The Memory Box (19 page)

I check the time. Andy will be up soon. But I’ll have enough time to check one thing on the computer. I’m not breaking my promise. I’m not Googling myself.

I’m Googling Timothy.

It won’t surprise me if he got himself out of a hit-and-run. That is, if JD ever pressed charges. He’s a pig. I’m sure he’s got kids of his own by now, and if someone nearly killed one of them? I can assure you, Hayes & Hayes would crush them.

Halfway down the stairs, I am greeted by the aroma of coffee. God, I love that thing.

I can see into the kitchen from the steps. There’s evidence of breakfast. The eggs and asparagus are on the island. Andy must be awake. Shoot. The television is on in the family room. The sports channel. Or it could be Game 4 of the 1996 American League playoffs—on video—which Andy watches with regularity. I’ve been told I’d understand if I were an Orioles fan.

I sidestep around the kitchen island toward the den, prepared at any moment for Andy to pop out of the family room for a coffee refill.

I back myself safely into the den—my footsteps are drowned out by the uproarious cheers of an eighth-inning home run. Slowly turning the doorknob while quietly pushing the door closed, I sigh heavily and turn toward the desk.

“
Andy!!
” My head jerks back and hits the door.

Andy jumps out of the chair and knocks over his coffee. “Caroline!” Coffee is everywhere. “You scared the crap out of me!” He’s desperately grasping the keyboard and mouse. “
Hurry—get something. If it gets in the keyboard, it’s
toast.
”

“Oh, God, no.” I spin around, helpless, “Um, um …”

“Grab some tissues!”

I run to the bookcase and stick my hand in the tissue box. “It’s empty—” I tear my shirt off and throw it on the coffee spill just as Andy has yanked the keyboard into the air. “You think it’s ruined?”

“
I don’t know,
Caroline
—
jeez—”
He pulls at the bottom of his T-shirt to collect the drops trickling down from the corner of the keyboard. My T-shirt is soaked. This prompts Andy to take his shirt off and wrap it around the keyboard while gently pressing his palm down to blot it. Andy turns to me and notices that from the waist up, I have nothing on except a sports bra.

“Caroline
—
” he’s now grimacing, “if you really wanted to strip for me—you didn’t need to trash the computer.” He bounces his eyebrows. Then his eyes rest on my hair. The two little vertical lines between his brows grow deeper.

I swish my shirt around the desk, which just spreads the coffee out, so I cradle the T-shirt in my arms. “I’m gonna get rid of this and grab another shirt. You think it still works?”

“Well,” Andy sighs, sinking back into the chair, “I don’t know. Either way, it’s probably not the worst thing in the world. You know we all spend too much time on this thing anyway. We’re going to turn into sociopathic deviants who have forgotten how to engage with people.” Andy hits the keys, but nothing shifts on the computer screen; then he turns the keyboard upside down again, and more coffee drips out. “Are the girls addicted to that stupid game, what’s it called? They need a time limit, right? You’re on it more than any of us.” He spins toward me and grimaces again when he focuses on my hair. “I know you have a legitimate excuse.” He holds his hand up in the air.

“Right.” What’s that supposed to mean?

“What’s your book about, anyway? And when do I get to read some?” Andy shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know. I promise not to have a red pen in hand. Don’t make me wait till you finish writing it.” He smirks, then zeroes in on my hair again. “Hey, whatcha do with your hair? When did you get—that?”

“This?” I feel around for my hair, remembering its new length, while I walk toward the door. “Can you check the keyboard again? I need to get on there.”

In the kitchen, Tessa’s on an archeological dig in the fridge. I better forget about Timothy and reel myself into Saturday mode. Everyone’s home. That means family time.

“Tess, you’re up early.”

“Oh, hi, Mom—what’s for breakfast?” She grabs the milk and turns to face me. Her mouth springs open, and the carton slips from her hand. It falls to the floor. The pink plastic top pops off. The milk gushes. Here we go again.

“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry—” Tessa grabs the plastic handle and yanks it up, salvaging a cup or two.

I drop into a seat at the island and slide a kitchen towel across the counter so that it flies off the other end and falls to the floor. “Daddy just spilled his coffee on the keyboard. We should get Lilly down here to have a shot at the orange juice,” I say, while Tessa swooshes the towel around with her foot.

“How’s your lip?” I ask.

“Fine.” She’s staring at my head. “What happened to your hair?”

Why is everyone so uptight about my hair? “I cut it.”

“You did it yourself? Oh. It’s short. Short’s—good.” She nods her head and picks up the towel from the floor. “Should I put this in the laundry room? Mom?” She walks around the island. “Mom, do you want to give me that? You look like you peed in your pants.” My wet shirt has soaked my grey leggings, leaving a dark, wet spot across my lap.

“Sure.”

