I’m slightly irritated. Because I was the one in charge of the whole project. “Vin, this was your Mom’s birthday gift.”
He shakes his head again. “No…My mom’s birthday gift was mailed to her house.”
Now he’s got my full attention. “What are you talking about?”
“The family portrait you had framed? The one of all of us on the beach?”
“Right…”
“St. Michel mailed that to her house. Gift-wrapped and all. It’s over her mantel right now.”
“What?” My incredulousness is so exaggerated he laughs. And then pulls out his phone. He scrolls for a second and comes up with a photo. It’s of his mother grinning from ear to ear with one hand on her mantel. Above it is the framed photo that, for weeks, I’ve been thinking was in this brown paper package. I zoom in on the framed portrait. The one I’ve been avoiding even thinking about. There we are, Vin’s mom, Vin, Raffi, and me, all smiling with our arms around one another. The lighting, ambient and diffused, is lovely. The ocean is a dignified gray in the background, we’re all wearing shades of blue, as mandated by me.
The feeling I had that rainy night returns. It’s a family photo. Of a family I was about to exit.
My fingers tingle just looking at it. It’s all so surreal. I zoom out and see Vin’s mom’s smile. It hurts. She loves us so much. Her entire, intact family.
Vin’s peering over my shoulder at the phone. “I never thanked you for that.”
“For planning her gift?”
“Yes. For considering her birthday. Choosing the photo. Choosing the framing that would look best. But…you organized that photographer too. Told us all what to wear. Picked the perfect location on the beach.”
My fingers are tingling even harder now, my gut flips. “It’s the beach. Any location is the perfect location.”
He ignores my casual belittlement of myself. “You did all the work for this.”
I hand his phone back to him. “I didn’t have St. Michel mail it, though. He wouldn’t have even had your mother’s address.”
“Right.” He slides his phone away and clears his throat. Stepping back from me. “I did that part.”
“Why?”
“I…I wasn’t sure…I wasn’t sure I was going to make it up there that weekend and I wanted to make sure she had her gift.”
This is news to me. All of it. “Going up for her birthday was always the plan…wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Until…I actually had this different idea. Like…a surprise, I guess?”
He’s getting flustered. The words aren’t flowing, his brow is going down. He doesn’t know how to explain this to me.
“Just tell it linearly.”
His eyes shoot to mine.
“Don’t worry about getting any background in, or whatever. You can fill it in later. I’m listening. I’m not going anywhere until you’re done. Just tell it in the order it happened.”
He considers this, his eyes on the ground. Not being obstinate, I can see now, but slowly gathering thoughts, putting them in the right order.
“Okay. So,” he starts. “St. Michel called you a while ago to tell you that my mom’s gift was finished. But you didn’t answer, I guess, so he calledmeto come pick it up. When I got there, he was like,She always checks my work,so I opened it up to check.” He laughs a little. “And then I saw the photo. The one you chose. And Roz…I hate that fucking photo.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I do. It’s obviously perfect and everyone else loves it, especially my mother. And I knew she was going to love it. So I had him gift-wrap it and mail it up to her house, but yeah. I hate that photo.”
“Why?” It’s lovely. Flattering. We’re all smiling. The angles hit. What could be wrong with it?
He pulls his phone out and brings up the photo of the portrait one more time, zooms in. Just looking at it makes his eyessad. He lets out a long resigned breath. “Look at the way we’re standing.”
