Page 29 of Quintessentially

Memories of the exhaustion that comes from a hard day’s physical work add fuel to the thought. As I recall, it’s a better workout than I’ve had from personal trainers.

I might actually do it. The physical exhaustion may help my mind rest and stop me thinking about Kandace. Yes, I could show up and throw bales of hay into a trailer until my body screams for me to stop.

Getting off the bed and going into the closet, I look at the clothes I brought for what I thought was a one-night stay. There isn’t a large variety. I could wear my jeans and a t-shirt tomorrow, and tomorrow night drive over to Washington or Vincennes for some more clothes. Honestly, I’m not that difficult to please on the clothes front. I don’t need the high-end stores on Chicago’s Gold Coast.

Looking up, I notice narrow boxes with lids on a high shelf.

Could Grandma even see these?

How long have they been there?

Curiosity gets the better of me as I pull down one of the boxes. The entire thing is filled with photographs from when people still had their film developed. The first photo I pull out is a picture, the colors faded, of my dad holding a fishing pole. I know it’s him, although he has no resemblance to the little boy any longer. He is probably ten years old at most. I look at his smile, with big front teeth.

My thoughts go to the little girl at the diner, Molly, missing her bottom front teeth.

I shake my head. Looking back at the picture, I see the man with my father. It’s my grandpa. Seeing Grandpa so young and healthy makes me grin.

I run my fingers over the tops of the photographs. Going back to the closet, I pull out the last box, leaving a few in between. These pictures are different. They’re more recent with crisp colors. I blink once and then twice at a picture of my grandma with Kandace. They’re smiling and laughing at the camera. I’m struck by Kandace’s smile. She looks the way I remember her…but wait.

I lift the picture higher, unsure if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.

Holy shit.

Kandace is…she’s pregnant.

What the hell?

Dumping the box onto the bed, I frantically start to sort through pictures of a baby. There’s Grandma holding a baby. My grandma’s smile is huge. The child is wrapped in a blanket. All I can see is the auburn peach fuzz and chubby cheeks. As I search through the photos, the child grows. Based on the clothes, I can tell she’s a girl. Her auburn hair grows longer as she gets taller. In one photo, she’s sitting with Grandma reading books. There are a few shots of them out in Grandma’s yard. I recognize the porch and furniture.

The little girl seems to always be happy.

I blink.

Wait.

“Molly?” I question her name aloud and flip over the picture, hoping for a date or a name.

There’s nothing.

No, this can’t be the same child.

Why would Grandma have pictures of Molly?

A noise pulls me from my thoughts. I listen for more, unsure of what I heard.

Standing, I go to the bedroom door.

Fuck.

I hear it again. It’s coming from downstairs. Doors are opening and closing.

Someone is here.

My first thought is the contractor. No, it’s nearly ten at night.

A burglar?

Shit.

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