17 First Kisses by Rachael Allen Page B

studio used to be. Still is, I guess. Her equipment is still there—set up, untouched, and covered in a thick layer of dust.
    When I give everything an initial wiping with a rag, dust particles fill the air in nose-tickling, sneeze-producing puffs. I sweep the painted cement floor of its dirt, fuzz, and the occasional desiccated insect carcass. Then I start in on the walls. They’re covered in photographs of other people’s babies: chubby babies, teeny babies, babies that are smiling and jolly, and babies that are crying and red-faced. It’s no wonder she could never come back down here. I wipe down each one, wrap it in newspaper, hide them by the stack in cardboard boxes, and then hide the boxes.
    On Sunday, I know I have to try again. I lean against the wall outside my parents’ bedroom with my palms pressed against myeyes. “You can do this. You can do this. You can do this,” I whisper to myself. I try not to think about how the next few minutes could change our lives, because if I do I’ll completely lose it. One day. One goal. Get Mama to take pictures.
    It’s 10:00 a.m. The covers are still pulled tight around her head, but that’s normal. My dad’s side of the bed is smooth and pristine—he usually ends up falling asleep on the couch in his office. When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I weave through the room and peel back the comforter.
    â€œMama?”
    â€œMmm-hmm . . .” She tries to pull the comforter back over her head, so I sit on it.
    â€œIt’s ten o’clock. How about you get up and have some breakfast? I’ll make you something.”
    â€œNot right now, sweetie. Maybe in a little while.”
    She rolls away from me, but I don’t move.
    â€œEveryone’s getting their senior pictures made at Palmer’s. But they look terrible. And Megan and I, we were thinking, maybe you could take some pictures.”
    â€œTake pictures?” She turns to me, surprised. “But I haven’t done that in years. And I never took senior pictures anyway.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I say quickly. “Megan could come over, and you could just try it. This afternoon?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    I can see her slipping away. But I won’t let it happen again. I grip the comforter in clenched fists and take a deep breath. In a house where people don’t talk about things, I am about to dropa bomb. “Please, Mama, we . . . we need you. I know losing Baby Timothy was the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to you, but Libby and I are still here, and we need you to be our mom. I want you to be you again. I thought if you took pictures, it would help.”
    Mama’s eyes grow wide. She hugs her arms across her chest as if she’s trying to protect herself.
    â€œClaire, I—”
    â€œPlease.” My voice shakes with my desperation. It shuts down whatever excuse was forming in her mind.
    â€œI guess I could think about it,” she says slowly. But I feel like she’s just saying it to make me feel better. Or so I’ll stop talking about it. “Not today, though. I’m too tired.”
    I know what that means. That means never. I have to make this happen now.
    â€œYou can’t back out. She’s already coming over.”
    â€œShe is?” Mama always did feel the need to impress Megan, and I can see her wavering.
    â€œYes.” It’s a lie, but I can make it true with a thirty-second phone call.
    She gets in the shower, and I call Megan (that is, I squeal into the phone about how excited I am that my mom is going to take pictures again). Megan squeals back and promises to come over in a couple hours. I help my mom put on her makeup. Then we head down to her studio, where I help her get her equipment set up. Her cheeks turn pink from the exertion, and I can’t remember the last time I saw her look so healthy.
    We’re just setting up an