The Memory Box (8 page)

“Really?”

“It was just this thing in the cafeteria—no biggie—Tessa was looking for a seat at lunch. and all the seats were filled up at my table. So—”

“Oh.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Oh. Well, why do you think that would bother Tessa? That doesn’t sound …”

“
Because
, Mom, she wanted to sit there.” Lilly squirmed around; first she threw her fist into a small tasseled pillow, then turned around and clutched Tunum, slid down in her bed, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and became very still. “And she couldn’t—and that’s all.”

“Well, there weren’t any empty seats …” I allowed.

“
Mom
, it wasn’t
my
table. It was Alexandra’s table, so it wasn’t up to me, okay?!”

“Okay, Lilly, don’t get upset—I didn’t know kids have their own tables.”

“They
don’t
have their own tables—people can sit wherever they want. It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“And, anyway, Alexandra is
my
new friend—not Tessa’s. And Tessa has her own friends, anyway, so why does she always have to sit with me … and Alexandra? Plus Alexandra is very popular and has tons of friends. And she doesn’t have time for
another
new one, okay?”

“Uh-huh …”

“And just ’cause there was one empty seat, it doesn’t have Tessa’s name on it. Alexandra probably needed it for one of her other friends. Think about how many of her friends she was going to have to let down, Mom. After all, there was only one empty seat.”

“Oh. So there was an empty seat.”

“Only
one
.”

“Well, if all of this was okay with Tessa, then … that’s what you said, right?”

“How am I supposed to know if she just ran off? I’m not a mind reader. So, I guess it was fine.” Then Lilly hung her head, and with it, her face sank, too. When she started to cry, I felt horrible for starting this stupid thing. She had gone through an awful night already. I was just hoping that talking about this would be cathartic. What exactly did I want to prove here?

I pulled her head into me and rubbed big circles on her back.

But I just couldn’t let it go.

“Lilly, you hurt your sister’s feelings. And you embarrassed her in front of the other girls—which is wrong. Now, if you had spoken to her at home about needing some space and needing to spend time with other girls without her, I think she would understand. But to humiliate her in public is just cruel. Not to mention, you know as well as I that Tessa would never do that to you.

“The next time you’re mean to your sister, you miss a swim meet. And that’s a directive from Daddy, who heard all about this.”

It should have felt awful, lacing into her like this, especially since it was the middle of the night and she was scared senseless from her nightmare, which was on top of an already horrible day. I don’t know how to explain why I kept at it—my heart was aching for Lilly, but I didn’t stop. It was as if I’d been waiting forever to say this—to teach her a lesson about loyalty and friendship and sorority.

I moved farther back on the foot of the bed. “You know something, Lilly. If you continue to act this way to your sister, guess what’s going to happen? She’s not going to want to be around you anymore. She’s not going to want to hang out with you, or play with you, or laugh with you, or go to the movies with you, or share secrets with you. She may even turn against you, if you hurt her badly enough. Because once someone’s gone, they’re gone. And there may not be any way of getting them back.”

And then I was cleansed. And deeply ashamed of myself.

I looked at Lilly. There were tears in her eyes. And tears in mine. We both felt miserable. Did I have to go on like that? What was the point? If only I could take it all back.

After we stopped crying, we fell asleep.

Just before daybreak, I went back to my own bed, where Tessa was in a peaceful slumber, and I fell asleep deeply for about an hour.

Now I lay awake, staring at the ceiling and the fragile cobwebs hanging off the chandelier.

I long for my typical Sunday morning wakeup call—the smell of bacon, coffee, omelets—when Andy wears the apron and when my nose wakes up before any other body part. Today, it’s my frazzled nerves. I reach over to my nightstand and shut off the alarm before it wails and wakes Tessa, and grab today’s schedule, which I printed last night.

Halfway down the page, in bold, I read: 12:00 Andy’s Coming Home!

A wave of nausea breaks in my stomach. Andy will be here in a few hours.

I indulge myself in the calm of the house and focus on my breathing, deep inhale, deep exhale. The house is breathing with me, like it’s an enormous lung and I’m in the midst of it. The breathing becomes hypnotic. It’s easy to surrender to it—my body and mind are lulled. A moment into this peaceful state, my brain crackles. Slowly at first, like a bag of microwave popcorn, kernels pop one at a time until the popping is random and riotous. One of the white puffs is different. I try to slow it down, to stop it. Expose it. I pin it against the wall of my mind. The frenzy halts. I examine it closely.

My breathing stops.

