Verisimilitude

As I rifle methodically through boxes, tossing things in one pile to keep and a larger one to throw away, something catches my eye. A photo album. Intrigued, I pick it up. I haven’t seen this in twenty years. I start from the back, though I know what the last photo will be. Me and my mom, at my high school graduation. The day I swore I would never make any more memories with my family.

I sit on the dusty attic floor and let the book fall open in my lap. It opens to our family trip to Disneyland when I was thirteen. I was an only child, so we often went on trips with my mom’s sister, her husband, and their two kids. All seven of us were in the photo. Them: Father, Son, Daughter, Mother. Us: Mother, Father, Daughter. Two perfect families. All smiling.

Lies.

I remember this picture. Mom had fussed over giving a total stranger our camera. Jason, my cousin, had just stepped on his sister Emily’s foot. Kathy and Joe, my aunt and uncle, had taken this trip to try to reconnect in their marriage. It hadn't been going well. And my dad and I…

I’m suddenly thrown back to that day.

As my mom moved into place, dad’s right arm rested on her shoulder. His left arm snaked its way around my waist. As it tightened, he gave my hip the slightest pinch. I stiffened.

“Smile for the camera, sweetheart,” he said in a casual, sing-song voice. He always called me sweetheart when he would…when we would…

The stranger behind the camera counted down. Gingerly, I placed my hand on dad's shoulder. I felt him squeeze me closer. I managed a smile that I hoped wouldn’t come out looking like a grimace. The camera flashed.

“Let me see,” mom said excitedly. We all crowded around the camera as it displayed our photo on its tiny screen.

The smile on my face belied my overturned stomach. Did anybody see? Had anyone guessed? Did they know the significance of his gesture? Of where his hand lay? No. It was only me. And him. And the monsters.

I snap back to the present, the album still open on my lap. I flip back a few pages. My tenth birthday. The night that would change my life forever.

I scan the photo for the evidence I know must be there. I see my dumb face as I blew out the candles. The neighbor kid whose long sleeves hid blue bruises. Lizzie, my best friend in middle school who abandoned me when my father was arrested. And my dad, sitting at the table, just barely in frame. He was looking at me. And why wouldn’t he be? It was my birthday, I was blowing out the candles, the moment was clearly about me. But am I imagining it, or does the look on his face not seem right? It’s not joy. It’s not delight. It's not the look of a father to his daughter.

It’s hunger.

The kind of hunger I never saw in his face when he looked at mom.

Did he know even then what he was going to do that night? What path he would start us on?

I thumb through more photos. Piano recitals, family gatherings, birthdays. All pictures of us, and the happy family we were. All the while, the monsters lurked, just outside of frame or hidden behind our smiles. The monster in my father that feasted on me every night. The monster inside me that slew him in my dreams. The monster in my mother that mourned silently for a tragedy she would not acknowledge.

The last few images are just of me and mom. She blamed me for what happened, and it shows. We no longer stood squished together, hugging and smiling and pretending. For the last few photos, she stood to the side, the ghost of a smile painted on her face. I look at the photos and find myself, with a real smile for the first time in years. My boyfriend, David, was the one standing next to me now. The week after graduation, David and I moved in together. Three years later, we were married. And I knew I would never take another fake family photo again.

I toss the book into the garbage pile, and it flops back open to the photo of Disneyland. I try to stand up, but I can’t. A tear falls down my cheek, followed by another, then another. I curl up into a ball and cry softly to myself. I hate him. I still hate him. It’s been more than twenty years since that last night, but I still hate him. I still remember how he looked that night, as he was hauled away in an ambulance, accompanied by the cops. The knife lay on the floor, blood from his shoulder still on it. Still on my hand.

I scream in anger and hear a crash from downstairs. Footsteps run up the stairs. David bursts through the door, skidding to a halt in front of me.

“Heather?” he gasps, “Are you alright?” He looks down and sees the photo album, and me curled up and crying in front of it. He sits down beside me and wraps his arms around me.

I lean into him. “I hate him,” I say between sobs, “I hate him.”

“I know,” David says, “I know. He’s gone now. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

It’s been eight years since dad died of liver failure. I used to wonder if it was because he was drunk and confused that he would come into my room instead of his and mom’s. The rare nights he wasn’t drunk proved that wasn’t the case. After dad died, mom puttered around this old house until last year. The cancer was sudden and brutal. It was three months between when she got the diagnosis and when she went to the hospital to stay. It was only another two before she was gone. I only visited her at the hospital once. Now it was up to me to empty out the house and sell it.

“I can't do this,” I whisper to David, “Everything reminds me of him.”

“I can stay up here with you if you want,” he says. He gives me a small squeeze.

I nod. He kisses me on the top of my head, and we let go of each other. I wish we could stay like that forever, just he and I in our embrace. But, life must go on. Moments turn to memories, the photos in our minds filling their own scrapbooks.

We clean for a few more hours, the piles getting larger as we excavate the attic. Once everything we want to keep is in boxes, we start bagging up the trash. When I see the photo album, I hold it for a moment. Then, carefully, I put it in one of the boxes. David looks at me with the corner of his eye and raises an eyebrow.

“I need to remember,” I say, “I need to remember how far I’ve come.”