It was strange, looking at photos of him that he wasn't in.
In his reality, he and Gabriel agreed to sell their childhood home. Neither of them wanted to make the commitment to maintain it (financially or physically) now that their mother wasn't living in it and wouldn't return to it. Miguel let Gabriel take all the personal effects from the museum to their childhoods (they'd fit right into his cluttered apartment), they listed the property and went their separate ways as they did with everything concerning the other. The path of least resistance to resume not speaking.
They did the same with their mother's funeral, if the measly memorial they hosted for her could even be called that. It was a grossly impersonal and silent affair. Miguel insisted Gabriel take Conchata's ashes and Gabriel didn't argue (he's probably got her in a shoebox tucked in his closet but Miguel won't ever be bothered enough to ask). Miguel carried on the next day as if his brother hadn't collected their mother's ashes the day before.
In this reality, Miguel and Gabriel had decided to co-own their childhood home. Miguel could only imagine the kind of needling that got his other to go through with that. but looking at the family photos on the table by the entryway, he could see there wasn't any needling necessary. His other probably wanted to do it. He probably loved this house. Miguel couldn't relate.
The bright eyed, auburn haired boys in most of the photos were probably his other and his brother. There are no photos of Miguel like that back on his earth and certainly not any photos of him without his brother, not that he knows of. He struggles to imagine himself ever being that young. A light layer of dust coats the hard surfaces and gathers on his fingers as he skates them over the furniture, drifting from room to room and looking over more photos. They're like looking in a fun house mirror. The person behind the frame looks like him, almost to a T, but something about every photo with him in it is distorted. He locks eyes with his reflection but it feels like looking at a stranger. They bear his face and his name but he doesn't know anything about them. He doesn't remember being in any of these photos.
He didn't think this through.
The next photo that catches his attention is on the kitchen wall. It's a photo of his other, cradling a baby. His baby, his beloved Gabriella. He takes it off the wall to inspect it closer. He can almost hear it, the muffled sounds of a hospital nursery. The photo shifts and warps in his hands. If he stares at it long enough, maybe the newborn will move and coo, tossing and turning in her sleep. Bokeh dance around the edges of the image where it meets the frame and slowly grow until the photo is nothing but a colored blur. He wasn't there when she was born but maybe if he stares at the photo long enough he can remember being there. He's studied her birth certificate like a madman studies the bible. "Gabriella Angela O'hara was born at 4:52pm, December 23rd, weighing 7 pounds and 4 ounces", He recites on his knees before god. Maybe if he chants it enough times, he'll finally remember what it felt like to hold her for the first time.
There's a hand on his shoulder and he whips around to see his other's Gabriel, hands up non-threateningly.
"Woof you're jumpy. Didn't mean to scare you," Gabriel gives him a lopsided smile before his expression shifts, "Are you alright?" Miguel deflates a little and reaches up to his cheek, tentatively wiping tears from his eyes. He hadn't realized he was crying.
"I'm fine," Miguel looks back down at the photo in his hands then flips the frame over and removes the back to take the photo out. He folds it to tuck into his pocket. Gabriel doesn't notice, he's too busy reviewing the photos with a dumbfounded look on his face. Miguel's Gabriel never makes that face... or maybe they just don't see each other enough for him to notice it, "How long have you been here?"
"Eh, just got here, got held up at work. It's a real nostalgia trip, all these photos. You remember this one?" Gabriel points to a photo of Miguel's other, himself and two women standing on either side of them that Miguel maybe recognizes (in his reality, those women haven't spoken to him in years). They all look much younger than he is now, probably right out of college. He leans over Gabriels shoulder to see it better.
"No. When was that?" Gabriel looks up at him, a puzzled look on his face.
"Really?" Miguel tenses, looking down to meet Gabriel's eyes (in this moment he can't help but wonder how tall his other was). For a brief moment he worries he's been made until Gabriel lays his worries to rest with that same goofy ass expression, "You're getting to be a real senior citizen. Am I gonna have to put you in the home with mom?"
"If you lock me up with that crazy lady, I will help her sneak out."
Gabriel giggles before quieting to a near whisper "Did you check upstairs?"
Right, the reason Miguel was visiting home. The staff at Wellvale left him a voicemail saying Mrs. O'hara snuck out... again. It was a common occurrence on Miguel's earth too. Either the staff at Wellvale were getting duller or the old woman was getting craftier with age and that was a universal constant. Practically the only reason Gabriel and Miguel would speak before their mother passed was to confer on all the places they checked while looking for her. Miguel swore that was her intention, that she liked sending her boys on a wild goose chase and cherished the family get together that ensued whenever she went on the lam.
"No. But I heard her moving around. She's here."
"Thank god. Last time she snuck out I had to go padding around downtown and I nearly got mugged. What a mess," Gabriel shoves his hands in pockets, "Well c'mon. Before she realizes we're here and climbs out the window."
The stairs of the house creak as Miguel and Gabriel climb them. Even though Miguel's other and his brother had agreed to keep the house up, it was clear they didn't visit often (not often enough to dust obviously) and Miguel had learned that his other kept the water and lights off. Miguel couldn't complain. Keeping the house at all was more effort than he had been willing to put in so who was he to judge.
They go from door to door upstairs. Bedroom, bathroom, closet-
"Ah" Gabriel grunts while trying the knob. The door isn't locked but it doesn't budge. It occurs to Miguel that the sounds he heard while he was downstairs were probably moving furniture. Gabriel gently raps his knuckles on the door, "Ma, it's me and Miguel."
"She's not here!" came the voice from the other side of the door.
