Page 14 of Angel

Noticing the number of framed photos on the mantel, I shuffled forward. Some of them were of children. I set the breakfast tray on a nearby coffee table and inched forward some more.

Which one was Angelo, I wondered. After a quick perusal, I spotted him. All of the boys had dark hair, but only Angelo’s was wild and thick. Plus, there was that devilish smile, something he could have even at eight years old.

The picture frames crowded together, taking up every inch of space on the mantel. A third were of the kids, taken at the house I was at or in other, various locations.

The rest, presumably, were extended family.

Near the other end of the fireplace one of the photos made me do a double take.

Holding my breath, I squinted my eyes.

No. It couldn’t be.

And yet it was.

My mother and father, standing in the middle of a photo taken at the beach. On either side of them stood two couples about their own age, and at the very end a young man.

My eyes raked over the photos background, looking for clues. Where was the group? Could it be right in front of the very house I stood in? Did that mean my parents had been to Angelo’s family home?

Other than some tufts of grass where the sand dunes stood up in one corner of the frame, there was nothing betraying the picture’s location.

My minute inspection of the beach finished, I stared at each of the strangers faces in turn. The two couples were familiar, though I couldn’t say exactly how I knew them.

Relatives of Angelo’s? Sophia claimed we knew the family from our teenage years, though I couldn’t remember so much as a detail about them.

My mother smiled brightly at the camera, my father’s arm looped around her waist. Everyone was dressed casually, and she was no exception in her jeans and t-shirt.

My breath caught in my throat.

That shirt.

It was one of her favorites. I’d been with her when she snagged it at the vintage store on forty-ninth street. It was white, with hand stitched red trim and short, puffed sleeves.

She wore it all the time.

Including the last time…

I saw her then, but not in the photo. I saw my mother in a memory so full and real it was like she stood right in front of me.

My breath came faster. In and out, rushing like it was eager to escape my body. Eager to get away from me, from this moment and what was happening in it.

My vision blurred. I reached out to grab the fireplace’s mantel. My fingers brushed against a couple of the frames, knocking them over. I didn’t pay attention. I needed my inhaler.

My inhaler. When was the last time I used it?

Not since leaving the city. I remembered holding it in my hand while confronting Sophia and Angelo at the apartment. And then what?

I packed it, right?

Yes. I had to of. It was in my duffel bag in Angelo’s bedroom. Just right down the hall.

I stumbled away from the fireplace, leaving the photographs behind. My mother followed me, her joyful smile and that shirt hovering in front of my eyes.

No. I couldn’t think about that. Not now.

I needed my inhaler. Needed to breathe.

But with each labored breath came another memory. Her eyes. Her hands. The sound of her voice. They were all around me, making it harder and harder to go on.