34: Tyler (1/2)

34. Tyler

When I walk into the kitchen, I immediately know something is wrong. Mom is sitting alone, a mug of coffee on the table and her hands clasped tightly together. I walk over to the fridge and grab myself a glass of water.

I walk awkwardly to the table and sit down across from my mom.

”You okay?” I ask. ”Shouldn't you be at work?”

She nods her head and pushes her coffee to the side. ”Look, I know the last year or so has been hard on you.”

I frown. ”How so—?”

”You found out about your dad and me. You found out about your biological parents. I know it wasn't easy and I know that you went through a rough patch. A very rough patch,” Mom continues and I look up at her, my throat constricting. ”And I know I didn't make things better. I don't even know if this will make up for some of it but . . . I was at your grandparents' house the other day and I managed to find some pictures. Pictures from your biological mom, my sister.”

My frown deepens and I then notice the small pictures face-down on the table.

”They're yours,” she says. ”If you want them.”

I push my glass of water to the side and nod slowly. ”Can I look at them?”

”Of course,” she flips one over and slides it across the table towards me, ”this is her, when she was eighteen.”

I stare down at the small picture. It's of a young woman with long hair that has been tied away in one thick braid. Her eyes twinkle lazily and her smile is wide and happy. I lift a hand and run a finger over the white border surrounding the picture.

”Before me?” I ask.

Mom nods. ”Before you and your father.”

”Emmy,” I say quietly, remembering the name that my mom had given her when she broke the news to me.

Mom smiles softly. ”Emmy,” she whispers.

”You miss her,” I comment.

”I miss who she was,” she says. ”She changed rapidly, Ty. One week I knew her and the next I didn't.”

”That couldn't have been easy,” I say.

She shakes her head and looks down at the picture in my hand. ”No, it wasn't. I guess in a way it was almost easier knowing that she would never go back to the way she was. The drugs didn't help, made things worse for her which made everything worse for your grandparents and me.”

I press the picture back down against the table and tear my eyes away from those of my mother to look into the ones of my real mom. ”What was wrong with her?”

”Schizophrenia,” she answers. ”Grandma thinks the drugs triggered it. I think it's always been there, just got louder.”

”Why do you think it was always there?”

”With schizophrenia, the person always has it. Just takes a certain amount of strain for it to be visible. My sister though, she was different. I would catch her giving looks to people, the second it was there, it was gone. She talked to herself a lot—we shared a room for a while. Most nights she would talk herself to sleep. First I thought she was reading but she was talking like someone else was in the room with her.”

A shiver runs down my spine and I slide the picture to the side. ”What's that one?”

My mom's eyes follow mine to the second picture lying face-down on the table. She slides it up and sighs.

”I found this in her diary,” she says. ”It was open on her desk, no one moved it. This picture was sticking out the corner so . . . I took it.” She pushes the picture towards me. ”This, Tyler, is your father. Guthrie Black.”

I look at the picture and a stab of surprise goes through me. The man in the picture looks like he's in his mid-twenties, with a clean-shaven face and reasonable clothes. His dark hair stands out in the picture and the image I'd had of him being a slobbering, disgusting mess clears from my mind instantly.