I sit with this thought for a moment, stricken. It makes me terribly uneasy. I know I don’t have to act on it. I play out all the possible outcomes in my mind. But none of them matter; it’s what I have to do. Apprehension is preempted by desperation. I reach for the phone on my nightstand and dial.

“Hello, Rosanne Kriete’s office,” says the voice on the other end.

“Hello. This is Caroline Thompson. I know she’s not there, but I’d like to leave a message. I need to speak with her as soon as possible. I need to see her. It’s very important.”

CHAPTER SIX

Sunday, September 24, 2006, 12:41 p.m.

W
e’ve been standing at Baggage Claim carousel #3 (where Andy’s luggage will end up) for almost forty minutes because the rain and wind have delayed his arrival. The girls run back from the monitor. His plane has finally landed. After they finish a ring-around-the-rosie dance, they grab their signs off the floor and spring back to the foot of the escalator. The signs, which feature green and pink glitter glue bubble letters, read, “Daddy,” and “We missed you.”

Andy’s happy, boyish face finally descends the escalator, and the girls run to attack him. I breathe a sigh of relief as I always do. The tiny scar at the corner of his mouth twitches, signaling his exhaustion. His arms wrap around me, and I breathe into his soft polo shirt—still smelling of fabric softener—he must’ve just changed into a fresh shirt on the plane.

Andy whispers in my ear, “Looks like I got home just in time.” He pulls away from me and moves my hair with his hand to reveal the side of my face. “Wow.” He doesn’t get alarmed; he just smiles at me, but there’s concern in his eyes. It probably would’ve been a good idea for me to tell him about that beforehand.

Deep down I know everything will be okay. I won’t feel so alone anymore. In that split second, it feels as if I’ve come home, too.

“Guys, I had the greatest idea when I was on the plane. You know how I’ve been away a lot lately and I missed a lot of the summer? So I was thinking—we should have a party! A really big one—with a band and dancing, and maybe a roast pig. What do you think?! Wouldn’t it be fun? We haven’t had one in so long, and …” The girls are now jumping up and down at his side, pulling at his arms and yelling out the names of friends they want to invite. “We could have it next Sunday and call it an ‘Indian summer’ party …” The girls cheer at the suggestion. He could have called it a cow-milking party and they would’ve had the same reaction.

I’m instantly in a state of semi-shock. I’m not even remotely in the mood for a party. Let alone one that I’m destined to conceptualize, organize, troubleshoot, and execute.

Andy wants to have the party next Sunday. A week from today.

He looks over at me and says, “Caroline, what’s the matter? I didn’t suggest we move to Siberia.”

“Andy, who do you think is going to be available on such short notice?”

“Don’t worry. Lots of people—I’ll take care of that. Okay? I’m gonna take care of this party. You’ve been running around like crazy with me out of town, Caroline. So,
I’m
going to throw this party. How does that sound?”

“Far-fetched?”

No one hears me over the girls’ “Yippee!” and “Go Daddy!”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Andy says to me. “Well, it’s time to be a little more confident about dear ol’ Andy’s mad party-throwing skills. I can do this. Probably not as good as you, Caroline. Okay, definitely not as good as you.”

“Andy, you don’t have to do this to …”

“I
want
to—it’ll be fun.” Andy spots his suitcase on the carousel. “Caroline, I really need this—” He turns to grab his luggage off the conveyer belt and then turns back to me and adds quietly, “I might need a
little
help.” He pinches his fingers together to show me how little.

Maybe it’s exactly what I need, too. To dive into a project—a big party. It could help distract me and make me feel useful instead of lobotomized. Plus, being surrounded by good friends can’t hurt.

We load Andy’s luggage in the car and head home. I drive so Andy can concentrate on catching up with the girls. Tessa nearly self-combusts with excitement in relaying the minute details of the riding competition she was in last weekend. It’s hard for me to believe it was only seven days ago. It feels like a month, at least.

Andy asks a hundred questions about her horse and the events, which has Tessa beaming.

Lilly comes at her reenactment of the week a little differently. She reports on who-did-what-to-whom, who started to cry, how so-and-so got a new whatchamacallit (the one she herself has wanted her entire life), and, well, how life is just plain unfair. Andy takes it all in stride, partly because he hasn’t been around to hear all this ad infinitum. Then he actually says something to make her feel better. “Life is just plain unfair,” he says. How he thinks of these things, I will never know.

