Page 10 of Killian
“Now we just need to find some,” said Moira. She got up and went to the curtained archway. The library was nothing but silence and inky blackness outside their cozy little room. The smell of the place had shifted, and a current of warmth and plant life was carried along on the drifting air. It was coming from the direction they’d been heading.
“I think you must make more money than I do,” Killian said, from behind her, still rummaging. “This bag is a lot nicer than mine. What do you think you do?”
“No idea,” said Moira. What if there were no librarians? How were they supposed to get out?
“Oh,” he said. She was caught by something in his tone and turned around.
“Oh?”
“I found some pictures,” he said, smiling awkwardly.
He held out her wallet, and Moira returned to the couch to scrutinize the photo. It looked recent. Her haircut was the same as in the picture, anyway. She was standing next to a man in a blue t-shirt with a thick dark beard. His hair was a similar color to hers, and he had a well-muscled arm around her shoulders. They were both grinning broadly. She stared at the man, feeling perplexed. He didn’t look young enough to be a date, but he didn’t look old enough to be her father. The way they presented themselves squarely to the camera made Moira think they both wanted the photo. It was as if they were marking an occasion,but there weren’t any other clues in the snapshot—no holiday décor or birthday hats.
“Huh,” she said. “I wonder who he is?” She dipped her fingers into the plastic sleeve and found several other photos behind the first one. “Oh, look, these must be my parents and brother! Look how cute I was!”
Killian leaned over and smiled at the photo of toddler Moira and the bundled baby with her parents.
“Adorable. You look like your mom.”
The baby was a mere lump of blankets in her mother’s arms, but she knew it was her brother, although she couldn’t have said why. Her father had sandy brown hair and an easy smile. Her mother was dark-haired like Moira and like the man in the first photo but looked more solemn, or maybe that was just an off-moment. Moira didn’t have any vibes one way or the other.
The next photo made Moira smile again. “It’s him!” She shoved the picture at Killian triumphantly. “That’s my grandfather!”
“You found him,” said Killian smiling at her happiness.
“How old do you think I was there?” she asked, examining the photo. She was wearing a dress and glaring at the camera with her arms folded. Her grandfather stood next to her in an old-fashioned suit with his hand on her shoulder. He was also wearing an expression of barely contained amusement as if he found her bad mood hilarious. Moira didn’t know why she had picked this photo to keep in her wallet, but she had to admit that her childhood self’s sullen expression was a bit comical. Moira suspected that if her mother had wanted a serene family photo, they should not have tried to put Moira in a dress.
“Twelve, maybe?” offered Killian, chuckling. “That is quite the glare.”
Moira looked at the three photos, and her grandfather became vibrant in her memory. She knew that his gray hair that brushedhis collar wasn’t an attempt at fashion but a much older style that he’d never changed. She knew he smelled like pine because of his beard oil, and she remembered him picking her up to be snuggled on his lap. But actual facts about him—like his name—remained stubbornly out of reach. Her parents were hazier, but she had the impression of running with her father on crisp autumn mornings and blueberry pancakes with her mother. She returned to the first photo and stared at the man in the blue shirt and beard. He had her hair color. The same as her mother. The same as her grandfather’s must have been. His nose was the same as her grandfather’s, too, and there was something in his smile that matched hers. But Moira didn’t have any matching memories or even impressions of him. Just the photo.
“I think this must be my uncle,” she said at last. “He looks like my grandfather anyway.”
“You’re so lucky,” said Killian, sounding wistful.
“What do you mean?”
“You have a whole family in there,” he said. “I don’t have any photos. Just lunch punch cards.”
“And a stack of adventure stamps,” she said, flapping his passport.
He shrugged, looking unconvinced.
“You might have a family,” she said. “You might have all your photos on your phone. I mean, carrying actual print photos is a bit weird, really.”
“That’s true,” he said, nudging his phone again. It remained stubbornly dark, just like hers.
“What if you’re married?” she said, suddenly struck by the horror-tinged idea.
“That’s true,” he said, perking up, and she glared at him. “What? We could be on honeymoon.”
“I meant, what if you’re married to someone else?”
“I can’t be married to anyone else,” he said, offended at thesuggestion.
“You could be. We don’t remember.”
“Well, then you could be married to someone else,” he argued. Moira tried on the idea for size. She itched her eyebrow as she tried to picture what that would be like or who such a person would be. Unlike her grandfather, there was no hole in her memory shaped like a missing love. There was only Killian.
