Page 23 of Because of Dylan

My shoulders shrug in response, and he takes that as a yes and sits next to me, bringing the envelope with him. I move my glass to the side to make room as he pulls out what must be dozens of pictures from the envelope—in all sizes and different states of wear and age. Some are black and white, some faded color, some are torn on the corners and others look newer, shiny and unmarred by time or touch.

“I figured I could show you these, and then you can ask any questions you may have about me or anything else.”

My eyes dart everywhere, taking in snippets of images as he sets the pictures in a neat pile right in front of him.

The first picture he shows me is black and white and torn at one corner.

“They are your grandparents.” He flips the picture and shows me the back—1969 is written in faded black ink on the yellowing paper. “They were fifteen here and high school sweethearts.”

He gives me the picture, and I hold it with no small amount of veneration. I’m holding history in my hands and something flutters in my chest. A sense of belonging I’ve never experienced before.

“Are they still alive?”

“Yes, together and sickly in love still. It would be cute if I wasn’t so disturbed by the amount of handholding and kissing I saw my entire life.” He laughs, and I join in, the carefree sound escaping my lips almost alien to my own ears.

I do the math in my head. They’ve been together for over fifty years. I can’t imagine such an enduring love. My eyes sting and I reach for the water glass, more careful this time, and take a sip to push down the knot forming in my throat.

The next picture is in color, albeit faded, and shows his parents again. On their wedding day. His mom—my grandmother is wearing a simple white dress, fitted to her torso and loose from the waist down. A short veil on her hair, and curls framing a beautiful face. I can see a bit of myself in her.

“She’s beautiful.”

“You look like her.”

I nod in agreement, but I don’t think myself beautiful. I never did. But looking into my grandmother’s face makes me wonder how harshly I’ve judged myself.

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-two.”

“My age … and she already had her life figured out.”

“I don’t think anyone has their life figured out at any age.”

He heard me. I didn’t intend to speak my thoughts out loud.

He rubs his chin. “I think everyone is bumbling around, but some people make it look easy, while others are still trying to figure how to make amends, apologize and figure out where to go from here.”

His eyes are fixed on mine, an array of emotions skate through them until they mist, and my father blinks several times. He clears his throat and pulls the next picture out of the pile in front of him. “Ah, this is two years after they got married. And that fat baby is me.”

His father holds a fat baby dressed in blue as his mother gazes at them. My heart constricts. I bite the inside of my cheek. Something dark and ugly washes over me.This should be me.I should have had loving parents who cared about me and took pictures. As fast as it comes, I push it away. The green monster has never helped anyone, least of all me.

I spent a lot of years angry and jealous of other kids when I was younger. But by the time I started high school, I realized that a lot of the happy faces were masks, and under the fake smiles and mean words they were no different from me. They might have had parents that cared, and food on the table, but all of them were trying to fit in or make believe they did. I knew I never would fit in and didn’t bother to try. I was and would always be an odd piece. Unmatched. And unwanted.

The waitress comes back with our food and again saves me from my thoughts. If I had any extra money lying around, I’d hire her to interrupt me every so often with her timely, if annoying, presence. I pick a fry and take a bite. To my surprise, find I’m hungry. We eat, my father and I, as he shares picture after picture. Telling me little stories here and there, the colors in the pictures getting more vivid with each passing year.

He gestures as he speaks. “They were poor, yes. My father worked as a day laborer, and jobs weren’t always available. Mom cleaned houses two towns over and had to take a bus to work. My grandma helped and watched me when they were both at work. Despite everything, we were happy.”

He picks up another picture. One of him in uniform. “I had a plan. Join the military as soon as I graduated high school. It would be one less mouth to feed at home, and I could make money and help my parents.”

He takes a drink of water. “Your mother and I, we were the same. We didn’t have to pretend to have more than we did. But where I had loving and caring parents, your mother didn’t.” His eyes drift to the pictures between us, and he picks one up and places it in front of me. Our plates were cleared a while ago, and the bill was paid. He insisted on paying. I didn’t fight him.

The picture shows both of them, my mother and father. It had to be summer as they were wearing T-shirts and cutoff jeans. My mother was even skinnier then. The line of her mouth challenged anyone to judge her, but the haunted eyes betrayed her true feelings. There was hopelessness in them, but even that was better than what showed in her eyes the last time I saw her. There was nothing left in the dark irises. She was an empty shell, and I left before she and the men in her life turned me into one of them.

He taps the picture. “Her father was a mean man, given to bouts of violence when he was sober and much worse when drunk. I don’t think he ever hurt her, but the same can’t be said about your grandma. No one knew we were together. We were both terrified of your grandfather. This picture is the only one of us together—my mother took it on the last day of school.”

His gaze is lost in memory. “She took so many photos … someone she worked for was a photographer, and he gave her an old camera and developed the films for her for free. Otherwise, I don’t think we would have this many pictures.”

“And my mother’s parents?” Are they alive now, or did my mother also lie about it when she said they were both dead?

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