This is a private moment. I don’t belong here. “I should go. I’ve . . .”
“Don’t go,” Bobby says. “Tell her, Daddy. Tell Joy to stay.”
“Please, Joy,” he says, pulling Bobby close against him. “Don’t go.”
It is the way he says please that traps me; that, and the knowledge that Bobby is fragile now. I cross around the makeshift coffee table and sit down next to Daniel.
“Make room for her, Dad.”
Daniels scoots toward his son.
“I have plenty of room,” I say.
Bobby looks up at his dad. “Joy says I’ll always remember things about Mommy. Like the butterfly clips she wore. And the way she gave me fish kisses at naptime.”
“Fish kisses,” Daniel says, his voice gruff. I know he’s remembering her now, too.
“She always got the words wrong in the Winnie-the-Pooh song.” Bobby’s voice is stronger now, less uncertain.
“Her nighttime prayers went on forever,” Daniel says, smiling now. “She blessed everyone she’d ever met.” He looks down at Bobby. “And she loved you, boyo.”
“You, too.”
“Aye.”
Daniel opens the photo album on his lap. There, in black and white is a series of pictures: a boy playing kick-the-can on dirty streets, and riding his rusty bike, and standing by a stone stacked fence, with a kite. The boy has jet black hair that needs a cut. Daniel .
There’s another shot of a dirty street and a pub called the Pig-and-Whistle.
“That’s Nana and Papa,” Bobby says, pointing to the couple standing at the pub’s wooden door. “They live in Boston now.”
“Still spend their time hanging around the pubs,” Daniel says, laughing as he turns the page.
Maggie .
Her face looks up at us, wreathed in bridal lace. She looks young and bright and gloriously happy. Her smile could light up Staples Center.
I can’t help thinking of my own wedding album, tucked deep in an upstairs bookcase, gathering the dust of lost years. I wonder if I’d even recognize my younger self, or would I look through the images of my own life like an archeologist, studying artifacts of an extinct race?
And what of Stacey? Can I really stay away from her wedding, her big moment? We have always been the witnesses of each other’s lives. Isn’t that what family is? Even broken and betrayed and bleeding, we are connected.
I push the thoughts aside and focus on the photographs in Daniel’s album.
The next few pages contain dozens of wedding shots. Daniel goes through them without comment; I hear his relieved sigh when he comes to the end of them.
“There’s me,” Bobby says, pointing at the first photo of a baby so tiny his face looks like a pink quarter.
“Aye. That’s the day we brought you home from the hospital.”
“But Mommy’s crying.”
“That’s because she loved you so much.”
From there on, as Daniel turns the pages, he talks, telling the story of their family in that musical brogue of his, and with every passing moment, every syllable that sounds like a song lyric, I can see them moving closer together, this boy with a broken heart and the man who loves him.
“That’s your first friend, your cousin Sean . . . your first birthday party . . . the day you said ‘Mama.’”
In time, I begin to notice that there are fewer pictures of him and none of him and Maggie. The whole album is Bobby.
I know how a thing like this happens. Not all at once, but day by day. You stop wanting to record every minute of an unhappy life. In Bakersfield, I have a drawer of similar albums, where the oldest versions are of Thom and me, and the newest ones are mostly scenery.
By the time Daniel reaches the last page, Bobby is asleep, tucked in close to his father. Daniel says softly, “Joy?”
At my name, whispered as it is in the quiet between us, he sighs and smiles.
“I’m here,” I say, waiting for more.
When he says nothing, I decide to be bold. I lean toward him, say, “Maybe you and I . . .” I don’t
“Don’t go,” Bobby says. “Tell her, Daddy. Tell Joy to stay.”
“Please, Joy,” he says, pulling Bobby close against him. “Don’t go.”
It is the way he says please that traps me; that, and the knowledge that Bobby is fragile now. I cross around the makeshift coffee table and sit down next to Daniel.
“Make room for her, Dad.”
Daniels scoots toward his son.
“I have plenty of room,” I say.
Bobby looks up at his dad. “Joy says I’ll always remember things about Mommy. Like the butterfly clips she wore. And the way she gave me fish kisses at naptime.”
“Fish kisses,” Daniel says, his voice gruff. I know he’s remembering her now, too.
“She always got the words wrong in the Winnie-the-Pooh song.” Bobby’s voice is stronger now, less uncertain.
“Her nighttime prayers went on forever,” Daniel says, smiling now. “She blessed everyone she’d ever met.” He looks down at Bobby. “And she loved you, boyo.”
“You, too.”
“Aye.”
Daniel opens the photo album on his lap. There, in black and white is a series of pictures: a boy playing kick-the-can on dirty streets, and riding his rusty bike, and standing by a stone stacked fence, with a kite. The boy has jet black hair that needs a cut. Daniel .
There’s another shot of a dirty street and a pub called the Pig-and-Whistle.
“That’s Nana and Papa,” Bobby says, pointing to the couple standing at the pub’s wooden door. “They live in Boston now.”
“Still spend their time hanging around the pubs,” Daniel says, laughing as he turns the page.
Maggie .
Her face looks up at us, wreathed in bridal lace. She looks young and bright and gloriously happy. Her smile could light up Staples Center.
I can’t help thinking of my own wedding album, tucked deep in an upstairs bookcase, gathering the dust of lost years. I wonder if I’d even recognize my younger self, or would I look through the images of my own life like an archeologist, studying artifacts of an extinct race?
And what of Stacey? Can I really stay away from her wedding, her big moment? We have always been the witnesses of each other’s lives. Isn’t that what family is? Even broken and betrayed and bleeding, we are connected.
I push the thoughts aside and focus on the photographs in Daniel’s album.
The next few pages contain dozens of wedding shots. Daniel goes through them without comment; I hear his relieved sigh when he comes to the end of them.
“There’s me,” Bobby says, pointing at the first photo of a baby so tiny his face looks like a pink quarter.
“Aye. That’s the day we brought you home from the hospital.”
“But Mommy’s crying.”
“That’s because she loved you so much.”
From there on, as Daniel turns the pages, he talks, telling the story of their family in that musical brogue of his, and with every passing moment, every syllable that sounds like a song lyric, I can see them moving closer together, this boy with a broken heart and the man who loves him.
“That’s your first friend, your cousin Sean . . . your first birthday party . . . the day you said ‘Mama.’”
In time, I begin to notice that there are fewer pictures of him and none of him and Maggie. The whole album is Bobby.
I know how a thing like this happens. Not all at once, but day by day. You stop wanting to record every minute of an unhappy life. In Bakersfield, I have a drawer of similar albums, where the oldest versions are of Thom and me, and the newest ones are mostly scenery.
By the time Daniel reaches the last page, Bobby is asleep, tucked in close to his father. Daniel says softly, “Joy?”
At my name, whispered as it is in the quiet between us, he sighs and smiles.
“I’m here,” I say, waiting for more.
When he says nothing, I decide to be bold. I lean toward him, say, “Maybe you and I . . .” I don’t
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