The Memory Box (12 page)

When I get to the library, I breathe deeply through my nose to take in that musty smell of old books. It’s so stimulating to be among the combined creative genius of Seuss, Carle, Sendak and Rowling, among others. I close my eyes and think of all the great authors toiling away long ago, not knowing at the time if their work would ever be read.

“Hello, Mrs. Thompson, I’m glad you could join us today,” says Mrs. Wormstock, the librarian, who has an ample spray of dandruff on each broad shoulder.

“Oh, my pleasure. I’m all set for my marching orders. What can I help with?” I’m as cheery as a bowl full of rainbow-colored jelly beans.

“Well, let’s see, we have some returns to shelve.” She walks over to a rolling rack; the books have been placed on all of its four shelves in size order from tallest to shortest, bringing to mind the von Trapp family. As she walks to the rack, the floor reverberates with each step.

“I’m expecting Miss Leland’s kindergarten class at nine-thirty. Perhaps you can read them a book?”

“Oh, I would love to!”

“Very good, then, I’ll let you get busy.”

Before I start shelving, I snatch my pressed powder compact from my handbag to take a quick peek at my bruise and powder it liberally. I don’t want to scare the kiddies.

The mindless work is so gratifying. I hum “These are a few of my favorite things …” as I contently return books to their proper place in the Dewey Decimal System.

Miss Leland’s class should be arriving in about five minutes. Mrs. Stanton, the principal, walks in and waves Mrs. Wormstock over. In the midst of their conversation, Mrs. Stanton looks over in my direction and points at me. Mrs. Stanton is old-school and all business. She could benefit from a teaspoon of warm and fuzzy in her morning coffee. I finish up the last row of books, which has me squatting close to the floor; my thigh muscles are burning. I’m dwarfed by the bookcases that seem to stack up to the moon, and now by Mrs. Stanton, who is a woman of significant stature.

“Mrs. Thompson!” she says, determined. The library’s carpet silenced her approach, and so I am quite surprised and startled to find my face so uncomfortably close to her knees. I’m instantly reminded of why I, too, am a little intimidated by her. It’s her leg. One of them is prosthetic, and I’ve never been this close to a fake leg before. She almost never wears pants in order to teach the children that handicaps are not something to be ashamed or scared of. The kids haven’t fully embraced that concept yet.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Stanton, how are you?”

“Fine, fine, thank you for volunteering today. Mrs. Thompson, there was something I wanted to speak to you about …” Children’s voices start to fill the library, and I know the librarian will be looking for me soon.

I stand and clap the dust off my hands, and take a step back to put a more comfortable distance between us as Mrs. Stanton tries again. “I wanted to tell you that while I was searching on Google last night—”

I snap to attention. And freeze. My bulging eyes freeze, my muscles freeze, my breathing and heartbeat freeze. Did she just say she was searching for me on Google? What the hell is that about? That’s
outrageous
. That’s an invasion of privacy. Isn’t it? Maybe not. I don’t care—it’s—it’s—peeping-Tomian! And she’s not the slightest bit uncomfortable admitting it.

My eyes gloss over hers, careful not to meet them exactly. I don’t want to egg her on. Her mouth is still moving, but I don’t listen. I sheepishly bring my hands up to my ears and nervously scratch my scalp while I think about how to slip away without bringing additional attention to myself.

“Uh, Mrs. Stanton,” I start to talk on top of her, which I’m hoping will discourage her from continuing. However, she doesn’t stop talking, and so I don’t either; in fact, my own voice grows louder. “Sorry to interrupt you—um, it’s just that—” What if she’s read something on Google that I haven’t? That I don’t know about? My shirt sticks to my underarms. My ghosts are haunting me everywhere. They’re not just in my house, in my den, but now in the hardware store, the doctor’s office, the school library. Where next? I get that hot, prickly sensation again of pins and needles; they start behind my ears and slowly inch down to the lobes, at the same time crawling across my cheeks. They even prick the wet part of my eyes. She says “Lilly” and “custodian.” It nearly paralyzes me. Could she know I’m not Lilly’s real mother? Jesus Christ. She could have seen
that newspaper article
. My heart is no longer frozen; in fact, it’s now like the Little Drummer Boy on speed.
Lilly
doesn’t even know, for Christ’s sake. I need get out of here before she says another word, before anyone hears her, or before she asks me to explain. In the reflection of a computer screen to her left, her disapproving face is scrunched up like used wrapping paper. Her mouth is still moving. My nerves get the best of me, and I hear myself humming, “When the dog bites, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, when the bee stings, hmm, hmm …” Mrs. Wormstock waves me over from the front of the room. Thank
God.
She holds up the book she wants me to read.

