Somewhere amidst the stacks of scrapbooks he knows there is a picture. Two pictures, really, a double exposure. One is a picture of a woman, his mother, at the beach. He is also in the picture, playing in the sand at her feet as she scans the horizon. He does not know what she is looking for. The other picture, a ghost layer, depicts his father, leaning back in a wooden chair, a glass beer bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other. There is a whisky expression on the man’s face, as though he held a secret in his smoke-filled lungs.