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The place smells like cigarettes and mildew. No wonder the property owner is junking the damn thing.
There’s a stack of two or three boxes by the door that are too meticulously taped up to have been done by our father, so I guess Blair and Atlas have been hard at work going through his things.
“Why can’t we just trash all of it?” I ask, stepping into what used to be Dad’s bedroom where Atlas is fingering items on a dresser and Blair is half buried under the bed digging for who knows what.
“Because,” comes Blair’s voice as he pops his head out and has to blow his long hair out of his face. “Like it or not, he was still our dad and there are some parts of our past worth saving.”
I beg to differ, but Corvin told me to be on my best behavior, so I’m at least going to put up an effort for a little while. But when the itch under my skin gets too bad, all bets are off.
“Have you found much?”
Blair shrugs and dusts his hands off on his knees. “Why don’t you go through the closet?”
Because I’ll probably break half the damn shit in a fit of rage.
I don’t say that, though. I hold back the urge to stomp my foot and make my only protest a pointed huff through my nose while dragging my feet across the room to the closet doors.
Pulling them open, the air smells stale and unsavory. It’s half piled with junk, and I’m already losing my will to put up with this. But I promised Blair I’d do this with him.
I go through things in a sort of haze, not really paying attention to what I’m tossing until my fingers brush something that sparks a hint of recognition.
It’s soft with little blue and pink swirls, sticking out of a small cardboard box. I’m slammed with an overwhelming sense of sadness.
The top of the box slides off as I pull it into my lap. My baby blanket is at the top, and I bring it to my face to find that it smells like laundry detergent. The special kind you buy when you first bring your baby home from the hospital before you realize the regular stuff is fine.
Below it isn’t the usual things you would find in a baby box.
There’s a stack of polaroids: some are the typical newborn pics, some toddler aged, but it’s the set wrapped in a red sleeve that catches my attention.
The first picture hits me in the chest like a freight train.
It’s Mom.
With her dark hair pulled back yet still messy like Blair’s always is. Wearing a black and white striped shirt over her flat stomach with an ultrasound picture in front of it.
It’s me, and I know it because there’s little one year old Blair attached to her hip.
There’s always been a handful of pictures of Mom around the house, but I never took any when I left. I haven’t seen what she looks like in years.
I’ve got her nose, but the rest is all Blair.
Each picture only makes the ache in my chest deeper.
Another of her significantly more pregnant.
In the hospital looking absolutely exhausted with a sleeping baby in her arms.
Me.
There’s one of her nursing, another of me chewing on a bottle at a couple months old.
So many snapshots of Mom and I together. The first five years of my life documented through my relationship with her.
I can tell we’ve passed the accident when I spy a picture of me and Atty.
My little baseball caps and ratty shorts.
Pictures of me being goofy.