Andy used to come home from a business trip only to get ready for the next one, never really touching ground in a sense. He used to look forward to the travel. It’s what he did well. And it allowed him to stay on the periphery of family life. He felt comfortable there. I didn’t mind it; I knew when I married him that he traveled a lot. It was what I expected. It became part of our lifestyle as a family. But now, he comes home with the need to feel connected. He wants to make plans and be social. In fact, he told me just before leaving for London that he plans on interviewing for a new position at Global—one with less travel.

It’s been just over an hour since Andy’s stepped off the plane, and my energy has shifted. I can’t believe I’m even warming up to his party idea, and I begin to make a mental list of what should be done, people to call, things to buy. It actually feels good to think about something fun.

If Andy’s thinking about a backyard barbeque, I need to get things in shape back there. The pool guy was scheduled to come next week to close it up, but I’ll change that now. We hardly grilled at all this summer, partly because we ran out of propane last month, which I didn’t bother to replace, and partly because Andy was out of town so much. So we need propane, citronella for the torches, and now that I think of it, grill tools. I have no idea what happens to them, but at the start of every grilling season I buy a new set, and as the days of summer trickle away, so do they.

After we eat a late lunch, the weather clears up, and Andy takes the girls on a bike ride. It’s a perfect time for me to dash to the hardware store to get a few things done, and it’ll be nice for the girls to have Andy to themselves.

The hardware store greets me with the combined musty smell of wet lumber and galvanized nails, and the sarcastic, perverted store manager who never saw a female or a cheeseburger he didn’t like.

He’s fully immersed in solving a dripping showerhead problem for the unfortunate woman who got here before me. “When was the last time you took a shower?” he asks her with a greasy smile, undoubtedly visualizing the experience. He’s taking way too long with all his stupid questions, and I’m starting to lose my patience.

I take a quick scan of the store, thinking about what else I need, when I notice the woman keeps looking back at me. Perhaps I leaked an audible sigh, or maybe she wants to be rescued from this guy.

I clear my throat. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, but—” I say, with my hand slightly raised.

“Oh, no, we’re finished,” she says as she turns to face me; her eyes have now seized mine. “Sorry, but don’t I know you from somewhere? I just moved here from Connecticut, but you look so familiar to me.” Her face scrunches up; she’s determined to figure it out.

“No, sorry, I’ve never lived in Connecticut.” She makes me uncomfortable. She’s standing way too close, and she’s way too intense, like she’s not going to leave until she gets to the bottom of it. She’s planted herself between me and the sleazy store manager like a massive redwood. I’d even rather talk to him at this point.

“No, not from Connecticut.” She’s stuck like day-old peanut butter. “I don’t know … Did you ever work for NBC in New York?” The stranger does not let up. It always kills me when people are insensitive to other people’s sense of urgency. “Were you in the Page Program there? Oh, wait, no,” a finger tentatively goes up in the air, “you know what, I think it might have been school—”

I get as stiff as the paint stick I’m using to drum on a can. I realize I must look like a paralyzed freak, so I shove my head in my handbag to search for something. “Oh, was that
my
phone? Did you hear that?” I pull out my phone and look at it. “I could’ve sworn—oh my gosh, are you kidding me, it’s almost five o’clock?! Jeez, I’ve gotta get going, I’m so sorry, but I’m … do you mind? I don’t mean to be rude—” I point over to the hardware guy to get his attention.

“Oh, no, not at all,” she deflates, “Sorry,” then sidesteps, looking embarrassed, and disappears into the plumbing aisle, which makes me feel terrible since I’m the one who should be embarrassed.

“Welcome to Farhaven!” I call out to her and quickly turn back to the guy to order the propane.

I close my eyes for a sec to get back on track, but now I can’t help but try to remember her. I can almost swear I’ve never seen her before in my life. Definitely not at school. That I know. She’s mistaken.

This normally wouldn’t bother me. It happens to people all the time. Probably I just look like someone she once knew.
Normally
it wouldn’t bother me. But what if she
did
go to Hammond? She could have been a friend of a friend. She could know about—
the incident
. Or maybe she knows I never finished school. For God’s sake—
I
didn’t even know these things until yesterday.

There could be other things—

I have to buy what I need and get out of here. I make eye contact with the guy. “What aisle can I find the thongs?”

He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes pop like doorknobs. Then his mouth opens slightly.

What’s his problem? “You know, for when I’m grilling.” Now his jaw drops open completely, revealing a pool of saliva that’s collected around his tongue. Yuck. I look away, but not before seeing his eyes canvas me from head to toe. That’s when I realize what I just said. An instant visual image of me grilling, wearing a thong, flashes through my mind. And apparently, through his.

