Sylvia nodded at the box. "Your father-he threw so much away. He was hurting. He wanted to forget, I think. But I kept as much as I could get my hands on."
With my heart in my throat, I stared at the box, already imagining what might be inside.
"I'll leave you alone." Sylvia moved toward the door.
I jumped up. "Aunt Sylvie, wait!"
She paused and turned, and I noticed the tears in her eyes.
"I don't think I've ever thanked you," I said.
Confused, Sylvia shook her head. "For what?"
"For helping him take care of me. For helping him raise me. You and I both know he couldn't have done it without you."
Sylvia's hand went to her throat. "Oh God, Eva, it was my absolute pleasure." Again she nodded at the box. "You come find me when you're done, okay?"
As the door closed softly behind her, I looked down at the box before me. With shaking hands, I lifted the heavy lid and peered down at the contents inside-a short stack of notebooks, a few articles of neatly folded clothing, a small brown purse, and a couple of books and trinkets.
I bypassed all of it for the notebooks.
Laying the first one on the desk, I opened to the first page. The drawing had yellowed and faded some, but not so much that I couldn't make it out. One hand flew to my mouth while the other hovered just above the page, quivering. It was just as Preacher had described-a smiling man with a little girl on his lap.
Carefully I flipped through the pages, finding hand-drawn illustrations of the story my father had told me. I saw Preacher, young and handsome, stretched out on a bed, sound asleep. And Sylvia, heavily pregnant with Trey. I saw Joe and Max, and my grandparents-Ginny with a cigarette in her hand, smiling, and The Judge with his arms crossed over his chest, his squared jaw and proud nose reminding me so much of Preacher.
I pulled another notebook from the pile, finding page after page of what I assumed were my mother's first impressions of New York City-sketches of the clubhouse, the neighborhood, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building.
I touched the next drawing tentatively. Beneath a shock of dark hair, wide eyes set above plump cheeks stared back at me. "Frankie," I whispered, my eyes filling.
There were more sketches of Frankie, of Tiny, of my uncles, and other club members-some of whom I knew, and others I only recognized from photographs I'd seen.
I paused on a drawing of Preacher, standing inside a room I didn't recognize. Standing beside a window, his gaze was fixed on something the artist couldn't see. He was shirtless, his arms folded across his chest. His long hair was unbound, hanging loose around his face.
The detail was incredible.
She'd drawn him so carefully. So exquisitely.
She'd drawn him as if she'd loved him.
I flipped to the next page and instead of a drawing, I found a discolored Polaroid photograph tucked into the binding. As I pulled it free, my hand began to shake.
In my hand, I held the family I'd never gotten to have. A handsome young man grinned at the camera, his arm wrapped protectively around the beautiful girl smiling beside him-a tiny baby swaddled in her arms.
That beautiful girl was my mother and that baby is me.
Tears clouding my vision, I found myself stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the chair behind me. Oh God, I couldn't breathe. It was too hot and I couldn't fucking breathe.
Clutching the picture to my chest, I hurried across the room, threw open the office door, and burst into the hallway, gasping for air. The hall was thankfully empty, and I sagged back against the wall, breathing hard.
Glancing around, I felt as if I were seeing the clubhouse for the first time.
Everything felt different now-foreign.
And everywhere I looked, I felt her-the ghost of a girl I'd never gotten to know.
I could see her now, walking down this very hall. Young and beautiful. Pregnant with me yet still just a baby herself. And utterly without a clue as to the kind of world she'd stepped into. I wanted to reach out and grab her, pull her to me, and keep her close. Keep her safe from those who would try to take her from me.
I followed her ghost until my eyes stopped on a familiar shape skulking in the shadows by the stairwell. "Tiny?" I called out, squinting. "What the hell are you doing?"
Tiny shuffled out from stairwell, his eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry, Eva," he whispered, his sad eyes finding mine. "I never wanted to lie to ya. ‘Bout your mom and ‘bout your old man bein' so sick."
I shut my eyes for a moment and then let out a sigh, and with it any residual anger I was harboring. There was no use in yelling at a bunch of old men who'd only been doing what they were told. It would only hurt both them and me, and it wouldn't change a damn thing. My mother was still gone, and Preacher was still dying.