Allen hung up the phone. It took guts for Esther to call. Did she say where she was? He couldn’t remember. He had heard that she and Jake moved out east somewhere after Rosa’s aborted trial. In Esther’s shoes, he would have probably done the same thing.
He picked a shriveled corn flake from the front of his pajama top. He should shower and get to work. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed, his side of the bed. He opened the drawer of the bedside table and removed the manila envelope, thin with treasures.
The first photograph had arrived a year before, four months after Rosa left. A Polaroid print had appeared on his desk at work, accompanying one of the notes Rosa somehow managed to get to him. An infant faced the camera, her eyes slits against the bright sunshine. An adult hand held a knit hat, as if Rosa had just slipped it off her head, to reveal wispy dark curls. The date was scribbled on the white border: March 17. Rosa had drawn a cartoon bubble above the baby’s mouth and printed inside, “Hello, Papa. I’m Emma. I’m four weeks old.”
Emma.
More photos and notes were delivered over the next few months. Always with Rosa cut out of the photo, or just her hand visible, steadying a wobbly, almost-sitting baby. Always with a nondescript background of leafy branches or a brick wall, void of distinguishing characteristics like street signs or storefronts. Never a return address or postmark; no way for him to write back. Through the photos, Allen watched Emma smile and crawl and finally stand alone. She balanced on pudgy feet, hands splayed out for balance.
He studied each photo in turn, marveling at the mix of his and Rosa’s skin hues, their features. He noted how she held her head tilted to the side and recognized the gesture from his own baby pictures. Sometimes he wondered if the pictures made it better, or worse. If they forged a connection to the severed parts of him, or just mocked the wounds. But still he kissed the tip of his finger and touched each image of Emma’s face every night. It was a ritual learned from his mother, who made the same homage for the thirty-nine months his dad spent in prison.
Also like his mother, Allen refused to wash the pillowcase on Rosa’s side of the bed. Even so, the scent of the patchouli oil she dabbed between her breasts before lovemaking had faded. He buried his face in her pillow, but there was nothing left—except in his imagination, where Rosa still sparkled, sizzled. She was unlike any girl he’d ever known, from her wild hair to the small red star on her breast.
What would have happened if he had gone with her to the demonstration? Would he have persuaded her not to attack the police? More likely he would have been seduced by her fire into throwing apples at cops, leaving a little girl with two parents who were wanted by the FBI. Still, maybe if he’d been part of it, Rosa would have told him she was pregnant, instead of him hearing the news from a stranger on the phone.