they’re all out.

Dreading more changes, I start up the curved staircase to the second floor. Right away I can see I was at least partly wrong. There are more pictures. Lots more. From the bottom of the stairs to the top, there are small pictures dotting the wall. New ones alongside old images I haven’t seen in ages. Mom and me. Dad and Mom on their wedding. Me as a kid.

But not just us. There are pictures of Claire and her Dad. Happy times it looks like from before he got sick. I recognize one that must have been taken around the same time as the one on her desk.

Both of our families are there, in all their iterations. It surprises me. Last time I was home, everything was cleared away with a fresh coat of paint on the walls.

I feel like a hypocrite. I’m never home because of all the memories, but I’m willing to resent Annette for putting those memories away. Fucking masochism, is what that is.

Which room is Claire’s? Probably not my old room, though there’s a dirty sort of appeal in the idea of fucking her deep in the bed where so many teenage fantasies played out. We’d probably break it, if it’s still there. My fifteen year old self would be proud.

Taking the stairs one by one, I call out again. “Claire? You home?” Why am I going so slowly? What the hell am I afraid of? That she doesn’t want to see me? That she won’t talk to me? Fuck if I know. She’s probably not even here.

At the top, both the door to my room and the door to the guest room are closed. Dad’s master suite is open a crack, but she’s not in there. Instead, I knock on the guest room door.

No answer. I try my room, just in case. You never fucking know, right? I knock, but it’s as quiet as the guest room.

Oh fuck it, it’s my damn room. I open the door.

Whatever I expected, what I see wasn’t it. It’s still my room, I guess, but on my wall is a huge picture of Mom and me that didn’t use to be there. It’s from one of the last vacations we took together as a family, and on my desk is a little jar of sand I know came from that same trip. I remember her cleaning out the glass and filling it up so we could take the beach with us.

There are other photos, along with bits and pieces of my life pulled out of boxes and off dusty shelves to be given places of honor, but none of them feel important next to this.

I pick up the jar and hold it, sitting down on the bed with my eyes closed so I can feel the sun. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sleep in this room again, but somehow knowing it exists makes me feel better.

“Do you like it?” Annette’s voice sounds behind me softly. Whirling around, I find her standing in the doorway, leaning against it. “I went through everything I could find and tried to pick what I thought would mean the most. I figured you’d want the memories.” She’s cautious, staying away like she’s not sure what I’ll do or say.

I suppose I’ve earned that. “Does it matter what I think? I don’t live here anymore.”

She surprises me by drawing herself up straight and taking a step closer. I stand, towering over her. Annette raises her head and looks up like it doesn’t matter that I’m nearly a foot taller. She might not be my mom, but she sure is a mom.

There’s a look only mothers seem to have. The one that makes a person feel like they’re about to get grounded, no matter how old they are. When she takes a step closer, I’m halfway taking a step back before I catch myself, standing my ground.

Her frustration bubbles over, and she looks so much like Claire when she’s angry that I have to keep myself from grinning. “Declan, I’m trying here. I’m not your mom, and I never will be.”

“Obviously.” I don’t even really mean to be sarcastic. It just comes out reflexively. I sigh and try again. “I know, Annette.”

She huffs and looks ready to throw something. “Do you? Because I think you look at me and see some sort of monster, and I don’t know what else to do to prove I’m not. Your father loves us both, and I know a part of his heart will always belong to your mother. If you look around, I’ve left something of her in almost every single room.” She looks away sighing. “It’s not a competition. She’s part of your history, and I accept that, just like Garrett accepts that Claire’s father is part of ours.”