by Mere Joyce
“Time,” I say.
I study the selection of photos in my grasp. The pictures vary in age — some are recent, only five or six years old, while others date back to the seventies and even earlier.
Looking at old pictures and seeing the past laid out before my eyes is one of the happiest ways I can think of to dwindle away hours. I plan to study history in university next year, getting my degree in education so I can teach the subject afterwards. Ancient civilizations, wartime stories, diseases, architecture, technology — I’m not picky about the where or when. I simply think there’s something fascinating about peering into the lives of generations gone by.
And yet, I know little about the past of my own family. Years ago, I remember visiting the twins and admiring Uncle Joey’s mass of family records, listening with rapt attention to his stories about people I didn’t know while Allison and Eli groaned and pinched each other to keep themselves entertained. I wanted to take in all he had to offer, but I can no longer recall any of the details of his stories — just as I fail to identify any of the smiling faces in the pictures I now hold.
“No wonder Mom keeps all her memory cards so neatly labeled,” Nolan says, his hands full of glossy prints. “This bin’s a mess. Who even printed all of these?”
“I never knew we had them,” Forrester admits. “Mom always said she wanted to scrapbook, though. She must have collected all our photos together, thinking she would do something with them.”
We all crowd around the bin, pulling out snapshots and spreading them over the table.
“Wow, look at this!”
Hailey holds up a photo of Thomas and Nolan, when they were probably around six and three. Thomas has his arms thrown around his brother, and he’s grinning at the camera while Nolan stares at the photographer in annoyance.
“Not much has changed.” Allison smirks.
Nolan gives the photo a peevish glare, while Thomas laughs and takes the snapshot, pocketing it in his faded blue jeans.
“Here’s one of you, Hailey,” Forrester says, passing over a picture of Hailey sitting on a couch in a yellow sundress as she holds her baby sister.
“I’ve never seen so many actual pictures before,” Hailey muses as she holds up the photo. “My mother always gets a few developed each year, but we’re talking five or ten … there must be over a hundred here.”
I paw through a series of photos full of people I don’t know, before I glimpse one of Forrester and Eli building a sand castle on a beach. Allison is in the background, knee-deep in water, a lilac tutu around her waist and her head bent over the waves. I pass her the photo, and she snorts when she sees the image. I wonder what happened to the little princess I used to know.
“These are great photos,” Eli remarks, sarcasm dripping from his tongue as he tosses one onto the middle of the table.
When I glance over, I see it’s a shot from Uncle Joey’s wedding. I study the photo of Joey and his new bride feeding each other wedding cake in outdated attire and then look up at Eli, confused by his nasty tone. Parents’ wedding photos are supposed to be either sweet or embarrassing — either way, good for a chuckle. But Eli’s not laughing at the pictures of his mom and dad. I catch the quick, solemn frown he exchanges with Allison before they both drop their heads and keep shuffling through pictures.
“Look at this one,” Nolan says.
My attention is drawn away from the odd reaction of the twins as Nolan holds up a photo of my dad and his four brothers, all five standing around an old car. They’re young, my dad in his early twenties, the youngest of the brothers — Hailey’s father, Dean — in his early teens.
“Nolan, you look so much like your dad,” Hailey says, sitting up on her knees and leaning over the table.
“Here’s another one,” Thomas adds.
He grabs a similar photo from the pile. Only this one includes an extra person, a teenage girl sitting in the middle of the boys. I figure it’s a girlfriend, maybe one of my aunts at a young age. But then I notice something unusual about the girl. She has a small frame, and she sits in a wheelchair, gazing out at the camera with her body curled into itself.
She is not one of my aunts. She could have still been a girlfriend or a schoolmate, even a neighbor. But something about the girl makes my stomach tense.
I’ve seen her before.
No one speaks for several long seconds as we all stare at the image. Then Thomas lowers his head over the pile of photos scattered on the table.
“She’s here, too,” he says, holding up a picture of a young boy — one of my uncles, though I’m not sure which — next to a younger version of the girl.
“I’ve seen her,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
I look at Thomas and then at Forrester and see recognition in their expressions as well.
“Who is she?” Eli asks, his chin resting against his fists and his elbows pressed into his knees. “I know I’ve seen her before, too, but I can’t remember when.”
“Christmas,” Hailey says. She looks at Allison, and then back at the photo. “Not the one we spent here. But Christmas all the same. When we were, what, five or six?”
“I don’t remember her,” Nolan says, sounding bothered by his lack of recollection.
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Thomas replies. “Not if we were that young. You would have been two or three at the time.”
Allison scratches her neck, her brows furrowed.
“I don’t think I remember her, either,” she says. She turns to her twin. “But you do?”
“Yeah, somehow I do.” Eli nods.
I stare down at the photos on the table before grabbing another handful of images from the bin. Soon the others join me, our task now a purposeful one.
A familiar face in an old photograph is not problematic. But knowing the face without understanding why is. A name floats somewhere in the back of my brain, waiting to be drawn forward. I’m annoyed I can’t latch onto it.