Her eyes drift down. “Why are you wearing a bra?”

“It’s a sports bra.”

Tessa’s stance is fixed. She gawks at my hair, my top, my leggings, then shrugs. “Oh.” She takes the wet stuff to the laundry room.

Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. What did she do with it? I get up to check if Andy’s made any progress.

“Where you going?” Tessa returns. “I thought you were making breakfast.”

“Oh, maybe Daddy’ll make French toast.”

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Daddy said he’d take us to the movies today, and …”

She probably used the money for hospital bills. Who knows if she even had insurance? I get to the den, and Andy’s still at the desk. “How’s it going?”

“I got it working,” he says without turning around.

“Could you make some French toast, Andy? For the girls?”

“Oh, honey, could you do that, I just need a minute here.”

So much for a computer strike.

He emerges from the den an hour later, at which time he lays down the Thompson Family Computer Rules. Which includes a time limit that he’s already broken about four times over.

Andy, Tessa, and Lilly finally, finally get their shoes on to go to the carwash and then to the movies. I decline their invitation and tell them I have shopping and straightening to do. I practically pace the kitchen, wiping the same spots on the counter, while they lace their shoes at the front door.

“’Bye, Mom!”

“’Bye, Caroline!”

The door clicks closed. I’m at the desk Googling Timothy Hayes before they’ve pulled out of the driveway. Andy moved the chair away from the desk but I don’t have time to drag it over. I stand instead—since this will be fast. Now I won’t linger.

A startling number of hits pile up. Quickly, I scan them to find something remotely close to what I’m looking for.

Timothy Byron Hayes III sentenced to 25 years.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Saturday, September 30, 2006, 10:37 a.m.

H
oly shit. I read the bold, underlined words three times. I grab onto the desk and knock on it twice, then smack myself on the cheek to make sure I’m awake. Before I read it again, I need to sit down. This will take more time than I thought. I lower myself into the chair, but my body doesn’t hit chair when I think it should. That’s because the chair is not underneath me. My arms flail and grab in vain at anything. Everything. The mouse pad, the keyboard, my desk calendar, a cup filled with pencils—which is wrapped in one of the cords. It all cascades on top of me. Except for the keyboard, which is dangling off the desk by a skinny black cord. As I splatter onto the floor, the trash basket is knocked over and gutted. I brush the pencils from my lap and reach for a chair leg to twirl the chair around. I sit stiffly. I’m alert as hell.

Twenty-five years for a hit and run?

Ring—

Not the freakin’ phone. I’m not getting it. I don’t care if it rings forever. I don’t care if it rings
Yankee Doodle Dandy
. I’m not going anywhere until I read this. After the second ring the machine picks up—goddamn it—why can’t people just hang up—now I have to return the call. It’s Pastor Owens.

“Shit.” I spring out of the chair and run to the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Pastor. Sorry, I was upstairs and—”

“Hello, Caroline. Sorry to bother you.” He’s talking quickly. “But we couldn’t find the gift baskets, and—”

Shit. The gift baskets. I forgot about the fundraiser.

“Oh my gosh—I have them. They’re in my basement.”

“Oh, good. That’s fine. You’ll be bringing them now, then? We’re expecting people to arrive in less than an hour.”

“Now? Uh, yes, of course you need them now.” I look at the clock. “Well …”

Someone’s in the house. I hear the front door open. Then presto! Lilly appears. She breezes through the kitchen and strides down the hall toward the den without saying a word. Without looking in my direction.

I pull the phone away from my ear for a sec. “Lilly, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I live here, remember?” she says, cracking herself up. But she doesn’t stop to say this; she keeps walking.

“Lilly! Where are you going?” I follow after her but only as far as the phone cord allows. “What about the movie? Where’s Daddy?”

She mumbles something I can’t hear.

“Lilly, I’m talking to you.
Lilly?
”

Nothing.

“Don’t go in the den, Lilly! Did you hear me?!” She’s not listening to me. “
For Christ’s sake—”
She’s in the den.
“
Timothy!”

That she heard. She steps out of the den and looks down the hall at me. “What did you call me?”

“Lilly.”

“No, you didn’t. You called me Timothy. Who are you talking to?” She points to the phone, which I’m still holding.

“
Oh dear God, the Pastor
—Hello, Pastor, are you still there?”

“Is everything okay, Caroline?”

“Oh, yes, yes everything’s fine, really … I’m sorry about that…” Lilly disappears into the den.

“
Lilly!
Did you hear me—I said—
do not go in the den
!” The phone now becomes a pointer, and I’m using it in a dramatic way to point at the den, which is senseless since we all know where the den is, and Lilly, in fact, is in it as I speak.

“
Mommy
,” she comes out and straddles the doorstep, pointing to something on the floor, “What is the matter with you?
I just need to get my glasses for the movie. They’re in my backpack. It’s right there on the floor.”
She’s talking with her hands and arms.

