Gene, Everywhere: a life-changing visit from my father-in-law

By Talya Tate Boerner

For those of us who are aging along with our parents, Gene Everywhere is a wonderful companion on this journey. (Brenda Miller, author of An Earlier Life)

On New Year's Day 2011, without giving the idea full consideration, Talya invites her ninety-year-old father-in-law to visit. He ne

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Mississippi Press LLC
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951418021

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Praise for Gene, Everywhere

This quiet, grace-filled memoir reminds us that it takes courage to slow down and confront one's own insecurities and to face head-on the fragility of life's quiet moments, and yet, at its heart, doing so is the greatest of life's strengths.

~ J. Bradley Minnick, Host and Executive Producer of Arts & Letters

Talya brings the reader into her home and heart with a voice that is fearlessly candid and instantly endearing.

~ Kyran Pittman, author of Planting Dandelions: Field Notes from a Semi-Domesticated Life

For those of us who are aging along with our parents, Gene Everywhere is a wonderful companion on this journey. In prose that is clear-eyed and authentic, Talya Tate Boerner shows us how profound connections can take hold in the most unexpected ways.

~ Brenda Miller, author of An Earlier Life

Relationships between daughters-in-law and their fathers-in-law are rarely explored in literature, particularly in such honest and memorable prose, and in this way Gene, Everywhere breaks new ground… Anyone who has been inspired by an older mentor will love this memoir; anyone who has not will find one in Gene.

~ Dorene O’Brien, author of What It Might Feel Like to Hope

Boerner writes in a true Southern voice—clear, fresh, and light-hearted… taking the reader along as Gene's visit opens the possibility of a different life for herself.

~ Brenda Clem Black, author of Black & Kiddo: A True Story of Dust, Determination, and Cowboy Dreams

One Mississippi Press LLC

Fayetteville, Arkansas 72701

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, without the prior written permission of One Mississippi Press LLC. Excerpts may be used for review purposes. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Gene, Everywhere is a memoir. It reflects events in the life of the author as well as memory allows. Certain incidents have been chronologically rearranged for ease of storytelling; some dialog has been recreated. Although several character names and places of business have been changed to protect privacy, the individuals and events described are real. To avoid reader confusion, the author’s sister-in-law’s name has been changed from Paula to Jane. The mention of brands or trade names does not constitute endorsement. Chapter subtitles are based on Wheel of Fortune game show categories.

Excerpt from Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, translated by Alan R. Clarke, reprinted with permission from HarperCollins and HarperOne.

A portion of Gene, Everywhere first appeared in Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing which holds first electronic rights.

ISBN 978-1-951418-01-4 Trade Paperback

ISBN 978-1-951418-00-7: Hardcover

ISBN 978-1-951418-02-1: Ebook

Front Cover Design: One Mississippi Press LLC

Copyright © 2019 by Talya Tate Boerner

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020931636

Printed in the United States of America

FIRST EDITION

To John and Paula

who shared Gene with me.

Also by Talya Tate Boerner:

The Accidental Salvation of Gracie Lee

Gene, Everywhere

New Year’s Day

FILL IN THE BLANK

Week One

AROUND THE HOUSE

Week Two

BEFORE AND AFTER

Week Three

PEOPLE

Week Four

OCCUPATIONS

Week Five

IN THE KITCHEN

Week Six

FUN AND GAMES

Two Years Later

BONUS ROUND

NEW YEAR’S DAY

FILL IN THE BLANK

When John’s cellphone rings, it sounds different. Not the ringtone itself. His is an old-school ring, one that mimics yesterday’s rotary phone, putty beige or avocado-green, tucked into hallway niches everywhere. No, John’s ringtone hasn’t changed. The difference lies in the uninvited nature of the ring, the way the shrillness slices through our quiet morning, separating past from future like a chalk line drawn on the sidewalk.

It could be anyone. Or a wrong number. I tell myself these things, yet instantly I know something has happened to one of John’s parents, or even both of them. That’s where we live now, inside a bubble of time that feels both perfect and fragile, as our children grow into adults, careers consume our lives, and our parents begin to fail.

Hey, Jane, my husband says.

I turn my ear toward the kitchen, where John is making breakfast. His voice competes with the hiss of bacon sizzling in the skillet. I am sipping my first coffee of the new year and studying our frazzled Christmas tree, a nine-foot Frazier fir. Only days ago, we paid seventy-five dollars for it.

Which hospital did they take her to? John asks.

