Dinner was almost over when she put down her fork.
“I wanted to ask about the processional.”
Daniel looked up.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Is Nathan still walking Sarah?”
I glanced at him.
“Yes.”
Margaret smiled.
Not warmly.
Carefully.
“He can come, obviously. Nobody is saying he can’t come.”
“Mom—” Daniel began.
“I’m saying he doesn’t have to be in it. Sweetheart, think practically. It isn’t one picture. It’s the whole aisle sequence, the album, the enlargement, and what goes above our fireplace too.”
I stared at her.
She continued.
“His face will be in every single frame.”
Daniel went still.
“You’ll be looking at that for 40 years. I don’t want those photographs.”
The room changed.
That’s the only way I can explain it.
Nothing moved.
But everything changed.
I set my glass down.
Very carefully.
I had six things ready, and I was going to say every one of them, in her dining room, in front of her son.
That’s my brother.
Say his name.
Say what you mean while I’m sitting here.
Tell me exactly what part of his face ruins your photographs.
Tell me whether you think Down syndrome is contagious through an album.
Tell me whether you understand that my father is dead.
Tell me why you think your mantel gets a vote in my wedding.
Then Daniel took my hand under the table and squeezed it once.
“We’ll figure something out,” he said.
Not to me.
To her.
I turned my head slowly.
