Page 112 of Unbound

“I was thinking you could hang out here for a while if you wanted.” I take a deep breath, working through the calming exercises Bert taught me as my chest tries to constrict. “I was planning to spend some time in the basement and wouldn’t mind if you wanted to join me.”

Deidre stares at me, her eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”

Up until now, the only other person I’ve allowed to go through my mother’s things is Sybil. But that’s not fair of me. I’m not the only one who grieved for her. I shouldn’t be the only one allowed to unpack her memories either.

I tip my head in a nod. “Positive.”

Deidre sniffs, a beautiful smile taking over her face. “I would love to.”

37

Sybil

“What in the heck were you wearing?” I flip the photograph in my hands toward Walker. “Is this really some socks with sandals type shit happening?”

Going through Donna’s belongings with him has been one of the most beautiful, painful, amazing things I’ve ever done. Supporting Walker as he works through learning how to find room for both his happiness and sadness has been the honor of my life. Even on the hard days, there’s nowhere else I would rather be.

Luckily, today hasn’t been a hard day.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not really concerned with being fashionable.” Walker takes the photo from me, looking a little closer at his knobby knees and shaggy blond hair. “I actually remember those shoes.” A smile ghosts across his lips. “I wore them everywhere.” He passes the photo back. “But in all fairness, we were going to the beach that day.”

My brows lift. “And you wore socks?”

“Of course I wore socks.” Walker goes back to the box he’s been slowly making his way through. “Otherwise I would’ve gotten sand between my toes.”

I start laughing. Hysterically. Because that is the most Walker thing I’ve ever heard.

One of my favorite parts about this process is all the stories he tells me. I’ve learned that while the man I love has always been serious and reserved, he has also always been bossy and stubborn and headstrong.

Exactly the type of person who would declare socks are beachwear and refuse to be swayed.

I set the picture into the group that will be lining our office, my smile lingering. “I love the shit out of you.”

“That’s good.” Walker passes me another framed image, this one a larger portrait. “Because I just ordered a new pair of sandals.”

My eyes snap to his face. “You did not.”

“Of course I did. I can’t keep wearing boots to Toby’s pool.” Walker pulls out a photo album, and flips to the first page. “I’m tired of listening to them give me shit about it.”

“I’m hiding your socks.”

I look down at the professionally taken shot of Walker and his mom when he was probably eight or nine. They’re both smiling—which is rare since Walker is obviously not going to let a cameraman pressure him into anything—and wearing matching flannel shirts. “I wonder if these shirts are in here anywhere.” I turn the picture his way. “I love the color.”

It’s probably a little weird, but I’ve come across a few things from Donna’s wardrobe that I just love, and with Walker’s okay, added them to my own closet. When I put one of them on, I feel like I’m honoring her. Showing a woman I’ll never know how much I appreciate the way she loved Walker. How proud I am of her for being so brave. The respect I have for her determination to do what was right.

“I’m sure they’re here somewhere.” Walker passes over the album. “This should probably go to Deidre. It’s got a lot of photos of her and my mom in it.”

“Got it.” I grab the leather-bound book, intending to add it to Deidre’s collection, but it’s heavier than I anticipate and tips to one side as I nearly drop it. Thankfully, I manage to keep it from hitting the cement floor, but the plastic sleeved pages flap around, a few folding inward at the center break between photos.

“Sorry.” I apologize to the book. To Donna. To Walker. “Let me just get you back in order.”

I flip to the affected area and start straightening things out. I’m halfway through rectifying the mess when my fingers freeze.

Slid into one of the larger sleeves intended for 8x10 photos is a familiar envelope.

“Walker.” My voice is barely a whisper as I look over the pristine paper that’s been protected by the album’s acid-free paper barrier for over twenty-five years.

Walker drops what he’s holding and rushes to my side. For someone who worked hard to be out of touch with his own emotions, he’s always been so good at reading mine. And thank God for that, because I think if he wasn’t holding me up right now I’d be on the floor.