“Here’s another one,” Allison says after a moment.
Her fingers are pinched around the edge of a photo. She hands it to me, and I take hold of a faded picture of my parents with the girl. Mom’s helping to wipe the girl’s face, and even seated, it’s easy to see she is pregnant — my older brother, Tate, squirming about under her rounded belly.
I drag my eyes back to the girl, her head tilted upwards while Mom cleans food from her mouth. A shudder runs down my spine, and I don’t know why. I only suspect, with sad probability, there’s something about the memory of this girl that frightens me.
I pass the picture to Hailey, and she studies it, her dark eyes narrowed.
“Christmas. Definitely Christmas. I remember a sweater, someone helping her open a sweater. And then, later, there was …”
“Screaming,” Thomas mutters.
My head whips in his direction, my heart kicking against my ribs. Screaming. Yes. Screaming.
Hailey nods.
“Yeah. There was screaming, and I started to cry. And my mother picked me up and rushed me outside. I didn’t even have a coat on, but she bundled me into her vest, and we waited until Dad came out with all our stuff. Then we went home.”
“We went out for hot chocolate,” Thomas says. “It wasn’t Christmas Day, maybe Christmas Eve? Maybe even a few days beforehand. It was late, but the coffee shop was open. I remember I’d been scared by the screaming, but I felt a lot better once I got a drink and a cookie in me. Kayla, I think you and Tate came with us. I think maybe it had been at your house.”
“And I didn’t want to stay,” I say, the memories forming like dense clouds behind my eyes. “I wanted my parents, but I didn’t want to stay in the house, so I went with you. We spent a while away. And when we came back … she was gone.” My brother lives in Ottawa now, but I wish he were here to tell us more. If I was five or six that night,
Tate would have been eleven or twelve. He would remember better than any of us.
“I don’t think I ever saw her again,” Thomas says.
Hailey twists the wooden beads of her necklace as she shakes her head.
“I don’t think I did, either.” She glances at Allison and Eli. “You must have been there, too.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I remember the screaming,” Eli says. “I just remember … her. Maybe we left early or something.”
“Well, whatever happened, there had to be a reason for it,” I say, sitting back against the couch. Looking at pictures was meant to be fun, but now I want nothing more than to stop. I cross my arms over my chest, cold despite the warmth of the room.
Hailey catches my eyes and sighs.
“I think we need a break,” she says, pushing herself up and walking over to the kitchen. “What the hell do we have for food around here?”
We’ve been cleaning for an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Eli and I have sorted through three-quarters of the office’s clutter, but there’s still a closet packed full of stuff to go through. I don’t mention this, though. A break sounds like too good of an option to pass up right now.
“Whatever’s in the fridge,” Forrester replies, his eyes still scanning the pictures.
“That would be …” Hailey leans into the fridge, pushing around random items. “Um, nothing? Fuck, Forrester, don’t you like to eat every now and again? There’s hardly any food here at all, and nothing to drink.”
Forrester looks up, unsurprised by her declaration.
“Must be grocery time.” He shrugs, and I smile at the painless way he says it.
“Grocery time it is,” Hailey agrees.
She heads toward the pile of bags we’ve stacked by the back door so she can grab her purse and the keys to her car.
Eli
Hailey, Thomas, and Kayla have gone.
Gone to get food.
Gone to escape.
Leaving the rest of us stuck putting away these old photos of
non-existent memories, timelines we’ve never been a part of.
I wish everyone would get a move on.
The faster we clean, the sooner we can go
home.
I don’t know why Ali made me come.
Forrester’s got enough help without me
and I had other plans.
The others believe
they can rekindle the fires
of youth
by being here together. Idiots.
Forrester’s dad is dead. Do they really think
he cares about reminiscing?
My fingers linger on the last two photos to be placed back.
The first is Mom and Dad’s wedding. I’m tempted
to crush it in my fist, tear it to pieces.
I curl my toes in anger instead,
let the photo drop,careless,
back into the bin.
I stare at the other one,
five Hacher boys and one
mysterious girl.
I don’t have a clue who she is, but there’s something,
something —
Dad yelling.
Mom crying, and Dad yelling.
I place the photo onto the pile,
my breakfast threatening
to reappear
on the living room floor.
Thinking about Dad has that effect these days.
Trying to remember this woman doesn’t help.
Swallow. Breathe. Stand.
I let Nolan close the bin, let Ali
move it aside, let Forrester
suggest we get back to cleaning.
I let them talk, but I don’t join in. Not until I can get myself
under control.
Swallow. Breathe.
Turn away so the others can’t see how much
I want this weekend
to be over.
Hailey
THE DRIVE TO TOWN takes about fifteen minutes. I keep my foot light against the gas pedal, my rusted yellow Ford slow to make each turn. Kayla sits beside me, and Thomas lounges in the back. None of us speak. We’re too preoccupied with our own half-formed memories.
