All the Things We Didn't Say by Sara Shepard

examined the pictures on the dining table. The first was a black-and-white snapshot of her in a nurse’s uniform, standing at the edge of a cot. Chicken scratch at the bottom of the picture said (I think), Ruth, Paris, 1944.
    Next was a soft, hand-colored photo. She looked about ten years older, with blonde, neat, bunchy hair, very white skin, no wrinkles. After that was a picture of her with her hands on my father’s shoulders. My father, maybe a bit older than me, stood beside her, although I didn’t think he intended to be in the picture. He stared off into space, his whole face shattered and fragile.
    Something about his face in the photo reminded me of his face the day he threw the snow globe against the wall. Had my father told Stella about that? About the hospital? How had he explained?
    My grandmother grew older and older in each successive picture, gaining more weight, her hair receding until it was a fuzzy, bald raft at the crown of her head, her pink scalp shining through. In the last photo, she was in bed. Stella was next to her, wearing the same green stretch pants she had on today.
    My father returned from the kitchen, holding a can of beer. It looked strange in his hand; I’d never seen him drink one. He pointed to the photo of him. ‘That’s me.’
    â€˜Duh,’ I answered. I motioned to the wall. ‘What’s with the pictures of Frank?’
    My father took a long swallow of beer. ‘Yeah. Mom liked Frank. She really went nuts with pictures of him after Dad died.’
    I stared at him. Samantha, who was sitting on the couch reading a wrinkled TV Guide, snorted.
    Dear Claire. You know how you’re always looking for kitsch? Well, you’d hit the jackpot here.
    â€˜Why don’t I take your bags upstairs?’ my father offered.
    We all walked through the kitchen and up the creaky stairs to the bedrooms. The upstairs, way colder than the downstairs, opened into a long, narrow hall with doors on either side. The bathroom door, the first to the left, gaped open.Stacks of books and crossword puzzles balanced on the top of the toilet.
    My father tapped the first bedroom door open with his foot. The door was very heavy, with a long crack traversing through its center. ‘This used to be my room.’
    It smelled musty inside. There was a From Russia With Love poster on the wall and a video game console-at least I thought that was what it was-on the ground. The television was a tiny bubble. An orange milk crate in the corner held action figures, and a second milk crate behind it was filled with old LPs. Blonde On Blonde was up front, a frizzyhaired Bob Dylan pursing his lips at the camera. A plaid spread covered the twin bed.
    â€˜Huh,’ Steven said, looking around.
    â€˜Where did this TV come from?’ My father tapped it, puzzled. ‘And these video games?’
    Steven knelt down to examine the console. ‘Atari.’
    â€˜I certainly wasn’t back here when video games came out,’ my father said. ‘And I don’t remember them here the one time we brought you guys.’
    Steven inserted a cartridge into the video game and turned on the television. The words DONKEY KONG flashed on the screen. ‘This is, like, vintage. It’s never been played with.’
    â€˜No one plays those video games,’ Samantha scoffed, peering in from the hall. ‘They’re, like, a zillion years old. I have Sega.’
    â€˜I never liked this game,’ Steven said, but fired it up anyway. The gorilla pitched barrels down a plank, and Steven’s character, a Mario Brother, jumped them.
    â€˜Sad!’ Stella sang when the barrel tripped up Mario. Then she looked at my father. ‘You know who I saw the other day? Georgette Mulvaney. That Kay girl’s mother.’
    My father’s chin jutted up. I watched his eyes carefully.
    â€˜I’m amazed they still live here.’ Stella gazed out the window. The wind was