Page 97 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
At his question, I glance over from where we both have our heads back on the pillows of his bed. The cardboard and walnut boxes sit between us, and I take in his profile as I consider the answer. His straight nose, his strong jaw, the fan of dark lashes against his tanned skin—he’s biding time, taking a moment before delving into the unknown.
And I’m not sure why he fears it other than the fact that it is something unknown to him. But I can’t imagine it will hold anything other than parts of his past that he can piece together and then put it all behind him.
Then again, I know better than anyone how your past can own you even in the present. Steal your hope. Taint your soul. Change your outlook, your expectations. And even after you break free from its clutches, it’s still there. In the crevices of your mind. In your reactions to everyday things. In the smile you show to the world while you cry inside.
He turns his head to look at me, his blue eyes so solemn, prompting me for an answer I forgot to give.
“My mom?” My smile comes quickly; although some of the memories have faded, the feelings are still fresh. “Her name was Grace. She was beautiful. Full of life. She was everything.” Quietly I sigh, hating that there’s doubt now when I think of her because of what I’ve experienced.
“I bet you were her life.” His voice is nothing more than a murmur, but I can tell he knows I’m struggling with the truths I’ve come to learn as an adult.
“I’d like to think that.” I nod as Ethan’s and my father’s words come back to me. The ones that were thrown in my face. Can’t you be more like your mother? Your mother never disobeyed your father. Your mother would be so ashamed of your lack of class. “But now . . . now I wonder if she really was as happy and perfect as I thought or if she was just putting on a show, hiding it all to—”
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“To protect you?” he adds.
I nod, a lump lodging in my throat as distant memories hint of the truth. Of her taking me out for our special dates when my father would rage. Of impromptu sleepovers at the Four Seasons to pretend we were Eloise. Of carefully applied makeup or large-lensed sunglasses she’d even wear inside because she had migraines for a few days.
“Yes.” My voice breaks and he reaches out and links pinkies with mine in the space between us. “I have a feeling, looking back with what I know now, that she played the part perfectly but hid so much, mostly from me.”
“You were her truth.”
The way he says the simple statement—quiet, matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—nearly undoes the waning composure I have left. But at the same time, I think it’s exactly what I needed to hear. It lights some of the darkest places within me to know that as much as I loved her, wanted to be just like her, I think she’d be proud that now I don’t want to be anything like her.
I was her truth. My smile returns. I can handpick the memories to hold on to the best times with her. To shut out the bad. And a reminder for me to live a life, on my own, void of big sunglasses and sleepovers at the Four Seasons, because she couldn’t. And because I want to make her proud that I did.
Nodding, my mind overloaded with emotion, I curl my pinkie a little tighter around his. He shifts some, the mattress moving as he reaches past us. The nightstand drawer opens. Closes. And then he’s handing something to me.
I take a stack of about ten pictures from him. It’s obvious they are old—the clothing and car dated—but it’s the people on the paper that hold my attention. A brown-haired boy with skinned knees, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks, and blue eyes that seem to express a mixture of happy and weary.
The eyes of a child who has seen way too much in his short life. He has a baseball glove in one picture, makes a funny face in another. Items that should denote a normal childhood, but the backgrounds of the pictures reflect something different.
A five- or six-year-old Zander stands on the grass in front of a run-down house, one window boarded up, the other with metal security bars over it. Zander with a stuffed dog clutched tight to his chest sitting on a stained couch in a darkened room. A small section of the coffee table is visible in the shot; it’s littered with scraps of tinfoil, two bent spoons, a child’s looped belt, and the discarded caps of syringes.
I stare until I can’t stare anymore at the surroundings to try to understand as best I can the things he wants to shut out. It’s not very hard to comprehend.
The one bright spot in the stack of pictures is the woman who accompanies him in some of them. She has long brown hair, an olive complexion, and blue eyes identical in shape and size to Zander’s. And I notice the only pictures where she seems happy are the candid ones where she is paying attention to her son. Her smile is magnetic, expression one of complete adoration.
Then there’s the man in the photos. Standoffish. Arms always crossed, a cigarette habitually dangling from the corner of his mouth. Maybe it’s because I know the end of the story, but I dislike him instantly on sight.
I sift through the pictures several times, each time my eyes drawn to the little boy, making comparisons with the man I know now. And when I finish, I turn my head and meet the intensity in Zander’s gaze.
“She was beautiful, Zander. You look so much like her.”
He nods his head ever so slightly, one ear on the pillow, the white pillowcase in such a stark contrast to the dark shadows across his features.
“I’m sure you think I’m being a pussy about this.”
His bluntness surprises me and leaves me clamoring for the correct response. “No! This is your past, Zander. Your history. There is no judgment on how you’re handling it or the pace at which you’re choosing to. Sometimes looking back is so much harder than looking forward. Just remember that while whatever is in that box may be part of your history, it doesn’t define the man you’ve made yourself to be today . . . unless you want it to.”
I hear his shaky inhalation as his eyes flicker to the pictures in my hand. One of him and his mother rests on top. His Adam’s apple bobs and he exhales a sigh of exasperated confusion.
“Until this box arrived, I didn’t have any pictures of my mother other than my memories.” I shift some to sit up so I can face him, let him know that I’m listening and ready for whatever he needs from me. “I keep telling myself that no matter what else is in the box, this is enough for me. That this is more than I had before.”
I angle my head to hold his gaze, my mind turning, transforming the thoughts I had previously. When he first told me about the box, I thought it was just the idea of it that freaked him out and reopened old wounds a little boy had managed to forget. But now, with the way he’s so apprehensive, I’m realizing it’s so much more than that. What does he think is in the box that has him so worried?
“I hope there are more good memories in there for you, Zander.”
