“You killed your own mother, E,” I remind him.
“She had a gun pointed at you,” he says. “I will kill anyone who points a gun at you.”
My mother doesn’t have guns. She’d also never point one at me. I know it’s fucked up, what she did. But in her mind, she does love me. That mind just isn’t healthy.
With each step we take towards the house, my heart beats faster and faster. When we get to the door, I raise my fist and knock.
I hear the sound of heels clicking, and the door opens. My mother’s smile falls when she sees me. “Evie?” Then that well-practiced pageant smile is back on her face. “Sweetheart, you look beautiful.”
“Can I come in?” I ask her.
My mother frowns. “This is your home. Of course, you can come in,” she says, stepping out of the way. She holds the door open and I walk through, pulling Emmanuel behind me. “This is Emmanuel, my fiancé.”
“Oh.” My mother gives me a once-over. “You look beautiful, Evie. Wait… Let me get the camera. I need to capture this moment.”
“No,” I say, my voice firm. “Not right now, Mom. Maybe after,” I suggest, because I know my mother. Her pictures of me are more important than the actualme.
She nods. “Okay, come on in. Can I get you anything?”
“No,” I say, following her into the living room. The space hasn’t changed at all.
I sit on the two-seater sofa. Emmanuel sits next to me. I know the moment he spots the picture. It’s in a frame on the table beside the chair my mother is sitting on. The entire room is filled with photos of me. Or at least I was always led to believe they were of me. I had such bad memory issues back then that I believed I just didn’t remember having certain pictures taken.
“Who is she?” I ask my mother.
“Who is who, sweetheart?”
I stand and pick up the photo. “Her. Who is she and why do you have a picture of her?”
“It’s you, Evie,” my mother says without missing a beat.
I sit back down, the photo still in my grip. Emmanuel takes it from me. He undoes the back of the frame and pulls the picture out. “Laura, eternally beautiful,” is written on the back of the image.
He hands it to me. “This was her copy of the picture,” he says. “I wrote that.”
I suck in a lungful of air. I will not let words he said to someone when he was sixteen hurt me. I will not let this hurt us. “Why do you have this, Mom?” I ask.
“How do you know Laura? Do you know where she is now?” My mom is looking at Emmanuel.
“The question is how didyouknow her?” Emmanuel counters, his voice hard.
“She’s my daughter,” Mom says.
“What?” both Emmanuel and I ask at the same time.
“She’s your sister, Evie.”
“I don’t have a sister. I would remember having a sister, Mom. What are you talking about?” I’m so confused.
“There were two of you… when you were born. But your father wouldn’t let me keep you both. So he took one. He took Laura, and let me have you,” she says. “Then I found her, in Las Vegas, but she didn’t want to know us.” A sadness covers my mom’s face. “She was so beautiful, just like you, Evie. She could have been a queen too. Together, you could have owned that stage. Two crowns.”
Emmanuel squeezes my hand. “Mom, how did you get this picture?” I question.
“I followed her to an apartment, and I took it. She wouldn’t come home with us. But I brought her here anyway.” My mom looks at Emmanuel. “Do you know where she is? Is she still beautiful?”
Emmanuel looks at me before answering. “Iknow where she is. She is still beautiful, Miss Carter. Laura will always be this version of herself.” He passes the picture back to my mother.
“Oh, good. That’s good. It’s important to be beautiful,” Mom says.