Miguel presses past Gabriel to knock next, "Shock's sake ma, open the door."
"No! You're just gonna send me back!"
Gabriel shrugs "She's not wrong." Miguel elbows him, making him stumble back a bit, an unspoken "you're not helping".
He turns back to the door, "C’mon ma. Please don't make me break the door down." Empty threat. If he had to guess she moved the dresser. It was his Conchata's barricade of choice. It would be nothing to him but was probably enough to hold back his other. Appearances to maintain, he reminds himself.
"Try it! You never visit me! You don't care about me! You just want me out of sight!" Miguel thinks of his reality and the box of ashes that might be in his brother's closet and cringes a little.
"I was busy last month, ma c’mon!" Gabriel pleads.
"Busy with what? Some girl who isn't going to call you back?" Miguel exhales through his nose, stifling a laugh. It's Gabriel's turn to elbow his brother, which turns the stifled laugh into a weak snort.
"Jeez mom! Low blow."
"He's sorry ma. If you let us in, he'll take you to lunch next month," there's silence. Miguel sighs, "We'll take you to lunch next month," he corrects himself, "I promise."
"It has to be somewhere nice!" somewhere expensive, she means.
Gabriel eagerly accepts, "Deal! Now open the door!" It's gonna be Miguel’s money after all. His Gabriel could be just as crafty as his mom when it came to worming out of handling a check and Miguel suspects that's another universal constant.
They hear the sound of furniture being moved before the door opens from the other side.
"You better not forget!" she holds up a finger at Gabriel, "If either of you forget you said you'd take me to lunch, I'll do something much more dramatic!" Miguel has no doubts about that. Dramatic was an understatement for some of the shit his Conchata got into.
Conchata turns her attention to Miguel when he speaks, "I'll make sure he doesn't forget..." his voice trails off as a harrowed expression creeps onto her face, "Ma? Is something wrong?"
"Who are you?" She looks like she's seen something worse than a ghost. A ghost would be a blessing. Ghosts are safely of the dead. There's something distinctly alive and unnatural standing in front of her and it's wearing her Miguel's face.
He feels a striking and unnerving sense of deja vu. It's his worst nightmare that someone would look at him and simply know what he's done. He dreams of it, quiet whispers follow him down dark alleyways. They step on his heels and breathe down his neck, "Imposter. Thief. You don’t belong here." His worst fear is that it's Gabriella who asks him what he's done with her father, asks him if he's even human.
Gabriel looks between Miguel and his mother, "Ma? What're you-"
Conchata cuts him off, "I know you're not my son! What did you do with him?"
Miguel isn't sure whether to step forward or back, "I- mom what are you talking about?" he feels like shit even asking, to even imply this is just another one of her delusions. She's right, after all. He feels bile rising in the back of his throat and the haunting whispers crawling up his spine, making his hair stand on edge.
Conchata quivers as she speaks. She's sheet pale and her words bleed together in terror, "Are you the devil? Have you come to take me to hell? Is that where you've taken my son?" Miguel and Gabriel exchange a glance.
Gabriel reaches forward to grab Conchata’s wrists and she wails and thrashes in his grip like a woman possessed, "No- no, mom, it’s just Miguel... mom..." he turns to his brother, "You... should go."
Miguel can't open his mouth to protest. He just turns to leave without words.
"Gabriel, you let that thing into my house!"
"I’m sorry ma, he's leaving now, I promise," Miguel hears as he slinks back down the stairs. Their creaking sounds more like pained groaning. What was once a welcome, the house shifting to meet him is now condemnation. You're hurting me, just like you're hurting her.
"You let that thing around my granddaughter!" Conchata cries. She wants Miguel to hear her.
It takes a moment for Miguel to compose himself once he gets outside. It's not bright outside but sun peeking past an overcast sky is damn near blinding to him. Exiting the house felt like walking across a decaying rope bridge, the floor beneath him swaying from side to side and the chasm beneath the floor so vast it could very well be bottomless. One false step and the abyss would swallow him whole. He closes the door behind him and leans over the stoop to throw up, unable to hold down the bile that had come to settle in the back of his throat.
He groans, straightening himself up from being sick and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. The photo. He forgot he took it.
The photo now elicits a deep and profoundly unsettling feeling in Miguel. To see someone who is supposedly him but distinctly not him cradling “his” child, it causes something to shift inside of him. The face of the stranger in the photo makes his brain itch as though it weren't quite human. It's his face, sure, but it is not his face. There is too little (or perhaps too much) behind the eyes. He had planned to take the photo home to show to Gabriella. His mother's cries ring in his mind, their echoes taint the idea.
"Do you remember being that small?" in his mind, he asks eagerly. She wouldn't remember but he asks as though she can describe it to him and fill in the blanks. One of them needs to remember. He feels that abyss finally swallow him when Gabriella looks up at him with wide eyed recognition. The man in the photo is her father. The man showing it to her is not.
He can hear Gabriella say it with vivid clarity. He can hear it so loudly that it cracks glass windows and concrete walls alike, "What did you do to my dad?"
"Are you the devil?"
There's a burning feeling behind Miguel's eyes and a pressing feeling in the base of his throat, something akin to the feeling of holding back tears. He swallows it then focuses on the photo again. He had been looking down at it but in letting his mind wander the photo had become blurred. He folds and creases the photo at his other’s neck, until the crease has begun to rub off some of the ink on the print. With the flick of his claw, he slices through the fold and lets the sliver of photo with his other's face on it fall into the grass.
It's fitting, leaving his other to his house.