I push to my feet and walk to the stairs, put one foot on the lowest riser and look over my shoulder at the box. I wish Wyatt were here. He’d take my hand and lead me upstairs, or outside, and he’d tell me everything was okay.
He’d make the pain go away.
Until it returns.
It always returns.
I stare at the box, and anger simmers in my stomach. I don’t want Wyatt to help me or to fix this. It’s so easy to fall back, so easy to let him lead. I walk over to the box and sink to my knees again, thinking of Ashley. She doesn’t need a girlfriend who needs someone else to help her through a hard time. She needs an adult, a partner. I want to be that person.
The flaps open easily, and relief washes through me when the first thing I see are crumpled-up pieces of newspaper. I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding and realize my veil of courage isn’t as strong as I’d thought. I press my hand over my racing heart and take a number of deep breaths while deciding whether I’m sure I need to do this. I hear Wyatt’s voice telling me I don’t have to. I see Ashley’s warm brown eyes, feel her hand on mine. I don’t need to hear her voice, her eyes tell me that she’s with me no matter what I decide.
I decide to follow my heart.
Ash has faith in me.
She loves me.
The newspaper comes out easily, and I set it on the floor. Beneath the crumpled papers are the actual photos, individually packaged in Bubble Wrap. Leave it to Aunt Lara to do a perfect packing job. I remove the first wrapped photo and know from the size and shape that it’s the one of me and my father. My stomach lurches, and I set it aside. My courage is still finding its feet after its mini vacation.
The next photo is longer, wider.
Me and Wyatt.
I peel off a single piece of clear tape holding the Bubble Wrap in place, and strip away the wrapping, revealing our young, smiling faces. Even as a boy Wyatt wore his hair long, and in the picture it hangs tousled over his eyes, brushing his shoulders. A single tear slides down my cheek. We didn’t know then what life had in store for us. I stare into my youthful eyes and try to remember my thoughts—any thoughts—from back then, but I come up blank. I don’t remember when the picture was taken, although I remember it being ever-present on our wall. As I stare at our wide, carefree smiles, sadness washes through me. I’m sad for these two children who will lose their parents too early. I’m sad for the parents who hope to see them grow old and never will. As I gaze into my brother’s mischievous green eyes, guilt presses in on me. Wyatt’s never left me to deal with stuff on my own. He always puts me before himself, and in this moment I realize that even if I don’t want him to be here for me now, I know he does, and I’ve taken the choice away from him. He loves me too much, but who am I to decide that? And who am I to hurt him for loving me?
I reach for my phone and send him a quick text.
Sorry I have been out of touch. I’m here and I’m okay. I love you. Please understand that I need to do this by myself.
No sooner do I set the phone down than it vibrates with his response.
Okay, but I should give you hell for making me worry. Promise me that if you need me, you’ll call. If it’s too hard, I’ll come get you. Okay?
More tears fall down my cheeks.
Promise. ILY.
I don’t put the phone down this time, and I smile when it vibrates seconds later with his response. ILY2.
Setting my phone down, I know I can handle this. Courage has climbed back on board. I know it will be hard. Who am I kidding? It’s going to suck. But as I wrap the picture of us and set it aside, I feel confident.
I take out a few more of the wrapped photos, identifying each one by size and shape, until I come to the last, a very small package. I look at the walls and can’t see any telltale signs of what this sized photo might be.
The tape comes right off, and I unwrap the frame a little quicker this time. It’s a photograph of our family and Cassidy in Harborside. I recognize the pier and the boardwalk in the background. Wyatt and Cassidy are sitting side by side on the beach, and I’m sitting on a blanket between my parents. My father is looking at me, and my mom is looking at him. I wonder who took this picture, and I wonder what my father’s thinking. If he were here, he’d remember. He remembered everything he ever said as if it were etched in his mind. It strikes me that I can’t remember the sound of his voice, and I’m momentarily paralyzed.
I close my eyes and try to pull his voice from the depths of my memory, but like an afternoon wind, it slips through my head. Come on, Dad. I close my eyes tighter and clench my teeth, remembering what he said to us every night at dinner when we were kids. How are my little leaders?