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me. It was something I had never shared with anyone, including the coven.
    I carried the frame over to Amelia and sat in my father's chair next to the sofa, giving her some space. Sinking into the rich leather cushion, I offered her the frame and she gently took it from me. It was a black and white picture of a man and a woman standing outside. The paper had faded and the edges crumbed under the glass in the frame. The man was dressed in a dark suit and tie, the woman in a long, white lace dress and an enormous hat.
    Amelia leaned forward, hovering over the photograph, so close I could see her breath leaving faint marks on the glass. Silently, she alternated between looking at the photograph and then glancing up at me, comparing the two. Her hair fell over her shoulder, trailing down her chest, almost grazing the frame. She studied the photograph, as though she needed to memorize every detail for later.
    “Your parents?” she guessed.
    "On their wedding day, or so it says on the back of the photograph."
    "They were so beautiful," she said in a wistful voice. "You have your father's hair, but I think your mother's cheekbones."
    Her words thrilled me. Even after all this time I had this need for a connection to my parents. These mementos were all I had. Encouraged, I left her on the couch and went over to the armoire against the far wall. It had several drawers inside as well as a closet. I slid open one of the drawers and pulled out a second frame.
    Inside, was a photograph of me and my father outside the Polo Fields where the World Series final game had been held. I walked back over to Amelia handing her the photograph before sitting across from her again.
    She ran her finger down the glass of the picture, tracing the images inside. She tilted the frame and pointed to one of the people and said, "Is this you?" The amazement in her voice was clear.
    "Yes. That was the day I caught that ball in 1917." I pointed to the weathered ball she had placed on the couch. "It was just before my entire family fell apart. My father fell ill. No one knew why at the time—I assume it was cancer, the symptoms fit.”
    “I’m so sorry. It must hurt to still have questions after all this time.”
    “After he died my mother fell apart. She lost touch with reality, sleeping all day and barely eating. She grew weak and delusional. I did the only thing I knew how and sent her to a sanitarium.”
    “Did it help?”
    “No,” I admitted. Even now I felt the loss and hopelessness. “The facility was deplorable. It was overcrowded and badly staffed. They lacked in innovative treatment. It was more of a prison than anything else, but I was at a loss. I can’t explain how ineffective and inhumane mental health treatment was back then. There were no rules or regulations. No one cared about the mentally ill. Regular society wanted them locked up—out of sight, out of mind.”
    “Sounds terrible.”
    “I visited as often as possible. Eventually she died from pneumonia, which was the result of negligent care. In some ways she was lucky—it was the only way out of that place.” I took a deep breath. “That experience was one reason after I turned and stabilized that I acquired my degree in psychiatry. It allowed me to spend a fair amount of time in psychiatric hospitals, learning about the true needs of the patients. It was an advantage that the insane don’t care if you’re inhuman.”
    She allowed me to speak—to tell this story I’ve held in for so long. I looked down at the frame in her hands. “On that day in 1917, standing outside that ball field, I thought I had my whole life ahead of me. I had no idea at the time of the things that would come.”
    Amelia leaned back on the couch, her eyes focused on me. Her body had relaxed, her heartbeat normal, the level of fear in her scent was stabilizing. We sat across from one another with Pandora's Box opened and turned on its side, the contents spilled on the ground.
    I waited for her to