Thirty-One and a Half Regrets
Page 57

“Thank you.” He sank to the floor beside me, picking up the album. “Is this you?”
“Yeah.”
“You were a beautiful baby.”
“I was ugly. Look at my pointed head and red face.”
He shook his head with a grin. “All babies are beautiful, Rose. Think about it. They truly are a miracle. Two cells from two different people join together to create this…” He held out his hand toward the photo. “This life. It’s unbelievable when you think about it.”
I grinned at him. “I never knew you were so philosophical, Mason.”
“I’m usually not. I’ve just been doing a lot of reevaluating over the last few months.”
“What’s prompted that?”
He shrugged. “Savannah. The way my life took an unexpected turn.”
I reached into the box and pulled out a stack of eight-by-ten black and white photos that looked like they’d been taken in a photography studio. Once I set them on the floor, I recognized the baby in the top photo as myself, but the first few didn’t have the Sears portrait studio look. I began to turn them over, intrigued. They were all of me, and in a few of the photos, a woman was with me. My mother.
She faced the camera, smiling as she cuddled the baby—me—on her lap. The photos were all staged, with an artistic background of a gauzy white curtain hanging from a window.
Mason picked up one of the photos. “There’s a darkroom in the basement.”
My head jerked up. “What?”
“When I was lighting the pilot light in the furnace, I snooped around for potential entrances and exits. I found a room in the corner. It had been set up as a photography darkroom. There were negatives stacked on the table.” He grimaced. “I’ll admit that I looked at a few. Most were landscapes and flowers, but there were some of a woman and a baby—you and Dora.”
“Dora was a photographer? I definitely didn’t inherit any artistic tendencies.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Landscaping is an art and has an aesthetic. But I don’t think Dora was the photographer.” He paused. “I think it was your father.”
Daddy? It seemed unlikely since I’d never seen him hold a camera, let alone take and develop portrait-style photos. But I couldn’t dismiss it either. It was like Daddy had been an entirely different man with Dora.
I flipped through the rest of the stack of photos. There had to be close to thirty of them, and the last two portrayed a family of three. Me, Dora, and a much younger Daddy. He was kneeling next to the chair, one knee up, gazing at her with more love in his eyes than I’d ever seen on his face.
Dora had been the love of his life. He’d lost her and never recovered.
And Violet and I had paid the price.
Chapter Sixteen
An unexpected fury ignited in my chest. How could my father give up on everything after losing her? How could he condemn me to the hell I’d experienced as a child?
Mason covered my hand with his.
Tears burned behind my eyes. “I’m so angry with him, Mason. He just gave up when she died. He let Momma destroy me.”
“No, Rose. She didn’t destroy you. You’re a fighter. That’s one of the things I admire most about you. No matter what happens, you pick yourself up and go on.” He leaned over and caressed the side of my face. “It’s okay to be angry with him. You should be.”
“Maybe he deserves it, but why am I so angry with her?”
“Who?”
“Dora.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“I know she couldn’t help dying. But I’m just so mad. What kind of person does that make me?”
“It makes you human. I’m not a saint and neither are you. Your childhood sucked. Your mother was a terrible bitch and I wish to God that I could go back in time to file child abuse charges against her. But I’d like to think you’re partially the person you are today because of her. Whether she meant to or not, she made you into the strong woman you are.”
“But that doesn’t excuse my anger at Dora.” My voice broke as tears trailed down my cheeks. “She couldn’t help dying, so how can I be angry with her?”
“Because her death sentenced you to that horrible life. I don’t think you’re angry with her, Rose. I think you’re angry at her death.”
I burst into tears and he pulled me close, his arms tightening around my back as I laid my cheek against his chest. He didn’t say anything; he just held me as I cried. When I finally got a hold of myself, I wiped at the wet spot on his shirt and smiled, my chin quivering. “What did I tell you? You’re good for offering perspective and shirts to cry on.”
He looked into my eyes, wiping the tears from my face with both hands. “I’m so proud to know you, Rose. Most people would run from this because it hurts so much.”
“And I have you to thank for that. I’d still be running if it weren’t for you.”
“No, I think you would have faced your past eventually.”
“I don’t know. If I were still with Joe, I might have hidden forever. He was so busy hiding from his own past that he never would have thought I needed to face my own.”
“It doesn’t matter. Because you’re facing it now. And you’re with me. I’m sorry for the pain you’ve been through, and I’ll do everything in my power make up for it.”
I kissed him softly. “You already have.”