What Lies Beyond the Veil(Of Flesh & Bone #1)(34)

My favorite is one of Momma. Looks like she’s bout my age now, with glasses big as her face and the same smile lighting her cheeks. I like all the special holiday pictures, but my favorite is this regular ol’ day, Momma on the floor of a room with carpet thick as uncut grass, holding a doll in her hands. She ain’t looking at the camera, only at that doll. In the background, Granny’s watching Momma watch the doll. I guess it’s Granddaddy taking the picture, so close I can see a glimmer of light reflected in Granny’s dark eyes. Momma looks at that doll like she looks at me and Nia, smiles her best ice cream cone smile. I trace the worn edges of the photo with my fingertips, Momma’s smile on my face.

But then I swallow hard. That giant lump in my throat is back, like when Daddy died. Or even before that, like the time he yelled at Momma and slammed the door so hard the house shook. I tried, for Momma, not to cry them times. And I try not to cry now, for me.

Granddaddy turns the page. I thought I would be sad to stop looking at the perfect picture, but now I feel relieved it’s over. I watch as Granddaddy flips, more quickly now, through photos of Momma. Over and over, I watch Momma live and breathe in the yellowed snapshots. I see why Granddaddy said she was like me, cause in almost every picture, Momma got a book. Soon, Momma is older. I also see why people say Nia looks like her, cause in some of the pictures I think it’s Nia, not Momma, laughing on the porch or singing in the choir. They even parade the same pose in pictures: hand on hip, turn to the side—but not the other side—half smile to show off a perfectly round dimple, then snap! I think bout goin’ to get Nia to show her the pictures, showing her how much Momma looks like her; how much she looks like Momma.

Before I can, Granddaddy hands me the photo album so that it’s laying in my lap, and I keep flipping through the pages while he goes to sit in the wicker chair from the photos. I smile at another picture of Momma and Granny, this time sittin’ on the porch with Momma between Granny’s knees and Granny braiding two braids in Momma’s hair. Just like Momma braids mine. “What happened to Granny?” I ask, as I realize that the more I keep turning pages, the less she’s in the pictures. In fact, after a while, she ain’t in none of the pictures at all. Granddaddy don’t answer right away, so I set down the album and creep closer, leaning on the arm of the couch.

“She died,” is his eventual reply. I wait for more, but it don’t come.

“When?” I finally ask. I know he don’t wanna talk bout it, but I do.

“When your momma was ten.”

I finally have the answer, and I don’t know what to say. When Momma was ten? I think bout losing Momma now, when I’m ten, and suddenly the throat lump is even bigger. Losing Daddy wasn’t no easy thing, but losing Momma? No wonder Momma never talks bout Granny. I bet the lump in her throat is so big by now that she couldn’t even squeeze out the words if she tried. I open the photo album again and flip to my favorite picture, with Momma and the doll. It looks so different now, even though I’m looking through the same eyes. But different, somehow.

“That’s the last picture of the two of them together.” Granddaddy sits beside me again, resting his weight into mine so that we push each other straight. I look up from the photo album and into his dark eyes. Ain’t no tears, but they’re the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“I bet you and Momma really had to be there for each other, once she was gone.” I offer Granddaddy a smile, but he lowers his eyes like he just remembered something he ain’t mean to remember. Then he takes a deep breath and reaches over to grab his Bible from the table.

“Your momma wanted to be on TV, did she ever tell you that?” I shake my head, just as Granddaddy pulls a picture out from between the pages of his Bible. The picture looks old, with crumbling edges and yellowed sides. Just like the old photos from the album, but for some reason, kept separate.

I take the picture from his trembling hand. Momma ain’t ever said nothin’ bout being on TV. She acts like she don’t like TV at all, since she never wants us to watch too much.

I look at the picture, and just like that, Momma is young again. Probably older than Nia, but still not quite a grown-up. She got makeup all on her face that makes her look like a life-sized doll. Her hair is curled tight on top of her head, with spiral ringlets falling into her frozen expression. I can’t tell where she’s at in the photo, cause it’s so close that only her face shows. Her eyes are soft and her smile is true. I think it’s the prettiest I’ve ever seen Momma, cept when she’s sleeping. I love watching Momma when she’s sleeping, and wild hair covers her calm face.

“That there was her headshot,” Granddaddy interrupts my thoughts. “She begged and begged for one, but I always said no.”

“What’s a headshot?” I ask quick, before he can go on.

“It’s a kind of picture that shows only your face. Just like this one.” He strokes the image gently, like he’s afraid it’ll crumble in his hands. “You need one to get jobs like a model or an actress.” I think he sees the confusion in my eyes, cause then he adds, “To be on TV.”

“Oh.” I look at the picture closer. “I bet Momma got a good job with this one.” In my mind, I see Momma on TV, smiling her ice cream cone smile at the cameras. A grin stretches cross my face as I think bout Momma this way, but Granddaddy frowns.