dark of the back of the closet. To sit with Precious for a moment before Precious became, I was sure, tumbling piles of pictures of their grandchildren. Was I actually looking forward to the hurt I’d feel all over again that Mom and Dad allowed these children to take my place … that I allowed them take my place? Yes. I’d have evidence, hard evidence – I was a lawyer, after all, and hadn’t had such hope of a windfall of proof to back up a hunch in my entire career – that I wasn’t the apple of their eye, that I was falling further and further from the top of the heap with the birth of each grandchild, that I was not Precious. I girl could stay away for a decade with that kind of evidence.
The tape didn’t put up a fight (think “Please stop!”) and the lid quietly obeyed. The flashlight app helped confirm my hunch that the box was filled mostly with photos … but the first picture was of me at about two years old in a snowsuit holding my Dad’s gloved hand as we waived to a Polaroid instamatic. On the back of the picture was written (again I recognized Mom’s perfect cursive) “Precious 1964”. The second picture looked like my niece Lydia at four years old, but Mom was too young in the picture for that to be the case. I flipped the picture – “Precious 1966”. (I’ve been told my niece looks like me. I’ve seen her a few times when business travel brings me somewhere near Kathy and she finds out so I visit rather than exhaust myself – exhaust us both – with excuses. I get school photos all the time, but I glance, then file them in “the drawer”.) Next picture: me in polyester red shorts and a yellow t-shirt – “Precious 1971”. Next, “Precious 1972”. Next, “Precious 1976”. Next. Next. Next. Precious. Precious. Precious. Me. Me. Me. A small stack of documents came after the photos. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to … “ “Precious goes to college”. (Kathy goes to work.) I note the date of the letter is well after their compliance – outward compliance apparently – to my command to stop calling me that which Gollum called his beloved and that which was not my grandmother’s name. A newspaper clipping, carefully folded so as not to crease my picture, announces my law school graduation. A letter in my hurried handwriting with a brief – too brief; why so brief? – message of thanks for “financial assistance”. A bittersweet smile crossed my face when I picked up my wedding invitation. No memento of the divorce of course – only Stephen walked away with anything from the divorce. Two small books lined the bottom of the box – one with an inscription from me to my Dad. “This is how I’m going to write one day. I’m not just going to dream it, I’m going to do it!” A slap in the face of the dreamer by the self-proclaimed doer. Only two people would know exactly what I meant – three if he shared it with Mom … and he shared everything with Mom. The second book was inscribed with the same handwriting. “Mom – to help you take your mind off your troubles.” “Troubles” was, apparently, my euphemism for “cancer” and “to help you take your mind off” was my euphemism for “please help me keep my mind off”. Only two people would know this. She would not have shared this with Dad.
The flashlight searched the bottom of the box. One picture remained. It was face down. Unlike the others, it was unmarked in the back. I was on the floor with the box resting on my crossed legs and its “precious” contents spread all around me. I felt like I might need to steel myself before looking at the last pictures, but it was hard to breathe deeply. The air in the closet was heavy; my heart was heavy. I was cramped in the corner. “My life flashed in front of me” was an expression always accompanied by expressions of sheer terror. But here was my life flashing in front of me and I had feelings I couldn’t articulate. I needed Dickens to remind me what Scrooge was thinking when he was left alone after each ghost departed. I shuddered. The last ghost always filled me with dread, no matter what version I read or watched on TV. I picked up the picture and flipped it quickly. There we were. All of us. Dad, Mom,Kathy, and me. I was blowing out five candles. Kathy was clapping. Mom was helping me, squatting with her arm around me. Dad was beaming under his pointy party hat. His jacket met in the middle. Based on the scattered beer bottles, Aunt June probably took the picture. I was the center of attention, and I noticed that I was crying pretty hard. Not then, now. Then I was probably squealing with delight. Now the tears were flowing.
A hand on my arm should have started me. It didn’t. Maybe Dickens prepared me. Kathy had crawled into the closet toward me and reached my arm with her hand. Mom’s hand – that’s what it looked like. She shimmied and settled in next to me, put her arm around me like Mom did on my fifth birthday, and before that, and after that for as long as I let her. We cried together – or maybe just I cried – but Kathy and I were together. I handed her the picture. She brushed a long strand of my hair out of my face. Did it bother her that I kept growing my hair as she and Mom were losing theirs? Did it bother me that I had never thought to ask? “Precious” she said, looking at me more than the picture. At the back of the closet, I found us.