Crap. Why can’t I get “tongs” and “thongs” straight? Of course, there’s no shame in asking for “tongs” at Victoria’s Secret, but I never make that mistake.

The sound of my phone ringing, this time for real, rescues me.

“Hi, Andy. You’re back from your ride already?” I pick up a wooden paint stirrer from the counter and tap it nervously like a drumstick.

“I came back home for my wallet,” he says. “We’re going to stop for frozen yogurt. I just wanted to tell you the Red Cross called.”

My heart drops into my stomach. “What?”

“You forgot your sunglasses there.”

“Oh! Oh, golly.
That’s
where they are!” I stop tapping. “I’ve been looking all over—”

“What was going on at the Red Cross?”

“At the Red Cross?” I start tapping again. “Uh, I was bringing over bags of old clothes. I cleaned out some closets last week, and those bins outside the Red Cross were full, so—”

“Oh, gosh, I’ve got tons of stuff I could give you. Well, listen, I have to drop my dry cleaning later, so I can swing by the Red—”

“
I’ve
got your dry cleaning … in the car … I took it with me.” I make a mental note to race home to grab his dry cleaning before he notices it’s still in the mudroom. “I’ll swing by and drop it off and pick up my sunglasses. No problem. Thanks anyway. Hey, you get back to that bike ride! And bring me some frozen yogurt, okay?”

I quickly gather my handbag and to-do list that are resting on a stack of paint cans. My legs are like rubber bands, and they struggle to support the weight of the rest of me. I need to get out of here and pull myself together.

I clutch my handbag close to my chest and jog to the car.

The image of that woman from Connecticut clings to the back of my mind. I need to forget about her.

I make a quick decision to cater our party, and head to the Red Cross to pick up my glasses.

Monday, September 25, 2006, 7:30 a.m.

When my eyes
flicker open, it’s Monday morning. I don’t move. My limbs are leaden. I’ve gained weight overnight; everything’s heavy—my heart, my stomach, my conscience. But I’ll have to get up and press on and somehow maneuver through the twists and turns of being a mother and a caregiver, while I evade potholes and booby traps that have recently become commonplace.

How could I be so naive? To think that fish tacos and homemade guacamole with my joyous intact family, a few rounds of Charades, and some belly laughs are all it would take to dissolve my dread. Talk about a charade. My hand reaches over to Andy’s pillow; it’s already cold. Smarty is asleep in Andy’s spot. Why should I be surprised that Andy went to work? It’s Monday morning, for Pete’s sake. He could’ve stayed home. He’s entitled to a day off when he travels on the weekend. But “you can’t be considered for upper management if you take off.”

I swipe my schedule from the nightstand and drag my feet to the bathroom, sliding my perky pink slippers across the floor, not bothering to lift my legs, not in the mood for a shower. The girls will be off to school soon, and I’m already anticipating my loneliness. I thought that with Andy home, I’d feel better, and I did at first. But the truth is that now I feel more isolated. Since I’m deliberately keeping things from him, I’m uncomfortable to be anywhere near him. I’m afraid of his questions—and of my reactions. I find myself dodging any kind of engagement. I feel farther away from him now than I did when he was in London.

In the bathroom, the thought of removing my pajamas makes my entire body shrink. The thought of being naked. I reach my arm around the thick, white, terrycloth shower curtain to turn on the water, but instead my hand becomes tangled up in something hanging from the dial. I stick my head around the curtain and am smacked in the face by the memory of Saturday’s events. My body perks to attention.

The girls’ bathing suits are hanging there, a mirror of my craziness—how I lied to them and made them promise to keep all of it from Andy. I climb into the shower and hug the bathing suits—nestling my face into the wet spandex still smelling of chlorine. Standing there in the rush that’s not yet hot—my skin is studded in goose bumps. Water leaks from my eyes and mixes with the stream surging around my neck as it ripples over my collar bone and hurries to the floor.

The gush of water comes out in force, purging me. I feel small in the charge of it. The dial is set way too high and my skin burns, but I don’t move. I lather my body by rote, starting at my shoulders. Mounds of soapy bubbles slide down my legs and swirl around my ankles like the silk ruffles of an evening dress. Then in one last breath, the residue circles the drain, and in a flash, gets sucked in. I feel neither awake nor asleep. The lemon-and-mint shampoo fails to deliver the “enlivened spirit” that it promises on the bottle.