black-and-white? Or, would the color photos go faster? I began to turn over the black-and-white photos. There was little or no information on any of them. I’d just have to go with my best guess as to the sequencing, using clothes and cars as my guide. Maybe Kate could help with identifying the “who and where” after I took care of the “when.” I started with the ones that looked the oldest—no gloss, just photos that looked like they had been rolled onto the paper. They had a kind of silvery sheen and were slightly faded. They hadn’t been very well cared for. I soon got into a rhythm and became immersed in the project.
This, this is my family!
I’d never given any thought to Mom’s side of the family before. She never talked about them and I never bothered to ask. I didn’t care. Mom was more like an out-of-town guest whenever she visited during her infrequent furloughs. She certainly didn’t act like my parent, or my idea of what a parent should be. And now, I’ll never have the opportunity to ask my dad about her. Even though she dumped him and left me on his doorstep, my dad loved her until the day he died. Go figure. At some point in their complicated relationship, they must have gotten wise to birth control, because I have no siblings.
Totally fine by me.
I put the brakes on that train of thought and started sorting through more photographs. I came across a few old photos of African Americans, probably dating back to the early to mid-1800s.
Who were they? House servants or plantation workers or, God forbid, slaves? It would be odd, though, keeping photographs of the servants, right? Whoa! What the . . . ?
Stunned by the next picture, I stopped sorting.
The photo of a woman with a turban wrapped around her head was almost identical to the picture I saw hanging in the hallway of Angel’s house. According to Angel, the woman was her great, great, great, great grandmother.
Was it possible this same person worked for my ancestors? That’s feasible, right?
I had no way of knowing anything about her, but maybe Kate knew.
My legs were cramped, I needed to get up and move around. Collecting the empty water bottle, the plate, and my phone, I headed back down to the kitchen. Before leaving the office, I slipped the photo of the woman with the turban into my pocket. I’d ask Kate about it when she got home tonight. My cell rang; it was her.
“Hey, what’s up?” asked Kate. “Everything okay? Just thought I’d check in.”
“All good.”
“I wanted to let you know that I’m going for drinks after work and won’t be home until later. Will you be okay on your own?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I asked sharply.
“Is my going out a problem for you?”
I took a deep breath and huffed, “No.”
“You sound like it’s a problem. I thought you’d be happy to have some time alone.”
“It’s not a problem. Really. Go ahead, go . . . Word of advice, though. If you’ve got a date, you need something a little sexier than that chef’s jacket and clogs you’ve got on. I hope you have something in your locker.”
“Oh, I think I can manage.” Kate laughed and disconnected the call.
Thunder shook the house—the storm was getting closer. The trees in the yard twisted against the rising wind, their shadows danced across the living room walls. The floorboards creaked overhead.
Is there somebody else in the house?
I jumped when the French doors slammed shut upstairs.
Why does everything in this city feel so bloody haunted? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the haunted one.
I shivered even though it wasn’t cold.
What is up with all the shivering? Am I getting sick?
I turned on the stove light, a lamp in the living room, and the chandelier in the dining room. Before returning to Kate’s office, I scanned each room for boogeymen. Finding none, I climbed the stairs, stopped halfway up, and went back to turn on the porch lights for good measure.
Back to the photos? Or go through the Voodoo goodie
This, this is my family!
I’d never given any thought to Mom’s side of the family before. She never talked about them and I never bothered to ask. I didn’t care. Mom was more like an out-of-town guest whenever she visited during her infrequent furloughs. She certainly didn’t act like my parent, or my idea of what a parent should be. And now, I’ll never have the opportunity to ask my dad about her. Even though she dumped him and left me on his doorstep, my dad loved her until the day he died. Go figure. At some point in their complicated relationship, they must have gotten wise to birth control, because I have no siblings.
Totally fine by me.
I put the brakes on that train of thought and started sorting through more photographs. I came across a few old photos of African Americans, probably dating back to the early to mid-1800s.
Who were they? House servants or plantation workers or, God forbid, slaves? It would be odd, though, keeping photographs of the servants, right? Whoa! What the . . . ?
Stunned by the next picture, I stopped sorting.
The photo of a woman with a turban wrapped around her head was almost identical to the picture I saw hanging in the hallway of Angel’s house. According to Angel, the woman was her great, great, great, great grandmother.
Was it possible this same person worked for my ancestors? That’s feasible, right?
I had no way of knowing anything about her, but maybe Kate knew.
My legs were cramped, I needed to get up and move around. Collecting the empty water bottle, the plate, and my phone, I headed back down to the kitchen. Before leaving the office, I slipped the photo of the woman with the turban into my pocket. I’d ask Kate about it when she got home tonight. My cell rang; it was her.
“Hey, what’s up?” asked Kate. “Everything okay? Just thought I’d check in.”
“All good.”
“I wanted to let you know that I’m going for drinks after work and won’t be home until later. Will you be okay on your own?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I asked sharply.
“Is my going out a problem for you?”
I took a deep breath and huffed, “No.”
“You sound like it’s a problem. I thought you’d be happy to have some time alone.”
“It’s not a problem. Really. Go ahead, go . . . Word of advice, though. If you’ve got a date, you need something a little sexier than that chef’s jacket and clogs you’ve got on. I hope you have something in your locker.”
“Oh, I think I can manage.” Kate laughed and disconnected the call.
Thunder shook the house—the storm was getting closer. The trees in the yard twisted against the rising wind, their shadows danced across the living room walls. The floorboards creaked overhead.
Is there somebody else in the house?
I jumped when the French doors slammed shut upstairs.
Why does everything in this city feel so bloody haunted? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the haunted one.
I shivered even though it wasn’t cold.
What is up with all the shivering? Am I getting sick?
I turned on the stove light, a lamp in the living room, and the chandelier in the dining room. Before returning to Kate’s office, I scanned each room for boogeymen. Finding none, I climbed the stairs, stopped halfway up, and went back to turn on the porch lights for good measure.
Back to the photos? Or go through the Voodoo goodie
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