Turning back a few pages, I study Christian’s picture. Under Future Ambitions, he’d listed “surgeon.” His smile in the photo is shiny. Plastic.

Licking away the taste of salt on my upper lip, I look at the other pictures. Beth. Lisa. Toward the end of our senior section, Jen Tillis smiles into the camera. No hints that she would take her own life a year or so later.

There are a few pictures of her and Christian together. Homecoming Court. Prom. There aren’t any pictures of me and him together, but I’d been with him on prom night too. After he’d dropped off Jen, he’d come to my house. We’d gotten high in the carriage house, and he’d buried his face against my neck, whispering words that sounded a lot like love if you were young and stupid enough to believe a guy with an erection could ever tell you the truth about anything.

The book closes with a snap in my two hands, and I shove it back in the bin. One day I’ll sort through all of it and toss it out, but not today. As I’m shoving it back to its place beneath the rafters, I nudge a padded mailing envelope free of its place among some other bins.

Inside is a sheaf of photos held together by crumbling rubber bands. The pictures look to be from the sixties or seventies. Lots of plaid pants and wide ties. The names scrawled on the back are familiar, aunts and uncles and grandparents, and a melancholy sweeps over me. My parents must have missed taking this envelope when they moved.

Grief never really goes away, does it? It might hide for a while, like an envelope of pictures shoved out of sight in an attic, but it’s still always there, ready to be discovered. Ready to hurt you all over again.

It takes me almost two hours to put all the boxes away. I’m filthy, and my clothes are rank and damp. I shower so quickly I don’t even run out of hot water.

Noise from downstairs alerts me to the return of my husband and son. By the time I get to the hallway, Eli has already gone into his room and closed his door. Ken’s in the kitchen, peeking into the pot of matzah ball soup.

“He didn’t want to keep going,” he explains. “The kid’s soft.”

I glance at the clock. “You were gone since eight this morning, Ken. How far were you planning on hiking?”

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter, because he started complaining about it before we even got an hour in.” He shakes his head. Hands on hips. Brow furrowed. “What’s he going to do with his life, Jewelann?”

“He’s not going to be a professional hiker.” My retort is sharp.

Ken scowls. “He’s not going to be a professional anything if he doesn’t learn how to commit to something. You can’t keep coddling him forever. He’s got to toughen up.”

“You talk about him like he’s stupid. He’s not.” I’ve worried about Eli’s life skills, but I’ve never once believed he lacked intelligence. “You’re his father. You should be … kinder.”