“Shhh, be nice,” Lindsey says.
“I am, Linds. I am,” I reply.
The three of us take the steps one at a time, and after a few minutes, my mom and I manage to get my sister into my bed and pull her shoes off. I throw the quilt over her, and she’s snoring by the time I slip back out the door with my mom.
“You’re a good sister. I hope you know that,” she says.
I pull my lips into the familiar forced smile and nod.
“Thanks.”
My chest is tight for lots of reasons. I feel unsettled, for sure, but nothing makes my chest tighter than being alone with my mom. To end this moment on the positive, I decide it’s best I leave her with that small token and kindness and slip downstairs so I can make myself comfortable on the blow-up mattress next to the boys.This house is too small for this many people.
“Renleigh, hold on a second,” she says, her fingernails grazing the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
I should keep going.
I sigh softly and turn around to face her, my tight, forced smile clearly pretend now.
“Can we?” She nods over her shoulder, toward her bedroom, which was mine a week ago.
“Sure,” I relent.
I’m too tired to fight.
I follow my mom into her room, and she glances over her shoulder as she sits on the foot of the bed.
“Close the door a little,” she says.
I do, leaving it cracked enough for an escape, I suppose, then join her on the bed. She pulls a cardboard box from the center of her mattress to her lap and flips open the lid. I recognize the photo of me and Lindsey in the baby pool instantly. We’remaybe two and five, respectively. Our hair is covered in mud, and Lindsey pushed my short hair into a mohawk with it after attempting to do the same with her own. I was too young to fully remember the moment, but I have heard the story many times. And this picture has always been one of my favorites.
“I love this photo,” I say, taking it in my hands.
My mom leans closer but doesn’t touch me.
“Yeah,” she says. I glance at her in my periphery, and she’s smiling softly. She smiles a lot. More than I give her credit for.
She pulls another photo out, this one of the four of us at some amusement park. I’m in a blue wagon. I vaguely remember this one, too. Again, I was little. Not much older than the mud photo.
“Where was this?” I ask.
She runs her fingers over the yellowing photo, still smiling.
“Upstate. It was high school baseball playoffs, and they had a carnival. The team got knocked out early, so we stretched the weekend into a family trip. We didn’t get many of those.”
She’s right. We didn’t. Because she wasn’t here for them.
“Why are we looking at these?”
I level her with a frank gaze, and she draws in a deep breath before letting her shoulders sag and putting the photos back in the box, seemingly filled with so many more.
“I wanted you to see that we were happy. Your dad and me. Wearehappy. We’ve never been enemies. I love your father, very much. And he loves me.”
I shake with a silent laugh.
“Sure,” I utter.
“No, Renleigh. We do. We did, even then. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have regrets. Because I do. I regret leaving after his last stroke. That wasn’t right of me. But?—”
