Chapter Text
The concept of their inevitable parenthood was intimidating for the two. Emma in particular seemed anxious, throwing herself into helping others as a way to ignore her own mounting fears. Eddie Gluskin noticed.
One day, he asked gently: “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Her request was how they ended up at the storage facility in March 1997.
They passed rows of units, searching for the number that matched the key. When they found it, Eddie pulled open the metal door with a grunt. Emma darted in with urgency, drawn to the boxes like they held buried treasure.
The scent of aged paper and forgotten things clung to the air—a poignant blend of dust and memory. Five months into a pregnancy that still felt surreal, Emma navigated the maze of family belongings with determined intensity. Eddie, his usual tailored composure fraying slightly, stood by—an anchor in a tide of ghosts.
There were less boxes than she expected though she assumed it may be due to her nephews having been here to collect prior.
Emma beamed as she unearthed pieces of her childhood:
Summer dresses her father had bought her, still infused with the echo of him calling her his “princess.”
Costumes she’d crafted with her sister-in-law, Milani, for school plays.
A chest full of outdoor toys she used to play with alongside Archie and, later, little Dawn.
Her fantasy and fiction books
Milani’s handwritten parenting tips, which Emma wished she’d found earlier.
A tin of family recipes she hadn’t tasted in years.
Then there was the family album.
She brought it onto her lap and spread it wide for her eyes to lay on the images. Her smile, which had bloomed at the sight of her late sister-in-law Milani and her nephews Archie and Dawn thinned and then vanished entirely.
“Where’s Mitch?” Emma’s voice, initially soft with nostalgia as she flipped through the worn pages of a family photo album, sharpened with a sudden urgency to her half-brother in the collection.
Eddie leaned closer, scanning the faded photographs.
She traced a finger over a blank space in the album, a silent accusation. “He took most of these pictures,” she murmured, a fresh wave of realization washing over her. “He didn’t think of him as significant to his family than he should… My dad. Is there even anything of him that's still...”
A frantic energy seized her. She rummaged through box after box, the cardboard rustling like dry leaves. Finally, with a small cry of triumph, she pulled out a single photograph. It was of a man in a vibrant aloha shirt, taken before she was born. Up until now, his face was a blur of a memory, and it solidified a fear she hadn't quite articulated until now.
“Eddie,” she began, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes meeting his with a desperate plea, “um... could we make some physical memories with you?”
Eddie froze. The casual warmth of the garage dissipated, replaced by a chilling draft from the past. Eddie gripped himself. Though he remained upright, his joints locked in place. A shutter, flash, and scream of a camera, the stark glare, teeth that reflect its beam, his voice shrill and pleading as a boy, the feeling of vulnerability and violation – it all slammed into him, widened with a raw panic Emma had seen before, and knew where his mind was violently drawing him back into.
Guilt twisted in Emma’s gut. “I’m sorry, Eddie,” she apologized, her voice catching. She hadn't meant to trigger him, she bleak at that thought his trauma was physically caught, copied, and distributed.
Eddie’s shoulders slumped, the tension slowly bleeding out of him as he looked at her. He knew, with a certainty that transcended the immediate discomfort, that she hadn't intended to cause him pain.
“I just want them to not go through this experience I have now,” Emma choked, tears pricking at her eyes. “That my dad faded from my life with less of him here than I would’ve wanted. I don’t want that for them, or for you.”
Eddie sank down, pulling her into a comforting embrace. He held her close, stroking her hair until her ragged breaths softened. When she pulled back slightly, she looked at Eddie to give him another alternative.
“Maybe we could do a recording of some sort,” she suggested, her voice steadier now. “Like the track I made for your birthday. A motion picture may have the benefit of capturing what we do and what we say, the sounds and experience we catch in a given time.”
A small smile played on Eddie’s lips. “Hmm, yes, I like that idea.”
Eddie picked up most of the keepsakes Emma wanted. Afterwards, they returned the keys and went on their way.