Tiffany Reisz - The Lucky Ones

“Here,” she said, and handed him the photograph. “Proof I never forgot.”

He took the picture from her and stared at it. Then he turned and put it on the fridge with a magnet. Then he took his wallet out from his back pocket and removed a photo of his own. It was the missing section of her picture, the torn-off part. With another magnet he put the two halves of the photograph together. Now it was complete. Allison in Roland’s arms, Roland standing next to Deacon standing next to Thora and all of them holding their sparklers together so that the four glowing tips became one.

“You gave me the picture?” Allison asked.

“I guess you really don’t remember anything from that time,” he said. “You were in the hospital and I wanted to go talk to you. Dad had told us you were going home with your aunt when you got discharged so I knew it was probably my last chance to clear the air with you. I waited until after dark and I snuck in to see you.”

Allison looked at him, stunned.

“You were asleep,” he said. “So not a big surprise you don’t remember that. But I talked to you for a long time, anyway. Probably my first confession.”

“What did you confess?”

“I said...” Roland paused. His eyes darkened. “I said I was sorry about what happened between us. I said I wished I’d been at home so I could have helped you when you fell. I said I hoped you’d get to come home to us soon. But if you didn’t, I wanted you to have this picture of us until you could come home again.”

Allison blinked and hot tears fell.

“I wondered where this picture came from,” she said. “I thought your dad put it in my suitcase.”

“I wanted you to remember us,” Roland said. “I should have given you the whole picture but I wanted to remember you, too. Monks don’t carry wallets but I had that picture of you in my prayer book until I left.” He paused and seemed to be deciding if he should say what he said next. “I prayed for you.”

“You did? What did you pray?” she asked, deeply touched. Had anyone else ever prayed for her?

“Nothing big. That you were happy. That you were okay. That you’d come home someday,” he said. “And here you are.”

She touched the photograph where the torn seams met. Seeing the two halves of the picture together again made the old wound in her heart, the one left when she was taken away, ache a little, but the good kind of aching, the kind of aching that meant the wound was healing.

“I’ll stay the night,” she said, smiling through her tears.

“You will?”

“Why not?” she said with a resigned sigh. “One night won’t kill me.”

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