The Family Photos
Text by Sébastien Bérubé
Illustration by Chaimae Khouldi
Translation by Anita Anand
The hardest thing is finding out she’s pregnant. To go from joy to fear, in fifteen seconds, beneath the baby-bottle-shaped balloons she’s hung throughout the apartment. But what if it’s true? No, not the pregnancy. That’s already been confirmed by the blue and white stick she wrapped with a ribbon and a pacifier: dude, you’re going to be a father. What frightens you is that he used to say: “We’re the same, you and me.” What if that’s true? You don’t want that. You don’t wanna be the same. You don’t wanna be like him. You don’t wanna be your father. No way.
You repeat to yourself: « You'll never be like him. »
The hardest thing is talking about it for the first time. With the person who knows you better than you know yourself. The person who knows everything, but who doesn’t know that. To make her understand why you’ve never hung any family photos next to hers, in the living room. Why you tense up when a man is too close to you. Why it is that you seem a little homophobic sometimes. That you’re not mean, that basically it’s the little boy hearing those steps, his steps in the hallway, who resurfaces. Waiting for a reaction to the immense void, you vomit right in front of her and are surprised to feel her hand on your neck and all the love she bestows on you.
« You're not alone. You'll never be alone again. »
The hardest thing is calling your brother. Explaining why you missed his wedding. The how of the why and the why of the how you’re never there at Christmas or during those weekends at the cottage. It’s the silence before the anger that’s been festering there in that little body that doesn’t seem to grow as fast in your head. The “Oh come on, Christ!” and the “I’m gonna kill him!” between the tears that are neither yours nor his and both at the same time. It’s feeling his hand on your back, across the telephone line and the three hours that separate you. It’s knowing you won’t be doing the rest of this trip all alone.
« I'll come up. It's okay. I'm coming. We'll go tomorrow. It's gonna be ok. »
The hardest thing is leaving the car. Cutting the engine, taking a deep breath, looking at your brother and finally getting out. Because oblivion is a door that closes the wrong way. That locks you in a world where the walls reflect yourself back to you like a punch in the face. Yeah, that’s right. Oblivion like a rearview mirror. “Objects are closer than they appear.” No matter that you drove at full speed. Tried to get away. It follows you everywhere. It’s time for the mirror to crack. You know it’s not really your reflection and that it’s not you that you wanted to lock in there. But now it’s over, fuck. It’s over.
You repeat to yourself: « You're not like him. »
The hardest thing is going through the door and spilling your guts to Constable Sirois. He gets you some water; he does not get how a father can do that. He doesn’t know how to take you. You don’t know how to deliver yourself either. But you’re both there to do this. To change the story. To change history. He asks questions he’d rather not ask, and you answer with the details you wish you didn’t know. Oblivion, like a rearview mirror. “Objects are closer than they appear.” You tell him everything he needs to know. You hold out your heart with your big arms and he gives you back a little bit of hope with his big voice.
« Call this place. They'll be able to help you where I can't. We'll take care of the rest. »
The hardest thing is dialing the number on the little card he gave you. Hearing the phone ring, time expanding. Once. Twice. Three times. There’s not a lot of time left, but you’re going to take it. Because yes, you’re going to take the time. You’re going to take everything. Take the time. Take that appointment and talk. For real. Finally. With people who know, who get it. Who can read rage, clenched fists, the urge to get properly shitfaced. Talk and give those knuckles of yours a break.
« You're allowed to be pissed off. This shame does'nt belong to you. Let it go. »
The hardest thing is learning that he didn’t deny a thing. That he confessed everything from the start. That they didn’t even need to believe you. Justice will do its work, and you won’t even have to participate in the show. You’re lucky. You know it’s not like that for everyone, but at least, you tell yourself, when the hammer falls, it’s the fact that you spoke up that will resonate in that little room. In your life. And you hope it will resonate for a long time. Far and wide. That it causes an earthquake, collapses walls, frees other people like you. The hardest thing is no longer being the person imprisoned by someone else’s actions.
« It wasn't your fault. It never was and it never will be. »
The hardest thing is choosing between “dawn yellow” and “saffron yellow” for the walls of your little girl’s bedroom. Assembling the bed. “Yellow.” Like a sun that comes to return light to where you’d grown used to darkness. You tell yourself it’s a cliché, that it’s cheesy. But it makes you smile. You know that just because new stuff arrives, it doesn’t mean the old stuff will clear out by itself. It’s all gonna hang out together for a little while. You can live with that. The bunny rabbit wallpaper won’t fill that hole, but it’s a start. You want this to get off to a decent start. And finally take some family photos. And want to hang them on the wall. And be a good father.