Mrs. Wormstock, who’s standing next to Miss Leland, is in front of the students, who are sitting cross-legged on the rug in the middle of the library floor.

“I’m coming, Mrs. Wormstock! Excuse me, Mrs. Stanton,” I yell in a voice far too loud, then dip into a row of books, walking in the opposite direction. I’m panicking, and I keep walking. It’s a long row of books, and I’m alone in it and hidden from view by the nonfiction section—books on nature, flowers, the ocean. I can’t go read that book. I can’t. I need to get out of here.

Mrs. Wormstock can’t see me now from where she’s standing. She calls again louder, “
Mrs. Thompson
, are you coming?”

I’m at the end of the aisle and out of ideas. There’s a fire alarm in front of me on the wall. Don’t even
think
about it. My heart is racing at a staggering speed. Mrs. Wormstock will need to read the book herself, I’m done with library duty. I can’t believe Mrs. Stanton, the principal for God’s sake, doesn’t have more important things to do than interrogate a parent. One who’s volunteering her valuable, personal time! To think of all the taxes we pay in this town! If it gets out that I’m not Lilly’s mother, Gabrielle will have a field day. She’ll see to it that I’m branded a fraud and a liar. How will my friends react?

Oh my
God
—what if someone tells Lilly? I can’t have that happen. I’m not prepared for any of this.

I take a long step forward to look beyond the bookcase to judge how far I am from the door. My rubber sole gets caught on the rug. I stumble and attempt to gain my footing. Instead I lose my balance. I fall into a shelf loaded with books. Scores of books nosedive off the shelf. Books on planes, trains, and automobiles crash in waves to the floor. One after the other, open and splattered, their spines crack as they pile on top of each other—it seems endless.

The children spring to their feet, fumbling over each other to witness what has happened. Miss Leland claps wildly, booming, “Children! Children! Stay seated! One-two-three, eyes-on-me! One-two-three, eyes-on-me!”

They all stop dead in their tracks and answer back in perfect unison, “One-two, eyes-on-you.”

Mrs. Wormstock gasps, “Oh, my, what’s happened! Mrs. Thompson, are you all right?”

Through the now-empty shelves, I see that the library door is directly across from where Mrs. Stanton is standing; my escape would be in full view. The floor lifts and settles, lifts and settles, and I know Mrs. Wormstock is getting closer. I’m a cornered lab rat. I just won’t be exposed like this, not here at the school library, in front of all these children,
my children
. No way. Not to mention the eyes and ears and judgment of the
non
-children.

“
Mrs. Thompson??
” Mrs. Wormstock’s voice is even closer.

No one can see me. My legs are shaking. I have to pee.

“Mrs. Thompson??”

The fire alarm is right there. My right hand reaches out and pulls.

Instant camouflage. Hysteria builds like wild fire. The alarm’s ear-piercing wail incites immediate panic. Miss Leland is flustered as she tries to encourage order while leading her class of scared five-year-olds out of the library. “Grab a buddy!” Mrs. Wormstock and Mrs. Stanton hurry to the aid of Miss Leland, who cries out, “Buddies everyone! No talking! Follow Mrs. Wormstock!”

I stay low to the ground until the last little sneaker evacuates and joins the commotion in the hall, which I scan from my vantage point. The fifth graders are pouring down the stairs from the second floor, and the teachers are pushing students outside with their collective “This is not a drill, folks.” Tessa’s teacher walks past the library door. There’s Tessa! Anxiety is written all over her face. I can’t bear to look at her. She’s eating the skin off the side of her thumb. I withdraw into the library to think. But there’s no time to think—so I insert myself into the stream of kids, keeping my head low.

I turn into a short stairwell leading to the exit. A placard is nailed into the cinderblock right beside the fire alarm at the first grade door. “It is unlawful for any person to willfully pull the lever of any fire alarm except in case of a fire.” I swallow hard. I’m completely humiliated by my behavior.