Her.

My mother-in-law, Pauline.

I wonder what has happened.

As I remove a handful of icicles and lay them carefully inside a storage box, I think about the red brick house in Fort Smith where my in-laws live. I can see Pauline’s small box of a kitchen, and in the living room, the row of framed school pictures hanging neatly above the sofa. I imagine Pauline lying in a sterile hospital bed, and Gene, worried, sitting across from her in an uncomfortable chair.

I reach to remove another handful of icicles. Mine aren’t fancy glass ones that look frosty and real. Instead, they are cheap and metallic, easily transported around the house with a wag of Lucy’s busy tail. The slightest touch of my fingertips sends a shower of dry needles to the tree rug below.

When I was a kid, Momma always left our tree up well into the new year, to coincide with the arrival of the Magi. As an adult, I can't do it. If the three wise men dropped by our house mid-January, they would be hard-pressed to find even a leftover candy cane to mark the season.

Oh, no. John makes a groaning sound that seems to come straight from the center of his heart. The kitchen floorboards creak as he paces. Lucy, our miniature schnauzer, who has been curled on her pillow near the fireplace, sits upright, as though someone has called her name.

I don’t want to be here, teetering on the edge of knowing what comes next. The fill-in-the-blank exchange between John and his sister is a puzzle, an unpleasant game show. For $200, I’ll take What’s Happened This Time.

I remove a star Tate made in kindergarten, the popsicle sticks held together by globs of glue. In those days, Tate had been clingy, reluctant to let go of my hand each morning at school. I had been in charge of everything then—coordinating soccer games for both of my kids, checking homework each night before bedtime. Now, time hurtles toward Tate’s high school graduation at a dizzying speed, and Kelsey is already halfway through her junior year at the University of Texas. I wrap the treasure in tissue and place it inside the storage box that holds the icicles and other handmade ornaments.

So is Dad at your house? John says.

I abandon my efforts to take down the tree and settle onto the sofa with my coffee, the cup already growing cool. Lucy jumps up beside me and begins digging and digging into the tan leather as though she might tunnel through the cushion and exit beneath the house. I lift her into my lap. Her heart flutters against my hand like a bird.

I can drive back in a few days... John’s tone is more a question than a statement.

Oh no, no, no. He can’t leave again so soon. I mouth the words across the room. Lucy peers at me and blinks her bottomless black eyes once. I am convinced she understands.

John has only just returned from a week spent with his parents in Arkansas—his second trip since the first of December. He had driven Gene and Pauline to the doctor and chiropractor. He had bought groceries and installed a handicap rail over their bathtub. His suitcase is still sitting on the floor of our bedroom, where he dropped it two days ago, his clothes only washed yesterday.

Yeah. John’s voice is flat. Our mantel clock ticks with a tluck-tluck-tluck sound.

During the past two years, Gene and Pauline have suffered from various ailments. Most recently, irritable bowel syndrome has made Pauline extremely weak, and a bout of shingles severely affected her eyes. Gene’s recent health issues seem typical for someone his age, mainly memory problems. Even with all that John has done to help during the last few months, Jane is the exhausted one. As the only daughter, and the child living closest to my in-laws, everything naturally defaults to her.

Uh-huh. Okay. John agrees to something, and the conversation begins to wrap up, the way phone calls do when all the words have been said. I toss back the last swallow of my coffee. Cold and bitter, it hits my throat like a shot of whiskey.

Before the idea has fully formed in my mind, I’m talking. I hear the staccato sound of each word as it vibrates against my teeth. John, why don’t you drive up and get your dad? Bring him to our house for a few days.

My words dangle overhead, as though pulsating inside a cartoon speech bubble.

Lucy stares at me.

What on earth possessed me to say such a thing?

I have my job at the bank. Things going on.

I am busy.

If I could leap after my impulsive words, collect them up, I would bury them in the ornament box underneath bits of glitter and tinsel. Instead, I grip my empty coffee cup and stare into the bottom of it, as though an answer might appear in porcelain.

Warm breakfast aromas drift from the kitchen. I inhale and feel calm spread into my belly. With a controlled, steady exhalation, I release my crazy idea into other unheard words, other unspoken thoughts.

The odds are good John didn’t hear me. He never hears me; not the first time, anyway

Let’s get more coffee, I say to Lucy. She jumps from the couch and dashes ahead of me.

