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“Let’s go.”
“Oh, you want to see it?” He stayed seated.
“You know I do,” Aja huffed. “Because I definitely think you’re lying.”
He stood up, grabbed one of her hands, and led her towards the front steps. They weren’t supposed to enter the mansion during the picnic. It had been built in the early 1900s. The mayor at the time had found himself dissatisfied with the small two-story home on Main Street that all the previous mayors had called home, so he’d built the sprawling mansion. Six bedrooms, two bathrooms, more sitting rooms than there were asses to sit. Walker had always thought it was ridiculous. No one family needed all that room. And what did it say about them that the person elected to “serve” the community lived on a hill overlooking them all from his plush house while the rest of them struggled to make ends meet half the time? It was ridiculous.
The bathrooms on the ground floor were open, but only to the elderly and parents who needed to change their kids’ diapers. Everyone else had to use one of the three Porta Potties they had lined up in the back.
“Shh.” He put his finger up to his lips as the heavy front door creaked upon their entry.
He took them through the opulent main hallway, bypassing the living and dining rooms until he reached three closed doors. He’d only been in this house four times: Twice during elementary school field trips, once for a child’s Halloween party Gram had forced him to go to, and last as a teenager during a group project with the mayor’s daughter, Lydia. So he didn’t know exactly which room the photo was in. He remembered that the door on the left was a bathroom. As for the other two, well, he made a guess, choosing the one straight ahead, cheering silently when he turned out to be right.
They had to enter the room to see it, but it was unmissable. Right there, across from the mayor’s desk, was an entire wall covered floor to ceiling with pictures of babies.
Some of the photos were black-and-white, some were vibrant and colorful, others were tinged in browned sepia. There were thousands, stacked in rows and columns as neat as their varying sizes would allow.
“What is this?” Aja traced her fingers over the photos.
“This is a photo of every baby born in Greenbelt from 1940 to the present day,” he said. “The mayor’s wife that year started the project, and every mayor since has kept it up.”
“This is so cool.” Her eyes were wide and shining. “Show me you.”
“You think you can find me?”
She looked over the thousands of images, no doubt laying eyes on all the chubby, towheaded babies she could find, turning her gaze to him when she realized there were too many to guess accurately.
“This one.” He threw her a bone, pointing to the photo of him. He was held up by his father, whose face had been cut off just above the nose. You could see the gnarly ’80s mustache, the sleeveless Guns N’ Roses shirt, and baby Walker in a onesie, toothless and grinning.
“You were right.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Your hair definitely wasn’t white.”
On his head was a thick tuft of dirty-blond hair, standing straight up.
He’d always loved this picture. It should have made him sad. The ghost of his father’s smile was so much like his, yet something he hadn’t seen in so long. It made him remember himself as a child. He probably should have hated laying eyes on it entirely, but he didn’t. It made him happy, helped him see that there had been a time when he’d been able to smile and laugh with his whole heart—and believe that there could be again.
“You were adorable,” Aja told him. “Look at those fat little cheeks.”
“If you think that’s cute, wait until you see Gram.” He located the picture quickly, pressing his finger into it.
She moved her head closer to see, immediately laughing at the black-and-white image of his Gram as a baby with cake smeared all over her face.
“And that’s my dad.” He pointed to a dark-haired baby. “And that’s my mother.” Another one.
“Your whole family is here.”
“I know,” he breathed. “It’s weird to see generations of us in the same place.” Especially when the real versions had been separated for so long.
He could feel her eyes on him. He wasn’t looking, but he knew that they had to be full of questions. He didn’t mean for it to, but every time he spoke out loud about his family, his voice took on a very specific cadence—sadness mingled with the frustration that mixed beautifully with the longing. It was the perfect combination of things to invite instant pity, and that was what most people gave him. But when he finally met Aja’s gaze, that wasn’t what he saw. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, but it didn’t make him feel like shit, and he could hardly get over that fact.
“I know your dad drives a truck,” she said, turning to look at the photos for a few seconds. “But do you still have your mom? I’ve never heard Ms. May talk about her.”
He took a deep breath and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” Aja stuttered before a slight grimace stretched across her lips. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not comfortable. I probably shouldn’t be asking anyway. It’s not my business.”
“It’s not that… it’s just… it’s not that easy for me to be open about it, to be honest.” He ran a hand over his face. “It’s not pretty, you know? And my feelin’s are always flip-floppin’, and I never really talk about any of this shit outside of therapy.”
Aja touched his arm, her warm hand brushing softly against his bare skin underneath his T-shirt. The room they were in was warm, but gooseflesh raised on his skin anyway. “I get it, trust me. Don’t push yourself on my behalf.”
