They look miserable.
I flick to the next.
My heart skips a beat—because why the hell would Eric Harling have any of these pictures, especially one of my Nonna and Grandmother Ethel sharing tea?
Ropes of nausea are unfurling through me.
I flick to the next picture, but it’s a letter, folded twice over.
I glide my thumb through the creases until it’s unfolded, and I’m staring down at warping ink.
I skim it.
‘Dray,
I had these developed over the weekend.
They are incomplete without Olivia in attendance, but I do hope you enjoy them, nonetheless.
Next New Year, I look forward to having her smiling face among ours in the photographs.
I hope the semester is treating you well.
With love,
Mother’
The letter falls from my hand.
The photographs slip with it, landing in the open drawer with a flutter and scatter.
I blink down at the mess for a beat.
And my stagnant gaze lands on the cologne.
I snatch it, then bring the bottle to my nose.
The liquid sloshes against the tall glass encasing, trembling in the quake of my hand.
The glass rim is cold and damp on the tip of my nose. My throat is closed, tight, as if it can fight it. But I breathe, I breathe through the clenching of my lungs, and it hits me.
Dark, rippling waters.
My bones rattle, a sudden jolt striking through me.
Dark, rippling waters.
I bite down on the insides of my cheek, blocking the hollow sound that’s crawling up my throat.
The bottle trembles violently in my hand.
Bunched in my other arm, the silk dress and fluffy stilettos are steeled firm against my midsection, and the heels are digging into me.
I welcome the bite of pain into my rib.
It might just be the only thing grounding me, keeping me upright as, slowly, numbly, I set the bottle down on the bedside.
‘Not all gifts were appropriate this year.’
