Page 61 of Sinful Promises

Rolling images of Roman flitted through my mind as I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I returned to the motel reception and booked my room for a week. I’d worry about something more permanent after that. I walked across the road to a coffee shop and ordered a double-shot cappuccino, and although I was still full from last night, I took the coffee-and-cake deal and bought a muffin too.

It was just after nine o’clock when I stepped into Mother’s trailer again. When I pulled the curtains apart, the blazing sun did zero to improve on the depressing interior.

My intention to get in and out as quickly as possible was obliterated the second I opened what I’d thought would be Mother’s underwear drawer.

It was filled with all sorts of stuff, but on the very top was a photo of two young girls. They were on a bench seat in front of a nondescript brick wall. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders, and they were smiling like it was Christmas.

Neither of the girls were me. Their white hair proved that. I’d had red hair for as long as I could remember. These two would be about seven or eight years old. I flipped the photo over and my heart stopped. One word was handwritten on the back: sorry.

I’d never seen the photo before and the fact that it was at the top of her things made it even more curious. It was like it was the last thing she’d looked at before she was taken to the hospital.

I placed the photo on the bed and had every intention of taking it with me when I went to see her. After returning to that top drawer, I picked my way through bits and pieces—Mother’s eclectic collection of bohemian jewelry; half-used bottles of low-priced perfume; a tiny notebook that contained a load of names and phone numbers that meant nothing to me. There were bills that gave zero indication of whether or not they’d been paid; a few keys that had no tag or label detailing what they were for; and several pairs of sunglasses that were both cheap and outlandish, suiting Mother’s dress style perfectly.

I put all the junky jewelry, miniature pewter statues, and various other items that meant nothing to me on the bed as I went. At the back of the drawer was a small wooden box, and even as I tugged it free, I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t snooping, even though I totally was.

Sitting on her bed, I flipped up the lid and my heart lurched. It was filled with photos. The first one was of a tiny baby wrapped in a white, knitted blanket. The ginger hair was a good indication it was me. I couldn’t recall ever seeing the photo before.

It was cute. I was cute. I’d never thought of myself as cute.

I flipped it over but the back was blank.

The next photo was of Mother holding me in her arms. She looked stunning in a white dress and being backlit by sunshine, her legs were visible through the fabric. I was in a baby-pink jumpsuit and my arms were out like I was waiting for a ball to be thrown to me. The photo was beautiful and innocent and pure, and the curled-over edges implied it’d been held many times.

I put the photo on top of the first one.

As I went through the box, lifting out photo after photo, I pondered why Mother had them all hidden. Why didn’t she ever display them?

Was she embarrassed by me?

Why weren’t any of these in frames, or a treasured album?

There were many pictures of men I didn’t recognize, but also quite a few of the man I’d known as my father. They showed a side to him I didn’t recognize. He looked young, healthy, and happy. Clearly, they’d been taken long before he became the bitter and cranky man I knew.

A folded page of newspaper caught my eye, and I tugged it from the photo stack and peeled it open. The date on the top corner confirmed it was twenty-five years old. It was page three of The Sydney Morning Herald. I scanned the headlines . . . Interest rates set to rise. Bank robbery gone wrong. Young woman has surprise baby in shower. Fire at heritage-listed school confirmed to be arson.

None of the headings jumped out at me. Reading the article about the woman who had the baby in the shower, I learned that the eighteen-year-old had had no idea she was pregnant. Was this article about Mother? But doing the math on the dates at the top of the page confirmed that it couldn’t be. Maybe Mother knew the woman. I set the newspaper aside with a plan to ask her why she’d kept it.

I went back to the photos, and flicking from one to the next, I barely recognized anyone. I didn’t find one photo that showed Mother with anyone who looked like they could be her parents.

But something did become very apparent.

There were more photos of Mother with strange men than there were with me.

It made yesterday’s declaration of love as thin as that sheet of newspaper. Anyone could say I love you. Showing it was what made it real.

Before my mind plummeted to Roman’s catastrophic declaration of love, I packed the remaining photos back into the wooden box, keeping the photo of the two little girls separate. I shoved both into my backpack, and reluctantly grabbed a few pairs of Mother’s underwear and a change of clothes for her.

Regarding giving her something of comfort, as the nurse had suggested, I couldn’t find a single thing that I thought would fit that description.

Nor did I give a shit.

Leaving the trailer as it was, I called for a cab.

Chapter Twelve

Waiting for the taxi was like waiting for my hair to dry; it took forever. Unable to stand still, I paced back and forth like a junkie desperate for a fix.

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