CHAPTER TEN

Tuesday, September 26, 2006, 9:53 a.m.

I
run the entire way home, my tears blowing off the side of my face like rain off a windshield.

I’m
not
in control. Who am I kidding? I can’t just have my old life back because I stop Googling myself.

I don’t slow down when my neighbor appears, walking her dog. I dart across the street diagonally and pretend I don’t see her. I must look insane, panting, crying, my handbag bouncing off my hip. I don’t care.

What’s to come of me? How many people can I avoid?

Why is this happening
now?
These articles are old. Any number of people could have read these things for years. That damn Gabrielle. She had to start this Googling thing. I despise her. And her busybody bimbos. They disgust me. “Mind your own damn business!” I yell out loud to no one, but the UPS man crossing the street whips his head around, then jumps in his truck. My cheeks flush, and I drop my head and round the corner. I’m nearly home.

I need Andy. I need to tell him. That’s okay. He loves me. We’re in this together. He has stuck with me and all my shortcomings all these years. He’s tolerated a lot from me. My need to have the last word, the little control thing I have, my inner neat freak. Let’s face it; my stuff doesn’t always dovetail with his. Even after I limited the “bad fats” from our diet (that wasn’t pretty), he stuck with me. I know men who’ve left their wives for stupider reasons. Andy’s not going to leave me after all we’ve been through. Actually, we haven’t been through all that much. By all accounts, we have a great life together. This will test us. I have to trust him. For better or worse. Or, far worse than anything I ever thought worse meant.

I’m scared out of my mind.

At the house, in the kitchen, I grab the phone and dial his number. I review in my mind what I’m going to say. JD died—six years ago, and Lilly is not really my daughter but actually my sister’s. Back in college I had an abortion and a hysterectomy.

“Global Enterprises, Andrew Thompson’s office—” Margaret waits for a reply. “Hello? Global Enterprises—?”

Click.

Wait a second.

The phone is back on the wall; my hand is stuck to it. I don’t move. Andy already knows about Lilly. I was awarded custody of Lilly when I was single. When I married Andy, I already had her. We were a package deal. Of course he knows that Lilly isn’t his. But does he know Lilly isn’t mine?

What did I tell him?

God, I need a Sno Ball right now. Do they make them anymore? Of course I wouldn’t normally condone seven grams of saturated fats in a processed confection, but this situation clearly merits a bite. All I’d need is one bite, and I wouldn’t need another for the rest of my life. I imagine the prickles of sugar touching my lips and the sticky marshmallow, the moist chocolate cake and luxurious cream. Oh my God. My eyes roll back in my head thinking about it.

I make a U-turn to the pantry. This is a waste of time, improbable to say the least. Up on the third step of the kitchen stool, I use my hand to search over my head into the cookie jar that our neighbors gave us when we moved in. I wasn’t going to put it out in the kitchen. Who keeps cookies on the counter? Recipe for disaster. My hand finds something in the cookie jar that crinkles of plastic. Oh my God. Could it be? I grab ahold of it. Yes! I can’t believe it. Seeing the pink balls of perfection in my hand makes me teary. I rip the sucker open and stuff as much of the ball as I can into my mouth and bite down. One bite. I place the remaining skinny crescent back in the plastic and fold the cardboard sheet so I can roll the plastic tight to keep it fresh. Before I return it to the cookie jar, I see the expiration date: 6/2002. Over four years ago.

I let the bite sit in my mouth. Saliva slides down the insides of my cheeks and dissolves the sugar. It trickles into my throat. The taste transports me. My tongue wiggles through the fluffy cake to the cream. A grin germinates in my stomach and sprouts across my lips.

I can handle anything now.

The sugar must have gone straight to my head because eighty-seven independent thoughts spin around in there. First they meander aimlessly, then hasten like a mound of leaves getting kicked up by a breeze. They move too fast to decipher. I snatch one and hold onto it for dear life. An image forms in my mind. It’s the
Psychology Now
article on JD’s suicide. The doctor who wrote the article talked about the importance of “bereavement therapy” for close family and friends. He said it was crucial to “work through the emotional stages.” Something like that. One of the initial stages for loved ones is self-blame—for not seeing the signs.