When I walk into the kitchen, John glances up. He raises one dark eyebrow as though he had forgotten I was there, and looks reassured to see me. With one hand, he holds his cellphone to his ear, and with the other, he folds eggs in the skillet using a wooden spoon. And those eggs, with the last of our fresh chives, and purple onions cut into half-moon slivers, provide the only spot of brightness on this cold first morning of the year.

WEEK ONE

AROUND THE HOUSE

Gene steps into the kitchen, clutching a crumpled paper sack against his chest like an old lady with a pocketbook full of money. I didn’t think we’d ever get here. He stands tall, without a hint of a stoop, yet seems wearier and more withered than the last time I saw him. When had I seen him last?

It’s good to see you, Gene. We hug. My fingers press into the ridges of his spine. If I could transfer some of my strength to him, I would.

Well, I wish it was under different circumstances. His chuckle is more sad than happy, and when he speaks, each word is drawn out, like a record played at the wrong speed. His eyes brim with tears, almost to the point of spilling, but still they are brilliant, the color of a July sky.

Do you have a cold?

No, I have these drippy eyes. Drippy all the time. It beats all. His voice wanes to a near whisper. With a wadded tissue, he dabs at damp, sparse lashes. His eyeglasses magnify each tiny hair.

Can I take your coat? I touch his sleeve.

His arm jerks slightly beneath brown suede. Well, no, I’m fine.

Dad, take your coat off. Relax. John carries in a small canvas duffle and a four-pronged walking stick that is doing no one any good. He drops the duffle near the stairs and places the stick in the corner of the kitchen, where it stands, an odd wallflower no one acknowledges. Gene shifts the paper sack from one hand to the other as I help free his arm from the sleeve.

Your coat weighs a ton. I imagine it tethering his body to the ground.

His face brightens. John gave it to me for Christmas that year it snowed so much back in nineteen hundred and seventy…

Dad, it was five years ago.

Oh, that’s right.

The night has turned cold and windy, yet John wears only a light jacket. He removes it with a shrug of his shoulders and drapes it over the back of the kitchen barstool in the same brisk way he might shed a long day. And it has, no doubt, been a long day for John, one involving a five-hour drive to Fort Smith, the fetching of his dad and checking on his mother, and driving back to Dallas. In contrast, I have spent an entire blissful Sunday alone, cleaning house, and running errands that felt more cathartic than chore-like. I washed sheets and hung the good towels in the bathroom. Having Gene visit would be like running a bed and breakfast, I told myself, an idea I’d always found captivating in some oddly romantic way. Now, with the truth standing flat-footed in my kitchen, I feel less confident about my invitation.

Dad, give me your sack. I’ll put your pills on the countertop.

Gene clasps the bag tighter and gives it one final hug before relinquishing it to John’s hand. His eyes travel with the sack across the kitchen and stay fixed on it when John places it on the counter near the sink.

Don’t let my bag get wet.

John pushes the sack further from the edge of the sink and closer to the microwave. Inside, pills rattle.

It is nearly eight o’clock, past the time we usually eat supper.

I made chicken and dumplings. And the bread’s almost ready. I don’t often make dumplings the old-fashioned way, but today I did. With the oven timer set to go off in less than three minutes, I pull soup bowls from the cabinet and place them beside the steaming pot. If there is one thing I can do during Gene’s stay, it will be fattening him up.

My dumplings aren’t as fluffy as Mammaw Ruby’s, but I had rolled them out the way I’d watched her do so many times, with a light hand, the dough sprinkled with a dusting of flour. I thought of Mammaw as I had dumped flour into my largest mixing bowl and added a stream of cold buttermilk. I saw her hands as I cracked an egg and spilled its bright yellow yolk into the ingredients, while I cut cold butter into tiny square pieces. All these years later, her words guided me in my kitchen—when the dough comes together, it will feel firm but flexible. Like your earlobe.

Are you hungry, Dad? John is studying bottles stacked in a crisscross pattern in the wine cabinet. He pulls a bottle of red from near the middle, reads the label, then returns it in favor of another that looks identical to me.

I could eat. Gene’s eyes remain focused on the brown paper sack across the room.

I give the pot a final stir and inhale Mammaw Ruby’s dumplings, her kitchen in October, suppertime wrapped in an old gospel song, music crackling and sputtering from Papa Homer’s transistor radio. But my dumplings seem less substantial than hers. It's as though they’ve shrunken and become part of the broth. I wonder if the difference is merely a trick of memory, the same sort of ruse that makes the hallway of my elementary school feel considerably smaller while trees and time swallow the entire town.

