Lost Memories

           It was late October, and I sat on the sofa in my mother’s cottage-style home. The afternoon sun shone brightly through the large picture window. I thumbed through the pages of my mother’s collection of photo albums that she had collected over the years. Even in this day of technology where everyone else stored their photos on computers, phones, and flash drives, my mother still preferred the traditional method of printed pictures framed on the mantle or kept as keepsakes in albums.

           As I turned the page on one album, I came across a photo of my brothers and I at the beach. I believe it was the summer of 1978. I was seven at the time unless I’m mistaken. We had such fun back then. I sometimes wish I could relive those days. We would be swimming from the time we woke up to the time the sun went down if our parents would allow.

           I turned the next page, and one picture stood out. It was a black and white photo of a woman that looked like my mom, but I didn’t recognize the man in the photo with her. It certainly wasn’t my father. The man stood behind her and had his arms wrapped around my mother. I needed to find out who this was, but that may be difficult since my mom was now in her final resting place at Centennial Cemetery.

           I pulled the picture from beneath the plastic sleeve and tucked it into my jacket pocket, then, after searching through the rest of her albums for more evidence, I locked up and headed home.

           At home, it took several minutes before I could settle down. I had messages on my answering machine offering condolences for my loss, and my mom’s lawyer wanting to sit down with my brothers and I to discuss my mother’s Last Will and Testament.

           I am the middle child out of the three of us, so I decided to ask my older brother if he knew about any other man that mom was involved with before her, and dad were married. He told me that I was ridiculous to even think that. I suppose he was right.

           One week after the funeral, my brothers and I met up with Mister Davidson, my mom’s attorney. He told us that the house was to be sold and the profits would be divided evenly among us three boys. First, we needed to pack up all her belongings.

           The following Saturday, we met up at the house with empty boxes and got to work. All her clothes were packed in boxes and brought to a shelter for battered women. Her furniture was being sold online, and I asked my brothers if I could keep the photo albums. They agreed on the stipulation that I let them take some of their old childhood pictures.

           We found a dust-covered box in the garage labeled, “BOYS,” and inside, we found our trophies and plaques from our school days. She even held onto my younger brother’s game ball from when his high school won the championship. We blew it up and tossed it around for a few minutes.

           As difficult as it was to realize my mother was gone, she was still living within each of us. My older brother had her sense of humor and her smile. My younger brother had her love for puzzles of all types. Jigsaw puzzles were her favorite. I inherited her love for life. I thrived on adventure and travel. My family used to travel a lot before my dad passed away, and then my mom felt that she should not go out and enjoy herself without my dad by her side. They were inseparable, so after he died, my mom’s spirit was broken.

           I opened a jewelry box that was packed away. Inside were a few trinkets and inexpensive pieces, but in the drawer that pulled out from below, I found a red journal. I began to read the entries.

           “Today was a wonderful day. I met a boy, well, a man, really. He was tall and handsome, and he treated me like a lady. I can’t bear the thought of mother and father meeting him, though. They would embarrass me so much.”

           I assumed that she was talking about my father, Jack, so I read on.

           “We spent the day hiking through the trails by the water. His family owned a cottage near there. The air was so clear, and the sun felt so warm against my skin.”

           I don’t recall my dad’s family having a cottage near the lake, but they might have sold it before I came along.

           “We stopped at a clearing near the top of the hill. He wrapped his arms around me and leaned in for a kiss. I had never kissed a boy before, so I pulled away at first. He rested his hand upon my cheek and tried once more. This time, I couldn’t resist. His lips caressed mine so passionately. I had never felt such a sensation before. I felt light-headed and began to fall backwards. Peter caught me though and held me tighter.”

           Peter? Did she say his name was Peter? I thought my mom said that her and my dad were childhood sweethearts? I had to know more. I continued to read but was interrupted by a stuffed animal that slammed against my head. I looked down at the purple dog that I owned as a young child. I named him “Grapes.” Then I looked up at my brothers who were staring at me with their hands on their hips, wondering when I was going to help them go through the rest of the stuff. I shoved the journal into my pocket and got back to work.

           Later that evening, as I laid on my bed, I read more of the journal. She told more stories about the time she spent with Peter. Not once did she mention my father. Some of the details were disturbing to read because of the detailed intimacy. That was a part of my mom’s life that I did not need to know. Near the end of the journal, I came across one entry that I thought would give me some answers.

