The Photo

(This story deals with illness and death.)

The Photo

by Jennifer Luckett

I rearranged the pillow under my head, and the battle for comfort began. No nurses responded when I pressed the call button for something to help me sleep, though nothing eases the discomfort of my terminal cancer. Now, it’s maintaining a balance, but pain means I’m still here. I’ve been catching up on a stack of unread mysteries and unfinished writing. I’ve settled all my other affairs, and Jenny will take care of anything I've left undone. Chaplain visits have given me clarity and serenity; but honestly, who is ever ready to cease their existence? Maybe 90 year olds who’ve lived through every hardship, or hopeless condemned prisoners. It’s different for unmarried childless women in their mid-thirties, finally getting the hang of life.

My younger sister arrived unaccompanied, holding what looked like scrapbooks or photo albums and used her back to close the door.

           “I’d get up to help you, but…” 

           Jenny huffed when she reached my bedside. “It’s fine, Anna-bear.”  

           I smiled because she knows how much I love the nickname.

          “I thought you might like to take a look at these." Jenny handed me a tattered photo album, an old Polaroid tumbling onto my scratchy blanket.

          I blinked away hot tears threatening to fall. “Of course. Wow, look at this one.”

          The photo at my fingertips depicted the perfect multi-racial mid-80s family unit. Our parents, flanking the three of us, arranged oldest to youngest-Jenny, in between Danny and me, wearing white button-downs and navy skirts and slacks. Our baby brother clung to our mother, in her navy shift dress she never allowed me to borrow, and Dad looked so handsome in his single button suit beside me. Grandma snapped this photo one Sunday when we visited her regularly, before our family fell apart.

     “I really didn’t want to take this picture, I hate being in the middle!” Jenny sidled up beside me, tucking the blanket underneath a smaller album.

     “You were so cute.” I grasped her soft warm hand.

     Jenny opened the book, and pulled out a different photo. “This one came out so well, don’t you think?”

     My siblings and our parents posed with glowing grins, a slide served as the backdrop, on a brilliant cloudless day. Assorted wildflowers threaded the abundant grass where they knelt, indicating Spring or more likely Summer. It was the perfect family portrait, but I noted one significant absence.

     “Did Grandma come with us?” I asked.

     Jenny’s eyes flew open wide. “Of course she didn’t.”

     I raised an eyebrow. “Who took this picture?”

     My sister shot me one of her famous “Are you serious?” looks, her arms folded across her chest.

      I squinted at the image again. “Really?”

     Jenny nodded. “You snapped it right before we left. See the mud on Danny’s shirt?” Dirt caked the rainbow of his graphic T-shirt.

     “Did y’all make mudpies?”

     “You and Danny did, don’t you remember how mad Mom got, Anna?” Jenny’s reminder did nothing to jog my failing memory, possibly the effects of the drugs, or my tumors.  

      Why would my parents exclude me? My mother usually photographed us, carefully curating our photo albums. Then, I realized that this picture showed Danny as the oldest he ever was; the fatal accident occurred shortly after our day at the park. He was my bestie, even though 4 ½ years separated us, building living room forts and playing board games, the most cheerful, adorable kid I ever knew, with his chubby arms and cheek, topped with sandy corkscrew curls. I squeezed my eyes shut, replaying the insistent knock on our front door, my mother’s ear-splitting shrieks that echoed off the walls, a vigil in our room, Jenny and I folded into each other, shaking and crying until we had no tears left.

     “I remember that night, too, Anna, like it was yesterday,” Jenny said, batting away a tear. I handed her my nearly empty box of tissues, and we pored over the albums until I couldn’t hold my head up any longer.

      “What do you need, sweetie?”

      “Nothing, Jen. I’m OK. But, really, why can’t I remember this? Mom would get so mad if either of us touched her Nikon, why would she let me use it for this picture? Maybe I’m just too tired to remember.”

     “Listen, you sleep, and I’m gonna shop, and come back later,” Jenny said.

     “Sweetie, I’ll see you tomorrow, please go home and rest. They need you. I’ll be fine here.” I’m a really good liar.

       She kissed the top of my head and left three of the albums before she dragged the chair back to its spot and departed. I stashed the other albums in the bedside bureau, and held onto the photo.

      “I’m here, Anna,” a voice whispered.

      I reached up and switched off the overhead light. The voice had been as real as the darkness of my room, and the sharp twinge racing through my body. I rapid-clicked my PCA, rested my head on my pillow and eyed the park photo propped against my stack of books. Had I been happy that day, or were our parents arguing, the way they always did before their separation? This image seemed to sum up my life- present, yet on the edge of everything. 

    I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, ignoring the beeping monitor tracking the thud of my weakened heart. 

   “Follow me, Anna.” A carpet of soft grass tickled my bare toes, an orange butterfly hummed in my ear before it landed on my shoulder. Brilliant rays of light streamed from a cloudless sky, a beatific blue. I chased the voice’s echo, ever closer but far away, and glimpsed a billowing shadow until I reached the top of a staircase bathed in pearlescent white. A whisper beckoned me again.

     “I’m here.” The blue in the immaculate rainbow shirt he wore matched the sky above us, and I clasped his tiny outstretched hand.

     “Hi, Danny.”

     “Hi, Anna-bear.” We basked in an infinite sunlight, a portrait of endless joy and happiness.