Pictures of You by Caroline Leavitt Page B

want a memorial. We’ll scatter the ashes when we’re ready.”
    His father studied him. “Charlie,” he said finally. “What are you telling us?”
    Charlie felt a flash of helpless anger at April. They had never even had a will until after Sam was born, and even then, it had been like pulling teeth to get April to do it. “Nothing’s going to happen to us,” she insisted. The day they had drawn up a will, she had stashed it deep in a drawer.
    “You need to have a ceremony. Have people there when you bury the ashes,” his mother said.
    “No.”
    “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”
    Charlie thought of April’s ashes, dust in a box. He wondered how long funeral homes held ashes, if he could leave them there forever, as if they didn’t exist. Why would you want to make yourself hurt more by making a ceremony out of them?
    Charlie’s father picked up a small plastic figure from the porch table, a Hawaiian hula girl swinging her hips that Charlie had bought to make April laugh. He studied it and then looked at Charlie. “You were only one when my mother died, so you don’t remember her, but I do. Even now. When my mother died, I visited her grave every single week for five years. You have no idea how much comfort it gave me. I don’t go so much anymore, but I like knowing she’s there. Knowing I could go if I wanted.” He touched Charlie’s arm. “You need to have a place for your feelings.”
    One place, Charlie thought? What about in the supermarket buying pasta and remembering how April made necklaces for Sam out of macaroni? What about driving to the gas station and remembering how April was always having trouble with the car but he never did? What about, even now, walking into the house and, for one terrifying and wonderful second, smelling the soap she used?
    Charlie took the hula girl from his father. “She wouldn’t be there, not in a grave.”
    “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Charlie’s father. He threwup his hands. “I’m going to shower and then hit the hay,” he said, rising heavily and going into the house. As soon as he was gone, Charlie’s mother leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I don’t understand it,” his mother said. “I’ve heard the story three times already, but still, I just don’t understand it. What was she doing on that road, anyway? Why would she let Sam run out of the car?”
    “Maybe she didn’t let him.”
    “What do you mean, she didn’t let him? What did Sam tell you?”
    “I told you, he won’t talk about it. Maybe it’s good that he forgets.”
    “Oh, sweetheart,” his mother said, touching his shoulder. “You think he can forget?”
    “Did you like her?” he asked quietly. He half expected her to say “who,” but instead she shut her eyes for a moment. “What difference does it make?” she said, finally.
    “It makes a lot of difference to me.”
    His mother picked up her wine and sipped. “This wine is heavenly. I don’t know why no one is drinking it but me.”
    “What do you remember about her?” he asked. “Do you remember she used to always wear her cardigan sweaters with the buttons at the back? That she didn’t eat ice cream, but she could easily go through a box of Mallomars all by herself?”
    “Stop this,” his mother said. “Please.”
    “Tell me about when she came to visit you that time in New York. What did you talk about? She was so excited. She spent days figuring out the perfect gift to give you, planning the things you could do together. She so wanted you to like her. Did you?”
    “Charlie,” his mother warned. “Why are you doing this?”
    “Don’t you have memories of Dad in your early days? Don’t you go over and over them? Relive them?”
    “Sometimes,” she said evasively.
    “You’re lucky you still have each other,” Charlie said. “You’re lucky you’re so close.” He looked thoughtfully at his mother. “Youknow that one thing April and I had in common. We both spent