           “It was near Christmas, and Peter’s parents invited me over to their house in the Westchester. It was a beautiful two-story home with a huge fireplace in the living room. Peter’s mom had hung stockings across the mantle with their names written on each one. There was even one with my name. I felt like part of the family. The Johnston’s were so nice to me.”

           “Peter Johnston” was his name. Well, that’s a start at least. I searched for his name on Google and ended up with over 120,000 hits, so I narrowed my search to the surrounding area. This brought the search down to five hits. One was a lawyer, which would explain the lavish lifestyle, but it showed him as being younger than me.

           Another was close to my mother’s age and lived in Kendal, an exclusive neighborhood just on the outskirts of town. The next day, I decided to pay him a visit.

           I pulled up to a grand white mansion with three luxury cars parked out front. Nervously, I approached the door and rang the bell. Moments later, a young man answered the door.

           “Can I help you?” he asked.

           “Perhaps. I am looking for Peter Johnston. Does he live here?”

           “Yes, he does. I’ll get him for you.”

           The young man left and ran into the other room. A woman around my age came to the door next. She asked what I wanted with her father. I told her that he knew someone close to me once, and I wanted to let him know she had passed away recently. She let me in and led me to the den where an elderly man sat by the fire reading a book. His hair was thick and white like snow drifts had blown across his head.

           “Dad,” his daughter began. “A gentleman is here to see you. He says he has some news for you about someone you once knew.”

           I sat in a red wingback chair opposite of him. Although he was much older, I could still see the resemblance to the picture. The solemn look upon his face was almost sorrowful.

           “Mister Johnston. My name is Sam. I was wondering if you remember the woman in this picture.”

           I held the picture out in front of him. He slipped on his bifocal glasses and looked closer at the photo. His scowl turned to a smile in an instant.

           “Oh yes,” he said. “I remember that day well. We were in love. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. We had so many good times together.”

           “I am sorry to tell you this, Mister Johnston, but she passed away.”

           “Oh, I already knew that!” he exclaimed.

           Confused, I wondered how he could have heard the news. Perhaps he read the obituary.

           “I was at her funeral,” he stated assuredly.

           I could not recall seeing him at my mother’s funeral, but I supposed I could have overlooked him. I wasn’t exactly in my right state of mind at the time.

           “It was eighteen years ago. She died giving birth to my son.” The old man said.

           “I’m sorry sir, but I am a little confused. She died just over one week ago. That woman is my mother.”

           “You must be one of Jessica’s boys. I heard she had three boys, but I never got to meet any of them.”

           “Yes, Jessica was my mother’s name. You admit that you and my mother were in a relationship then?”

           “A relationship? Hardly! We barely spoke. We lived on opposite ends of the country until about seventeen years ago after my wife died, and I moved my family back here. She and your mother hadn’t been on speaking terms since they were in their early twenties. They had a falling out over your dad, Jack.”

           “You knew my father too?”

           “Well, not really. It was more I knew of him. Apparently, your mother stole him away from my wife when they were still teenagers, and my wife never forgave her.”

           “Are you saying that my mother had a sister?”

           “Not only were they sisters, but they were also twins. Identical twins. I got confused once myself and slapped your mom’s bottom thinking it was Janet, my wife. It was hard to tell them apart. Your mom had a mole on her neck though and Janet didn’t. That was how I could tell. Anyway, not long after the fight over Jack, I met Janet. She told me about the fight. We got married just over one year later, and we moved to the East Coast. That was the last time they ever spoke.”

           After all these years, I couldn’t believe my mom kept the secret of a twin sister from us. I thanked Peter for his time and asked if I could come by again with my brothers one day to introduce them. He said he looked forward to it.

           On the drive home, I called up my brothers and put them on a conference call. I told them about what I found out, and they were as shocked as I was. My older brother recalled as a child, picking up the phone once and a woman on the other end said she was his aunt. He thought it was a wrong number and hung up the phone, not giving it a second thought until now.

           In time, my brothers and I bonded with our long-lost family and continued to visit regularly. We did not want a dispute between our mothers to keep us apart any longer. Family is a gift that we should all treasure, not push away.

           I recall a quote I once read by Michael J. Fox that read, “Family is not an important thing. It’s everything.”