The timer buzzes. Gene stares in the general direction of the oven, wearing a confused expression.

The bread’s ready, I say.

His face relaxes. I slip my hand into an oven mitt, pull the foil package out, and drop it on the counter.

We stopped by the hospital to see Mom before we left. She looked pretty good, considering. And she was relieved to know that Dad will be staying with us for a while. John pulls three wine glasses from the cabinet near the bar and opens his selected bottle of red with an expert twist and tug.

I nod. That’s good. How was the drive?

Not bad. The highways were clear, other than a few icy patches in Oklahoma. Do you want wine? He pours a measure into the first glass and glances over to me. I can open a bottle of white, he says. He knows red wine gives me headaches.

Sure.

Look at this! Gene interrupts. He tugs a travel package of Kleenex from the pocket of his corduroy pants and waves it with a flick of his wrist. I had to buy these at the filling station in Atoka. This flimsy thing cost me ninety-five cents! He yanks a tissue from the small pack and swipes at the corner of his eyes. Pauline buys a whole big box at the Walmart for the same price, but I didn’t have a choice with these drippy eyes. John forgot to pack any.

John chuckles at what sounds like a dig and winks at me. I don’t believe Gene meant it in a mean-spirited way. At ninety years of age, he doesn’t have time to mince words.

Gene, we have plenty of tissues, so help yourself. I point to the powder room underneath the stairs.

Oh, no, I have my own. He grins as though proud of his recent gas station purchase. With some effort, he stuffs the package back into his pocket, but drops the used tissue onto the kitchen floor. He steps over it without noticing.

John scoops it up and offers it back to his dad as they walk into the dining room. Here you go, Dad.

Gene looks at the Kleenex with wonder, takes it, and pokes it inside the cuff of his red sweatshirt.

As if on cue, Tate comes bounding downstairs with energy enough for all of us. He wears a Dallas Mavericks sweatshirt and khaki shorts. His bare legs look cold, but this is typical Tate style, even in winter.

Hi, Gene. Tate extends his hand.

Hello there young man. They shake formally at first, then their hands relax as Gene takes in his step-grandson, from the top of Tate’s thick dark hair to his long, naked toes. Don’t you have some shoes?

Yeah. Tate’s relaxed, perfect smile offers no hint of the annoyance he suffered while wearing tight bands and wire braces for two-and-a-half years. Dental freedom had come just in time for senior pictures. Now, it’s as though that period of irritation never existed.

Goodness, you’re tall. You’ve grown up since the last time I saw you. How old are you now?

I'll be eighteen in May. And yes, it’s been a while. Like two years? I still remember the first time we met. How old was I, Mom?

Three, I think. John and I had been dating about a year.

A pang of guilt wallops me. In the past decade, we’ve made very little effort to visit John’s family in northwest Arkansas. John is good about calling regularly, but compared to the amount of time I spend with my mother and sister, who live nearby, well, there is no comparison.

Tate pulls out a chair for Gene. I remember how you carried me on your shoulders all the way across the parking lot when we went to the Texas Rangers game. Do you remember?

Gene nods while lowering himself into the chair, yet studies Tate's face as though he can't quite focus on that particular baseball memory. Well, I can’t lift much of anything anymore.

Tate’s smile wanes, and for a moment he looks unexpectedly sad. Exhaustion seems to settle over the room, over all of us, as we continue eating, mostly in silence.

SOMETHING IS DYING somewhere in our house. Last evening, the kitchen smelled of chicken and dumplings and garlic bread warm from the oven. This morning, a rancid odor assaults me as I reach into the refrigerator for milk for my coffee. By my second cup, I’ve snapped on yellow plastic gloves and removed more things than one refrigerator should be expected to hold.

Wedged behind the box of baking soda, I find a takeout container of stale fried rice. It isn’t the smelly culprit, but I dump it into the trash anyway. Soon, my countertops overflow with bottles and jars and cartons of milk and juice. Cleaning one thing always results in a mess somewhere else.

We are a family in love with mustard. Seven varieties take up space in our fridge: two bottles of spicy; a nearly empty container of brown; one honey-flavored; a squat jar of Dijon; a bright yellow picnic variety; and an unopened bottle that looks to be more seed than spread. I check each one for freshness, then group them together, and snap a picture with my phone. I post it on Facebook with the caption, Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, from asphyxiation.

