Page 63 of The Photograph

“I love your hair, angel.” Cara whispers behind me.

I turn and smile at her, then frown when I can’t read her expression. “What?”

There’re shadows under her eyes as she leans on the island with her jaw resting in her palms. “You’re … different.”

I am. In so many ways.Most of them good, although I’m not sure that Cara will see it that way. I return to my sandwich making. I prepare a chicken, goat cheese, and tomato sandwich I smother in raspberry mayonnaise for me, and mustard and barbecue sauce for Cara, then I pour us some mimosas.

Cara, the ever-protective motherly-older-sibling glances at the drinks. “Should you be drinking?”

I slide a plate before her and settle on the stool next to hers. “We’re celebrating and I’m not on the hard stuff anymore. Eat, then we’ll talk.”

Her eyes narrow but her lips stretch. “You’ve become very bossy.”

When she shuts her eyes and hums around the mouthful of the sandwich, I smile and bite into mine.

While we eat, Cara’s animated face so similar to mine glows with her unique inner light and I giggle while she takes me through her travels. I love these cocooning moments between us when there’s just us, being us.

This is home.

Cara did this.

When I came to live with her, I was scared. Scared of being called a liar again, so I said very little. For several months, I would go to my therapist after school, come back home, do my homework, have dinner, and after drawing or reading, I’d be off to bed.

Cara was working a lot and often late, so I took notes on how to reheat the meals she prepared—she’s not a big fan of microwaves, only good at destroying savors, she says—when she wasn’t home and I made sure to stay safe, so she wouldn’t have to worry about me.

One afternoon, I was drawing on the rickety table Cara had bought with a matching bench better suited on a patio we didn’t have but fitted our small living room-kitchen perfectly. The bench was set against the wall facing the window through which the sun would bathe the little area in the early evenings. That day, a Wednesday, I was so focused on the coloring of the stormy sky, I didn’t hear her approach, but I straightened as soon as she was close and put my picture stuff away.

After setting a plate of yummy smelling pasta with two forks in the center of the table before sitting across from me, she asked, “Are you angry with me, Angel?”

I shook my head but didn’t dare look in her eyes.

She ignored the only chair we owned and came around to sit next to me. “Can I hug you?” she whispered. When I nodded, she wrapped her arm around me and didn’t let go until I relaxed a little.

As she curled her fingers under my chin, she smiled soft. “You know I love you even when you’re mad at me, right? I’ll always love you.”

She was sending me away. My heartbeat went wild, and I clutched her hand between mine. “Please, don’t send me back. I’ll be good, I swear I’ll always be good—”

When Cara cupped my face and drilled her blue-green eyes into mine, I held my breath while my heart beat out of my chest.

“Angel, listen to me.” I opened my eyes wide. “There’s nothing. Nothing you could do or say that would make me want to be apart from you. Nothing in this entire universe. You understand? I’ll never send you away.”

I stared at her face for a long time, and she waited and waited until I felt something turn to liquid in my chest. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

I said nothing for a long time then whispered, “Why did you leave? Did … Dad hurt you too?”

Her breath hitched and she touched her forehead on mine.

“No. He didn’t, he never… I’m so sorry, angel. I wouldn’t have left if I had known, and I’ll never forgive myself for leaving you behind with them.”

After that, we talked for hours, and we promised each other to always speak the truth about how we felt. To always tell of every pain however small because it often hides a gaping wound. She also taught me how to rejoice in our happy moments.

That day, she became my Cara.

And here she is, my Cara in our bigger kitchen as we finish our sandwiches. We tidy up the kitchen with an efficiency borne out of habit. Then Cara leans her back on the sink as I close the fridge. After a deep breath, I take her hand, kiss the back of her fingers before leading her to her bedroom.

She frowns “What’s wrong with your bedroom?”

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