“Pastor?” I check to make sure he’s still there.

“Caroline, is this a good time?”

“Yes, no. It’s not a good time.” I give Lilly the stop-sign hand and a pinched face to say, “Don’t you move an inch.”

“Why don’t I send Mrs. Cochran over to pick up the gift baskets? She’s right here with me, and she’s happy to help out.”

“Oh, really? She can do that? I’ll leave them on my back porch. That’s great. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Thank you for all your help, Caroline.”

“Not at all. You’re very welcome. Whatever I can do. Bye-bye.” I hang up the phone. “Your backpack is not in the den.”

“Mom, I can see it from here. It’s purple. It has a flower key chain hanging off it,” she says in a sing-song, I’m-mocking-you kind of way. “Why are you so freaked out? Is there nuclear waste in there—do I need an oxygen mask?” She covers her mouth and croaks. “Houston, we have a problem.” She walks into the den, grabs her backpack, and retreats. “You really need to chill, Mom.”

She stops at the refrigerator and takes out an apple, and bites into it without rinsing it, and I don’t say anything because I’m ‘chillin’.’ The phone rings again as Lilly pulls out her glasses and a white envelope from her backpack.

I grab the phone, “
Yes—
” I dispense with proper telephone etiquette.

“Is this Caroline?”

“Yes, this is Caroline.”

“This is Dr. Cooper’s office, you had an appointment today for a cleaning. We’re wondering if you’re on your way?”

Jesus, the dentist. “Oh, my gosh, that’s
today?
Are you sure?” I look at the clock. “Um, yeah, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks for calling.”

“Okay, but if you don’t get here soon, you may have to wait.”

I spin around in place, “Lilly, that was the dentist. I forgot my appointment.” I turn around again looking for my schedule. “
Geez—
I cannot function without that thing!” I fix back onto Lilly. “Where’s Daddy? Is he outside waiting for you?”

“No. Daddy wanted to buy tickets before they sold out. He wants you to bring me to the movies to meet them.”

“Geez! All right, let’s hurry. Grab your glasses. I’m late for the dentist. Oh, wait a second. You have to help me bring the gift baskets upstairs. We need to leave them on the back porch. Hurry.”

“I forgot to give you this.” Lilly holds out an envelope. I look at it suspiciously. “It’s from Mrs. Stanton. She said you’re hard to nail, something like that.” I look down at the envelope in Lilly’s hand, but don’t take it. In case it’s a subpoena.

Can a minor deliver a subpoena?

“Mom,
here
, it’s for
you
. You can touch it. It’s not poison.” Sing-song again. Great. My own daughter is serving me a subpoena.

“Okay. Fine.
Whatever
.” I snatch it from Lilly and drop it in my handbag. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Lilly gives me one of those are-you-from-outer-space looks, which I’m getting used to. “Come on, Lilly. Let’s get those stupid gift baskets.”

There’s a parking
spot in front of the white Colonial that serves as both the dentist’s office and dwelling. I keep the engine idling. I glide my index finger against my top teeth. I want to ask the hygienist if my teeth are implants, but I don’t know if I can bring myself to do that. A schizo question like that will get around this town by dinnertime.

Isn’t it strange that when people die—because maybe their heart has failed them, or their mind has failed them, or maybe some insidious cancer has poisoned them from tip to toe, and they’re in the ground, six feet under, shriveled up and decomposing—their teeth remain intact.

The note from Mrs. Stanton is waiting for me on the passenger seat. I pick it up for the fourth time. This time I slide my finger under the glued flap.

Mrs. Thompson—

I’ve tried to get your attention outside school several times this week but to no avail. One minute I see you, the next, I don’t. Anyway, I started to tell you the morning you volunteered in the library, but what a crazy day that turned into. I was very surprised to see your name when I was searching on my computer last week.

I didn’t know you were a baker. An award-winning baker at that! I’m a baker, too! Well, I couldn’t find my favorite apple pie recipe, so I was searching for one resembling my own when I found a newspaper article announcing you had won first prize in the Apple Pie Contest at Witmans’ Farms last fall. Congratulations!

Just wanted you to know that I printed the recipe and tried it over the weekend. It’s fantastic! I loved the cranberries. Very nice touch!

It’s such a joy to see our parents involved in the community in such a positive way.

Sincerely,

Edith Stanton

The letter falls into my lap. As do my hands.

Apple pie contest? I won the Witmans’ Farms apple pie contest last year. Me. I won it.

It’s true.

I grab my phone from my handbag and call the dentist’s office to tell them I can’t make my appointment. Something has come up. Let’s face it—compared to the rest of me—my teeth are in pretty good shape.

I pull out of the parking spot and head to the grocery store.

