You Are Here(63)

Beneath these was a small silver-edged photo album, and Emma breathed in at the sight of the engraved names: Tommy and Emma. She found herself almost smiling; she’d known somehow that he would have been a Tommy. And if he’d never had the chance to become any of the other things she’d imagined for him, she was happy that at least he’d had that.

The pictures inside had been taken mostly in the hospital: Mom smiling wearily from the bed, a baby crooked in each arm; Dad kneeling beside her with a goofy grin; Annie as a teenager, kissing baby Emma on the forehead; Patrick, lanky and buck-toothed at fifteen, holding up Tommy’s hand in a miniature high five. In the back of the album were a few pictures taken on the front lawn of this very house, of Mom and Dad each holding one of the twins up to the camera, bundled so that just their noses were visible. There was something different about her parents here; their eyes hadn’t yet misted over in the look Emma had always thought of as a kind of distant dreaminess, but which she now recognized for what it was: the scar left behind by their loss.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard footsteps on the sagging wooden stairs, and she thought about leaping into action, shoving the box back in its place and lunging for the salad bowl, pretending none of this had ever happened, but instead she stayed where she was—beside the open box, holding a photo of the entire family: Mom, Dad, Nate, Annie, Patrick, Emma, and Tommy—and waited until Mom appeared, pausing on the bottom step with a look on her face that was impossible to read.

Emma wasn’t sure what to expect. Her family wasn’t accustomed to delving into anything too far outside the realm of academia, and now that she’d uncovered the one subject that had been kept the most quiet of all, now that the lid was—quite literally—off the box, Emma wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed.

But if what she’d expected was another lecture, another point-by-point explanation dictated by logic and reason, then she’d been wrong. Instead, without saying a word, Mom crossed the basement and sat down beside Emma on the couch, leaning over to plant a kiss on her forehead. She didn’t say she’d been wrong, and she didn’t tell Emma why it had been kept a secret. She didn’t apologize, and she didn’t explain. Instead she took the photo album gently from Emma’s hands and opened it up to the first page. And then she began to talk.

“This was just a few hours after you were both born,” she said, her voice soft and thick. “I was in labor for twelve hours. You two were worse than any of the others.”

Emma watched her mom’s face as she flipped the pages, the lines that gathered at the corners of her eyes like a map of their shared past.

“You came out first,” she said, tracing the edges of the picture with her thumb. “And then he …” She cleared her throat, then started again. “And then Thomas—Tommy—was next. His face was all pinched like he was already annoyed at being last.” She smiled and blinked hard. “He would’ve been a real handful. He was already stubborn as anything. It’s amazing how much you can tell, even in such a short time.”

Emma leaned in closer to look at the pictures, so close that their elbows were touching, and after a few minutes she rested her cheek on her mother’s shoulder, looking on as Mom colored in the pictures, filling in the missing pieces.

When she paused, Emma sat up to look at her.

“I study anthropology,” Mom said, her eyes focused across the room. “I lecture about grief, about burial rights and the way people mourn.” She turned to face Emma. “There’s no right way to do it. Some people need to talk, and others just can’t. Some need to remember, and others to forget. It’s different for everyone.”

Emma nodded, and Mom shook her head and smiled.

“And some need to steal a couple of cars and drive a few hundred miles.”

“Some do, I guess,” Emma said ruefully.

There was another soft thud from the top of the stairs, and they both looked over to see Dad’s loafers, and then a moment later his balding head, as he ducked to see who was below. And by the time he reached the bottom step—his face already changing as he realized what they were looking at—Patrick was pounding his way down as well, muttering all the while about how hungry he was before falling silent when he saw the scene on the couch. One by one they were joined by the rest of the family, until all of them were huddled together in the damp coolness of the basement. Nate nodded at Emma from where he sat on the arm of the couch, and she smiled at him gratefully. Upstairs the burgers were burning on the grill, and the salad was growing limp in its bowl. But no one seemed in a rush to leave as Mom began to speak again.

There were no asides about poetry or statistics, no interruptions or jokes. They were too busy listening and remembering, digging through the old collection of memories, the lost history that belonged to each and every one of them. It almost felt as if the story couldn’t have been told until now anyway, until they were all gathered here together like this.

And just like that, Emma knew what she wanted for her birthday.

Chapter twenty-six

When Peter woke the following morning, it was to discover two state troopers leaning against the blue convertible and regarding him suspiciously. Their patrol car was parked just behind it, the squawking of the radio interrupting the otherwise quiet morning. Beside him the dog lifted his head and then—seeing nothing of any great interest—rolled back over in the soft grass with a contented sigh.