Snapshots by emily_michele
Story Notes:
This is a "sequel" of sorts to the Nick and Annie series, and it's intended to be a little open-ended and left open to interpretation since I'm still working on "Run" and "Sisterhood of the Ugly Red Sweatpants."
Chapter 1 by emily_michele



Everyone says he looks just like me. I finally stopped correcting them and just started saying “thank you.” Besides, he’s absolutely my son, as long as you don’t count biology. He may look a lot like his dad, but when I look into his eyes, he’s undeniably Annie.


“Hey, Dad, you ready?” Drew pokes head around the corner, the red tassel from his mortarboard dangling over one bright green eye, and gives me an excited grin.


“Almost.” I tear my eyes away from the picture of him and his mother taken on the day he was born that’s been on my nightstand for fifteen years, but first I take it all in again. All these years later, and it’s still my favorite picture of her. She’s not even looking at the camera. She’s totally focused on the tiny, red baby swaddled in her arms. Of course, that’s Annie, in a nutshell, I guess. “Well, let’s see it!” I jest, eager, yet sad to see my son in his graduation gown. There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he steps into view, and the sight of my eighteen-year old son standing there, framed by the doorway in his cap and gown, literally takes my breath away. I can’t help myself, and he blinks in surprise at the sudden flash I’ve inflicted on his unsuspecting eyes. It’s only when I look at the photo on the screen that I notice the wrinkles in the shiny polyester, made more apparent by the camera flash. It’s obvious that he neglected to take the gown out of its packaging and hang it up like he was told last week, as the unsightly creases intersect in almost perfect squares. “Let me steam that for you,” I tell him.


Suddenly, I feel every one of my forty-eight years and then some. I guess I’ve come by it honest, though. After all I’ve been through, good and bad, I’d say I’ve lived more in my forty-eight years than many men do in eighty-eight. I don’t regret a second of it. Maybe I’ve got more laugh lines around my eyes than I’d care to see when I look in the mirror, and maybe the frown lines on my forehead are more prominent than I’d like them to be. Maybe my hips hurt from the years upon years of dancing on stage in front of thousands of girls more than I’d like to tolerate, and maybe there’s a little more white around my temples than what I let my hairstylist leave un-dyed for that “sophisticated look.” Still, every laugh line, every forehead crease, every creaky, old bone and every silver hair represents a snapshot in time that got me to here and now, just like the framed pictures lined up across the top of the dresser.


There’s Annie walking down the sandy aisle, her bare feet treading gracefully across rich, green palm leaves and sunny, yellow hibiscus petals. A bright pink flower is tucked behind her left ear, and her long, cinnamon curls glisten in the setting sun and dance in the salty breeze like the ocean waves. For some reason unbeknownst to me, Drew is clutching her bouquet proudly with one tiny hand while his other is wrapped around his mother’s index finger while he walks her down the aisle. The tears glistening in her smiling emerald eyes are no match for the ones that are pouring down Kevin’s cheeks beside me.


Kevin and I are in deep conversation with a little blonde boy in a lush, green area of Central Park on the morning before a sold-out show at Radio City Music Hall. We’re covered in mud from head to toe, but he’s grinning so big that his little dirt-smudged cheeks must surely hurt. The cleanest of all of us is another young blonde, just about three years my son’s senior, gripping a football in his hands and wearing a Kentucky blue and white jersey, while he nods in approval, dark blonde caterpillar brows furrowed in concentration, as we teach Drew the art of throwing a football. Little did we know he’d be schooling us in the art of a perfect spiral while he led his team to the state championship thirteen years later.


Howie is holding a sleeping baby girl with a head full of strawberry blonde curls and long eyelashes that graze her chubby pink cheeks. James and John Holden (yes, we all call him by both names- that’s the way Leigh wanted it) are perched atop opposite arms of the chair, peeking down over their dad’s shoulders, and my gorgeous wife, who can only be running on adrenaline and pure joy after twenty-seven hours of labor, flashes an excited grin in the background.


My mom and dad are in the same room at the same time and both smiling. Jane, whose hair at the time was a shade of auburn that was oddly similar to Annie’s, is holding Drew on her hip and cooing down into the bassinet adorned with pink bows. Aaron and Angel are crouched in the floor on either side of the tiny bed and Aaron’s hand is inside, a tiny, pink fist clenched around his index finger.


I’m holding a golden gramophone-shaped trophy in my hand and standing behind a podium giving what was easily the most un-rehearsed speech of my life. Luckily, Kevin, Brian, and Howie came prepared with thank-you lists that are long enough for all five of us. Kevin’s crying, of course, but I’ve gotta admit that maybe I got a little dust in my eye, too.


Brian and Baylee are crouched in a dugout, tugging on the elastic straps that secure the shin pads on Drew’s catcher’s uniform. I’m standing behind them with my hands on my hips, the blue brim of my cap pulled low over my eyes, and a small, brick dust handprint on the back of my t-shirt, studying them carefully as they continue schooling me on the ins and outs of coaching little league baseball.


Backstage on a stop during our 30th anniversary tour, AJ is painting my little girl’s fingernails while Rochelle braids her hair. Her big, blue eyes are wide with wonder as “Uncle Alex” dots white glitter atop the candy-apple red polish to make her little nails look like the dress that Minnie Mouse is wearing in the chair beside her.


Drew and Ava show us their best prom pose in front of an apple tree in full bloom. His tie matches the slim, green beaded taffeta dress that Ava said she chose because it matched his eyes, and in the background, AJ’s eyes are narrowed in disdain at the blonde seventeen year old who perhaps has his arms wrapped around his daughter’s waist just a little bit too tight.

“Hey, Dad?” A single blink and some of the pictures are gone. My heart sinks as I’m reminded that the framed snapshots are nothing more than pretty pictures on the shelf of a dream world, but when I look at my son, I know I’m blessed. I’ve lived, I’ve loved, I’ve lost. I’ve knocked on death’s door more times than I can really count, and I’ve seen life in its purest and most beautiful forms. There’s a dark, empty box in the depths of my heart-- a void I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fill, but I’ve got a fancy camera on a strap around my neck, a cheap polyester graduation gown in my hand, and a smile on my face. Today is going to be a good day.


This story archived at http://absolutechaos.net/viewstory.php?sid=11198