My mother was interviewed for the article. She admitted how difficult it was for the family to believe that JD took her own life, and how she urged her surviving daughter, me, JD’s only sibling, to see a therapist to help sort things out. At the end of the article, it said that the sister of the deceased would not agree to an interview because she didn’t believe her sister killed herself.

In the den I unlock the lower drawer of the credenza and pull out my Rolodex. Under “D,” I flip through a surprising number of doctors. I find dentists, dermatologists, and general physicians until I get to a business card of a psychologist. It’s stapled to a Rolodex card and has a handwritten note from my mother at the bottom of it.

Dr. Francis Sullivan, PhD

Licensed Psychologist

Specializing in Anxiety, Depression, Trauma

My mother’s note says, “Lovie, Do ring the Dr.” Next to that there’s an arrow, so I lift it away from the card and flip it over; “It’s been bloody hell for all of us; you’d do better to talk to someone who can help.” I wonder if she ever spoke to the psychologist herself. My mother died in November 2000, right before Thanksgiving, so if she did, it was before November.

I pick up the phone on my desk and stare at the numbers. This doctor is probably not even around anymore—it’s been six years. If so, she’s not going to remember my mother. Smarty is sitting on the rug, looking up at me, watching my every move. His ears are pulled back. “What’s the matter, Smarty?” He’s always with me, through thick and thin. I whisper to him while I wait for someone to answer. “Who’s my best friend?” He barks on cue.

I scratch between his ears, “Everything’s gonna be—”

“Dr. Sullivan’s office,” says a woman on the other end.

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting anyone to answer. At that moment I realize I don’t know why I’m calling or what I’m going to say. “I-I, uh …”

“Who is this, please?”

“Oh, me? Well. My name—”

A phone rings in the background. “Can you hold a moment, please?”

She puts me on hold before I’m able to say anything.

A second later she says, “Still there?”

“Yes, yes I’m still there—
here
.”

“Okay. Good. I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Caroline Thomp …
Spencer
. I …”

“Did you say Caroline Spencer?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” she says while typing. “Uh huh. Well, let’s see; are you still at the same number?”

“Do you mean my
mother?
”

“Is her name Caroline Spencer, too?”

“No. It’s Elaine. Was Elaine.”

“Well, I’m asking about
your
number. Is it the same as the one we have on file?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you Caroline Spencer from Cumberland Drive? Dr. Sullivan’s patient?” She begins to type again.

“Yes, Cumberland Drive,” I repeat, my voice hardly audible. “That’s me.” I lived at 16 Cumberland Drive.

“Okay. Wonderful. Are your calling for an appointment?”

“Uh. Well, yes. That’s a good idea.” Yes, I should meet this woman. She knows me. And didn’t Dr. Kriete say this was the next step, “to talk to a psychologist to sort things out.” A feeling of being rescued charges through me.

“Let’s see, we have regular patients, you know, weeklies, bi-weeklies, et cetera. In fact, we’re not taking new patients at this time. Technically, you’re not new, however it’s been a while.” There’s a swoop of pages being turned. All of a sudden, I’m desperate to see her. This is good news. I was her patient!

“I’m very flexible, whenever she’s available—” I add.

“
She?
You mean he. Right? We’re talking about Dr. Sullivan? Aren’t we?”

“Yes. Of course, he. Did I say she? I don’t think I said she. I mean, it’s okay, I—he …” I sound insane. I’m sure she’s making giant neon asterisks next to my name, secret code for psycho. A tear falls onto my desk calendar, which is open and eager in front of me, splattering the week.

“The next appointment he has is October twenty-sixth.” She waits for me to respond, but I don’t say anything. October twenty-sixth is a month away.
A month
. I could have a nervous breakdown by then. Actually, that may not be a bad thing. It might get me in sooner.

“Ms. Spencer?”

“Yes. I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“Keep in mind, his regular patient is on vacation—so you can have that one appointment, but we can’t make it a weekly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

I give her my cell number and jot the time into my desk calendar under “Francis” and type it into my online schedule.

I lean back in the desk chair. I don’t know if I’ll make it till then.