Who puts a dried-up bottle of mustard back in the fridge? I mumble. Lucy, underfoot so close I’ve nearly stepped on her several times, looks up and blinks her sinfully long eyelashes. I know you didn’t do it, I say to her, and drop the offending mustard bottle in the trash. She blinks again.

Directly overhead, I hear John walking. Seconds later, his footsteps reverberate on the stairs. There’s no sneaking up on anyone in our house. I glance at the clock above the sink. It’s almost eight o’clock. By now, Julie, our branch manager, will have opened up the bank for the day. She’ll have unlocked the vault, unfolded the newspaper in the center of the break room table, made a pot of coffee. Soon, Tracey, my assistant, will be coming in, ready (or not) to face another Monday. I envision the manila folders neatly stacked on the corner of my desk—a letter of credit I need to finish, a new accounts receivable loan request, and a list of renewals due by month-end. I should check my work emails now, but there will be plenty of time for that later. For the foreseeable future, a couple of weeks I estimate, I’ll be working from home while Gene is with us.

You’re busy already, John says as he scans the mess covering our kitchen island, then bends to pet Lucy.

Our kitchen stinks. Do you smell that horrible odor?

He tilts his head and sniffs. I only smell coffee. John walks over and gives me a hug. I relax into him and inhale his warm skin, peppermint soap layered with the woodsy Burberry cologne I gave him for Christmas.

How’d you sleep? he asks. He releases me, takes a step back, glances at the clock.

I chuckle. I didn’t. You were snoring, so I got up.

Oh. Sorry. Why didn’t you wake me? He looks at me sheepishly, as though he’s been caught passing a note in school. His hair is slicked into place and still partially wet from the shower. A dot of blood stains the shred of tissue clinging to his neck above his collar.

It’s all good. Today’s like a vacation day for me anyway. Already I feel energized by this change of routine.

Never a coffee drinker, John pours a small glass of orange juice and swallows it in one steady gulp. He places the glass in the sink with the oily, vinegary jars I will soon rinse and toss into the recycle bin.

Here’s a fun morning fact, John. I found seven bottles of mustard in the fridge.

He laughs. I guess we should come up with some mustard recipes.

Yeah, enough for the next four months.

John pulls on his overcoat and takes a blackberry yogurt from those stacked on the counter. Dad’s still sleeping.

For an instant, I’d forgotten about Gene. Last night after dinner, we’d all collapsed into bed by ten. Gene never made a sound all night.

Please, promise me you won’t work late tonight. His job in real estate finance often requires long hours and frequent travel.

I won’t. The Philly closing is this morning. After that, I should have some breathing room. He grabs his briefcase and smiles tentatively. Have fun. Love you.

He’s out the door before I can say goodbye. Lucy scurries into the dining room and jumps onto the window seat. She stays there until John’s headlights disappear down our long, narrow driveway.

Gritty grinds float in my last mouthful of coffee, but I drink it anyway. Already I feel guilty for not being at work. I should be having coffee at the bank, where individual hazelnut creamers fill a basket on the break room table, and grounds always stay separated. Instead, I’m up to my elbows in foodstuff while John drives to work. And his dad, a man I’ve spent very little time with, sleeps upstairs in our master bedroom. I scrub another sticky circle from the bottom shelf of our refrigerator and wonder why every jar of jelly leaves its mark.

LUCY HEARS GENE first. She cocks her head, then tears to the stairs, her feet scrambling and sliding on the wood floor. Overhead, the ceiling creaks and the light fixture quivers as though a slight tremor has traveled through the heart of Dallas and into the walls of our home.

Gene, hold on, wait for me. I peel off my gloves and drop them on the counter where they vanish among the bottles and cartons. When I reach the bottom stair landing, I see him standing at the top, all lanky legs and arms, his face partially hidden in the slanted morning shadows. He wears the same red sweatshirt and tan corduroy pants from last night, but his hair is neatly combed, his face clean shaven.

Let me help you walk down, I say.

Oh, no, I don’t need any help. He grips the banister with one hand, waves me off with the other, and then wobbles and grabs the wall to steady himself. But nothing about him appears steady.

I’m sure you don’t, but we can’t have an accident on day one. I take the stairs two at a time and position myself beside him. A few years ago, I broke my foot when I fell down these very stairs, I chatter nervously. I had to wear a boot for six weeks. It was awful.