Of course I want to know who the hell the woman in the photos was, and why the hell she screamed. But traveling that train of thought makes me queasy. If she was a part of our family’s life, at least between the time my dad was a teen and the year of the Christmas fiasco, I can’t understand why I don’t still know her now.
Another thought niggles in my mind as well, a recollection more recent and somehow connected. But I’m unable to push past the edges of it, to make out anything more than fluorescent lighting and a high-pitched giggle. I strain my focus until some asshole in a blue pickup blares his horn as he passes us. I roll down my window long enough to give him the finger, and then I shut off my brain and turn the stereo’s volume up.
Buffy Sainte-Marie distracts me until we hit weekend traffic, where I’m forced back from outer space to navigate the stop-and-go push through town. A long sigh whistles through my lips when we find a grocery store and turn into the packed parking lot, circling around twice before managing to nab a spot. No one talks as the engine dies down, the music is cut off, and the doors are thrown open. I climb out, the sun bright and warm against my skin. I tilt my face into it and listen to the obnoxiously normal sounds of the traffic on the street behind us.
“Come on, let’s get some food,” I say at last.
We make our way toward the store, me in front, Kayla in the middle, and Thomas bringing up the rear. Inside is cool and crowded. I hate crowds. But it’s Thanksgiving, so I guess I can’t be too surprised.
“Should we split up, or tackle this row by row?” Thomas asks, while Kayla grabs a cart.
“We might as well stick together,” she says. She tosses her sparkling teal purse into the cart and walks over to the produce area. “We’re only buying enough food for today and tomorrow. How much could we possibly get?”
“Uh, haven’t you ever heard of the Hacher appetite?” Thomas says, his eyes wandering even as he makes the remark. He checks out two girls buying apples, not the least bit shy when they notice his stare.
I give him a shove.
“Here for food, not for a date, eh?”
“Not looking for a date.” Thomas grins. “Just looking.”
I steer him toward the stand of oranges and bananas instead, and we pick a selection of fruits and cold cuts before an idea hits me.
“We should make a turkey,” I say, watching the mass of people milling around the meat counter.
“You’re kidding, right?” Kayla balks. “We can’t make a turkey.”
“Why not? It’s Thanksgiving, isn’t it?”
Kayla looks panicked. She turns to Thomas for support, but he only shrugs.
“Mom’s a vegetarian, so we never have turkey,” he says. “Only time I get it is as leftovers at someone else’s house. Might be nice to have it fresh for a change.”
My heavy braid slips from my shoulder and falls to the small of my back as I tilt my head in Thomas’s direction.
“Your mom’s a vegetarian?” I ask, interrupting my own conversation.
Thomas shrugs again. “Yeah. Has been since she was a teen. We’re not, Nolan and I. Drives her nuts, but she doesn’t push too hard.”
“Huh, I had no idea.”
Of course I had no idea. It’s so fucked up, reacquainting yourself with someone you ought to be familiar with.
“Okay, but … who is going to cook a turkey?” Kayla asks.
She reaches a finger up to her face as if she’s going to rub her eye, but her halt is abrupt, like she doesn’t want to risk smudging her liner.
“I’ll do it.” I smile
, ignoring the urge to rub my own eyes as a taunt. I like Kayla. I don’t need to torment her. “I love to cook.”
“Have you ever cooked a turkey?” Thomas asks.
This time I shrug. “No, but that’s never stopped me before.”
I head into the chaos, while behind me Kayla slumps over the grocery cart with a groan.
“This is going to be a disaster,” she says.
I laugh to myself as I dig into a pile of turkeys, looking for the best choice. I pick a cook-from-frozen kind since we don’t have a ton of time for defrosting. Then we head through the rest of the store, collecting the remaining ingredients.
“We’ll make it easy on ourselves,” I promise Kayla, trying to appease her fears about setting the cottage on fire or sending us all to the hospital with food poisoning. “Boxed stuffing and instant gravy. Frozen veggies, too. Okay? Except potatoes. I make a mean mash, but it’s gotta be done from scratch.”
“Sounds aggressive,” Thomas says.
“It’s kick-your-ass good.” I smirk.
“What about dessert?” Kayla asks as we add a selection of beverages and some breakfast things to the cart.
“We need pie,” Thomas says immediately. “It’s not Thanksgiving without pie.”
“I can’t bake a pie,” I warn them. “I can cook, but I can’t bake to save my life.”
“We can buy one,” Kayla suggests.
Thomas shakes his head. “No way. The pie has to be real. I’ll bake it myself if I have to.”
“Can you bake?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he says with beaming pride.
I roll my eyes as we turn into the next aisle. “Great.”
Thomas picks up a can of pumpkin, the kind with the recipe right on the label. We find the needed ingredients, and then further our gluttony by heading into the candy aisle.
This is my paradise. Other girls can diet all they want — I say to hell with it. If these last couple of weeks have taught me anything, it’s that life can be shitty, so there’s no point wasting it starving. I don’t gorge myself on food. Lately, I’ve become much more aware of what I eat, and I try to keep it wholesome. But I have the fabled Hacher appetite, and I’m not afraid to indulge.