I’m in the mood for pie. It’s not every day a Google search reveals news like this. Yes, it’s time Caroline Thompson strapped on an apron and made some pies!

Instead of going home for the recipe, I’m gonna wing it—it’s a pie, for heaven’s sake. This is gonna be a great day!

Once I’m at the store and in the produce department, I scan the types of apples before me. All good apple pies have a variety, so there must be a combination of apples in this recipe.

The produce guy is unloading cauliflower.

“Hello, excuse me, sir. May I ask you a question?” This will only take a minute.

The produce fella looks over at me, places the last cauliflower atop the pyramid of others, and tilts his head, curls his tongue over his top teeth, and sucks down on them like he’s trying to dislodge a stubborn strand of spare rib. With both hands, he grabs his brown leather belt and hoists his pants up. He’s moving in slow motion.

“Sure, darlin’, what can I do you for … ?” He talks with the same sense of urgency.

“I’m making an apple pie that calls for a combination of apples, two of each, I believe, I just forgot which ones to use.” I feel tingly. I think it’s excitement.

“Slow down there, you’re talkin’ faster than an
in
surance salesman, heh, heh, heh …” He places his hands on his boney hips and looks up at the ceiling. “Now, yer talking apple pie, you said—is it … ? First of all, you know it’s a great season for apple pie, mainly ’cuz it’s apple season. That’s rule number one—always work with the season.”

I start to jog in place to do something with my energy. I just need him to tell me the types. Then I’ll be out of here.

“Whoa, you gearin’ up for pie or you a lightweight? Heh, heh, heh …”

“I’m a little short on time—I just need to know what apples to use.”

“Well, you can’t rush a good pie, that ya know, but I’ll tell you, I’d start with Romeo.” He yanks at his belt again, this time in a seesaw way, up on one side first, than the other. Why do guys do this? Are they adjusting themselves? Do they have an itch? It’s off-putting.

“Do you mean Cameo? Or do you mean Rome?” I say, jogging over to tear a bag off the roll.

“Yup. That’s right.”

“Yes—both?”

“Stay away from the McIntyres—they’re too soft, make your pie a big mushy mess. You want it firm.”

“McIntosh?” Oh dear, for Pete’s sake. I start bagging some apples; I decide on Golden Delicious, Cameo, and Braeburn, mainly because they’re right in front of me. I load them up in three separate bags.

“How many pies you fixin’ on makin’? That there’s alotta apples!”

“Four.” I stop to count out loud to myself using my fingers. “No, five. Six apples for each pie, times five pies, is thirty. So I need ten of each kind. Great.”

“’Course, I won’t be in the kitchen witcha,” he pauses to see if I’ll argue that, “so you want your slices thick, a good mound, standin’ up straight …”

“Thanks, thanks for all that.”

I jog over to the aisle with the foil pans and grab a handful, and I hear the produce guy call out, “Good eatin’!”
There are some red and white striped aprons hanging next to the dishtowels and oven mitts. I grab one each for Lilly and Tessa. They’re going to flip out over baking pies. We’re gonna have a real Thompson Family afternoon. Filled with familiness and happiness and togetherness.

On the drive home, the radio plays all my favorite songs one after another. That never happens. I take it as a cosmic sign of good news. Stars aligning. It feels good to sing at the top of my lungs
and
know the lyrics. Gosh, I’m always amazed at how good I am at drumming. I totally have rhythm. And probably no one will ever know that about me. I wish people could see some of my good qualities. I almost don’t hear my phone with all my singing. A new text. At the next red light, I peek at it quickly. It’s from Andy.

“Never got into movie. Sold out.”

Slicing through my good cosmic aura, like a machete, comes
a vision of the newspaper article on Timothy’s conviction. I slam on the brakes. Some guy behind me leans on his horn and doesn’t let up. Thank God he didn’t hit me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say in my rearview mirror, but he can neither hear me nor read my lips. He probably thinks I’m a lousy driver, which I’m not. I’m a great driver. I’m offended by his insinuation. He’s probably already put me in the all-women-are-sucky-drivers category. That really riles me.

“I’m a damn good driver!” I yell this into the rearview mirror and throw my foot on the gas. That damn article is still up on the computer. I never closed out of it. Lilly was in there last, getting
her backpack. We left the house together.

It’s not unlike Andy to walk into the house and go straight to the computer. With his shoes on. He could have seen it by now. He could have read about Timothy getting twenty-five years for nearly killing Lilly. He does know that Lilly is …
was …
that JD is really … ? Shit. I don’t know what he knows.
Jesus Christ
.

Pins and needles prick my scalp. It’s my fight-or-flight response; the pricks are hot, electric zaps and there are hundreds of them.
I pull into our driveway. Andy’s car is nowhere in sight. That’s good.