"Well, young lady, it sounds like I’d better help you down the stairs." Gene offers his elbow as though he might usher me down a church aisle. My hand fits comfortably in the crook of his arm, yet I feel anything but comfortable. Purple veins bulge through the back of his hand. His skin is as thin and translucent as rice paper. He seems frail, yet incredibly strong.

Ours is a plodding dance, first one foot and then the next. After the third step, we pause with our feet side-by-side. Gene’s sneakers are the same shocking white as his hair. Stark and clean, they look to be only days out of the box, not yet tromped through wet grass or dirt from his tomato garden. By contrast, my red Converse could use a good cleaning.

His icy fingers tighten around my wrist as we take another step. We stop again. Each footfall comes with an exhalation so slow and thick that I expect to see a stream of breath forced through Gene’s pale lips. In this tight stairway space, family surrounds us in the form of black-and-white photographs arranged on the wall. This mingling of our two families spans several generations. By the time John and I married, many of the folks in the pictures were already buried in various family plots in rural Arkansas; John’s people in the northwest part of the state, mine on the northeast side, near the Mississippi River.

Typically, when I hang a photo or painting, I eyeball the area and hammer the nail into the wall without measuring, an imprecise practice that makes John cringe. But for this particular project, I’d arranged the photos on the floor first, and then rearranged them several times. I even found myself contemplating the people in the pictures, as though they had a say in the matter. Would my great-grandmother want to hang only inches beside John’s great-aunt? The photos represented much more than a Pinterest home decor project. The pictures represented history to me.

Midway down the stairs, Gene releases his hold on the rail, points, and rocks slightly forward in the direction of his finger. I grab his elbow to steady us both.

Is that your dad? He points. My dad stands beside the 1952 black Chevy he bought with the money he’d saved sacking groceries and doing odd jobs. The car is parked beside a towering oak tree on the home place, the house where Momma grew up, the place where I spent much of my childhood. Daddy’s hair is cropped in a crewcut, and his eyes glint with a knowing expression. He looks prepared, even then, to grab Momma’s hand, drive off down the gravel road, and take on the world.

Yes. It’s one of my favorite pictures of him.

Have I ever met him?

No. He died almost seventeen years ago.

Usually I rush down the stairs, stopping only to dust or straighten the edges of the frames. Now, I lean in and study the faded photo of my father. Though he’s young in the photo, I flash back to his final days—colon cancer that came fast, the sterile hospital room in Memphis, the machine that breathed for him while his last soybean crop grew all around our farmhouse.

He must have died young.

Yes. He was only fifty-seven. Colon cancer. I state the facts as though reading them off the medical chart of a stranger, but inside I am holding back an unexpected swell of emotion. Talking about my father is not something I expected to do today.

Gene blinks and watches me, as though I should elaborate on the picture or the man. But I have nothing more to say.

We take another heavy step. He squeezes my wrist tighter. I want to pull my arm away, but I don’t.

And who’s that handsome fellow? He grins and taps John’s baby picture. The frame shifts slightly.

He looks the same, doesn’t he? Even as a baby, John had dark eyes fringed with long lashes, the sort girls dream of having yet many boys are blessed with. I straighten the photo while Gene draws air into his lungs and forces it back out in a way that seems too personal for me to hear.

Well, he’s a whole lot bigger now. Gene’s laugh is teasing.

Catty-corner from John’s, my baby picture hangs in a silver frame, the photo lightened to shades of gray. I’m perched in a child-sized aluminum patio chair on Nana and Papa’s pontoon boat at Lake Norfork. Although I can’t tell the color, I imagine the vinyl chair straps to be red and blue. My one-piece bathing suit, likely sewn by Momma, was assuredly pale pink. Baby girls always wore pink in the sixties. In my fist I clutch a bottle of suntan lotion, like the fair-haired child in a vintage Coppertone commercial. Eyes, smile, the shape of my nose—nothing about the girl in the photo is recognizable to me.

Is that you? Gene nods to my picture.

It is. I try to move forward, to continue downstairs, but Gene tugs back on my arm and continues studying the pictures. His eyes shift back and forth from John’s photo to mine. His breath comes in forced puffs. I don’t know if these stairwell pauses are Gene’s way of regrouping and resting, or if he is genuinely interested in the photographs. Regardless, our walk to the kitchen has become a prolonged journey. When his fingers tighten around my wrist, I know he is ready to move on.

We take another step.

Gene and Pauline’s wedding photo is next in the grouping of family photographs. When he notices it, his brow shifts. His eyes widen and then squint as though he is focusing on the entire memory before scrutinizing