Once I clean
up the kitchen from breakfast, I go upstairs to my bedroom. My closet door is ajar. I never leave it like that. Or things in disarray. The pillows are scattered on the floor. It’s been like this since yesterday. Since before the emergency room. I never put them back.

Quickly, I gather up the pillows to return them to the top shelf. Lilly’s baby book is sprawled on the floor where I dropped it last night. Her birth certificate is under it. My blood pressure soars just thinking about what would’ve happened if Andy found it. I stop suddenly. In a flash, I’m back up the stepladder. One more look for Tessa’s book.

Even at the top of the stepladder I’m only high enough to see whatever’s at the edge of the shelf. No book. I tear down some old blankets and reach a stack of linens and yank at the corner of the bottom-most sheet, allowing them to tumble to the floor. Nothing. Not a book anywhere. I take my arm and sweep it across the shelf, then stand on my tippy toes to get a look at the back. No book. A fire extinguisher. A down comforter. An emergency ladder to escape from a second-floor window in case of a fire. Unless, of course, the fire is in the closet. And a large, taped-up moving box in the corner of the shelf. “Bedroom Closet” is written across it. Why would I still have an unpacked box? With my fingertips over my head, I push at the corner of the box; maybe it’s empty. But it hardly budges. I get a wooden hanger and nudge the corner of the box to get it a little closer to me.

The box has rotated. Another word appears on the side of the box in my handwriting, “ETAVIRP.”

My heart skips a beat.

I’m as still as stone with my arm extended and the hanger at the end of it. Etavirp is a made-up word that JD and I invented when we were kids. We only used it with each other. It meant “secret” or “private.” In fact, it’s the word “private” backward. We were little when we made it up. We thought it was clever at the time.

I reposition the stepladder to get a better angle and climb back up. If only it was a step higher. The hanger begs the box from the back in tiny increments. Nausea creeps into my stomach.

Finally the box is far enough that I can grasp it with both hands. The box bulges at the bottom, testing the strength of its seams. Like a fat lady in a girdle. It feels like a fat lady could be in there. Carefully, I walk backward off the ladder with the unwieldy box in my arms; my chin rests on top. It’s caked in dust, which wafts up my nose. An urgent sneeze forces the box to slip a little from my grip. The box is big enough that only my fingertips curl around the far edges.

On the floor I kneel next to the box and run my hand over the top to sweep the dust away. Several layers of tape have attempted to secure the contents within. Or shut the world out. There are strips of clear tape, now yellowed, that run along the narrow crevice where the two flaps meet to close the box. They’re no longer sticky and simply mark a moment in time. Masking tape runs in the opposite direction and is also ineffective in securing the box like it once did. Three strips of blue painter’s tape look like bandages, placed perpendicularly again. All three are sliced through at the box’s opening. Silver electric tape seals the circumference, and there’s one piece of shiny black tape about a foot long running down the middle that unites the flaps. It looks like it’s sealing a mouth shut. I rip off the black tape with ease and pry my fingers under the heavy, veined electrical tape inch by inch around the box until it is unbound. When I lift the cardboard flap from one side, a gush of air spews out. As if the box is exhaling. It smells of age. That air has not seen the light of day for years. The mustiness finds its way to my lungs and forces a cough. Once I pull back the other flap, the contents are exposed. Staring into it, I get dizzy. Maybe it’s the dust, or the weight of the box, or a sense of claustrophobia in the closet. I look down at my wrist for my watch, but I’m not wearing it. It’s probably time to pick the girls up from school, or close to it. This is not a good time to get involved in an old box of junk. I flip the two sides down to close it and pat the black tape into place, but the tape has no sticking power left. I step out of the closet. The clock on my nightstand says 11:49.

What seems like days since I’ve seen the girls has only been three hours.

I have other things to do. Errands and other things. Enough with the closet and old crap. I need to move on. But first, I’ll tidy up.

Instead of lifting the box back up on the shelf, I push it with my foot under hanging clothes as far back as it will go, leaning against the wall with both hands for support. There are shoe boxes in the way, so the box sticks out too far. I squat down and heave it an inch off the ground and guide it to the right, where there’s space. With the side of my arm and shoulder, I shove it with all my strength. This is taking way too much of my time. With clenched teeth, I sit on the floor and drive the box with both feet, ramming it into the corner of the closet, and tears wet my cheeks.