The Memory Box (22 page)

He looks at me closely. “I don’t know what that means. What does that mean, Caroline? These are your friends.”

“I’m serious.” I look at the floor. “I, I need … something to do. I’m begging you, please. It’s the ice or upstairs.”

He stares at me silently. Then his eyebrows do that thing where they scrunch up into a volcano over his nose. His eyes are confused. I feel sorry for him. Desperately sorry. It aches in my heart. The pains in my heart don’t go away these days. The heartaches are chronic; they layer on top of each other from one day to the next, thickening, like a callus.

“All right… Caroline. Fine. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but, all right. I’m deferring to you on this. Brother. But no lifting the ice bags. You get that guy at Siedermann’s to do it. Promise me.”

“Yes, okay. I won’t lift anything.” I put my hand out for the keys.

“And the caterer will take them out of the car. Drive carefully. Sure you’re up to this?”

“I’ll be right back. You won’t even notice I’m gone.” I leave Andy with his hands on his hips, shaking his head, looking defeated and uncertain.

When I drive
up to Siedermann’s, I can’t tell whether they’re open or closed. It looks dark through the windows. But these kinds of places always look dark. I grab my wallet from the glove compartment. The little door to the glove compartment clicks closed in such a satisfying way. I love doors. They give such an appearance of order.

If I could just find a mint, I’d feel like a million bucks. In the console between the front two seats I find a map, Band-Aids, peanut butter crackers, a coloring book, crayons … no mints. There’s a disgusting amount of wrappers, uncapped sunscreen tubes, an audiocassette wildly tangled in its own tape, and a chewed lollipop stick. How long has this been so gross? I scoop the contents into both hands and dump it onto the passenger seat next to me. Sorting is one of my favorite things to do. It’s so rewarding. Instant gratification. Garbage goes into an empty grocery bag, and good stuff goes back in the console. Maps are smoothed out and folded along their God-given creases. Juice boxes beyond their expiration date—gone. Tangerine rind hard enough to be potpourri—gone. Little scraps of paper with phone numbers and no names—gone. Party invitation for the Fourth of July—gone. Oh, this is wonderful. I’m nearly at the bottom when I see a plastic wrapper rolled up like a sleeping bag. It’s an almost unidentifiable package of Sno Balls. I unroll it. There’s a small, squashed sliver of a Sno Ball left inside. I take the miniature pink crescent moon from the plastic. There’s no cream. Just pink, sugarcoated cake. It’s crusty and hard. God only knows how old it is. I place it gently on my tongue and close my mouth to let the saliva reconstitute it, to extract its goodness and bring it back to life. I close my eyes and savor it. The sun beats through the windshield creating a terrarium within the car, warm and cozy and safe. I rest my head briefly on the soft velour of the passenger seat.

A loud tapping
on the window startles me. I lift my head from the seat. My face feels odd, and I run my fingers over my cheek and lift a gas station receipt from my skin.

I look out the driver’s side window. The police.

“Ma’am, excuse me. Ma’am, can I have a word with you?” He asks through the narrow opening at the top of the window.

“Yes, officer. Is everything all right?” I’m disoriented and can’t remember where I am.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing. Everything okay in there? Feeling all right?”

“Yes, just fine.”

“The owner of this store,” he points behind him, “called the station and said you’ve been out here for a while. Couple of hours.”

“Couple of
hours?
Is he crazy? That’s not poss—” I look down at my watch, but I don’t have one on. I can’t remember what time I left the house.

“Why don’t you step outside, ma’am, and let’s see your driver’s license.”

“Two hours, why would—” my wallet is resting on my lap where I left it. I pull my license out while opening the door.

The cop’s eyes drop down to my stomach. “You need to go to the hospital, ma’am? Are you bleeding?” He reaches for his walkie.

“No, no–” I look down. “I’m not bleeding. This is ketchup. See, smell–” I lift the bottom of my shirt.

“Please put your shirt down ma’am,” he says with both hands up.

While looking at my license, he says, “Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

“Oh, no. God, no.”

“Just taking a nap?”

“Yes, that must be it. I must have fallen asleep. I’ve been so tired. I just needed a little sleep, I suppose. I have two little girls, and I’ve been exhausted. Not that I’d trade them for anything in the world. I love my girls.”

He’s eyeing me closely. “I’m sure you do. Anybody I can call for you?”

“Oh, no. I have my cell phone right here.” I get back in the car to look for my phone. Five missed messages.

He gently closes the door behind me and slips the license through the window opening.

“Why don’t you go home now and get some rest. Drive safe.”

“Thank you, officer.” I turn the key in the ignition and drive out of the parking lot, and make a right onto North Avenue. I look in the rearview mirror. Red lights are flashing. It’s not the police car. It’s a neon sign, like at the carwash. Every second I drive the lights get smaller but still hold my attention. I focus really hard to make out the sign. Siedermann’s.

Crap. The ice.

I make a U-turn at the bakery, head back to Siedermann’s, and park in the same spot.

There’s a woman standing at the front door of Siedermann’s. Thank God they’re still open. I hop out of the car. She’s an older, square-figured woman with a short, blond perm. Not the good kind. And Buddy Holly glasses. Next to her, there’s a skinny, older gentleman in a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He’s tall, but without stature, like he’s missing his vertebrae. Next to Sponge Bob and Gumby is a younger guy with tattoos running up and down both forearms, greasy hair and low hanging jeans, chewing gum with his mouth open. The Siedermanns. The two guys are looking at me, and Sponge Bob is locking the door.

“Hello! Excuse me!” I shout from my car; the driver’s side door is open, and I stand just behind it. “I just came for some ice. Can I just grab some ice? We’re having a party, and we ran out.” I try to smile.

Sponge Bob turns around. “We’re closed,” she snaps. The husband, standing behind her, immediately looks at his shoes and shoves his hands in his pockets. The boy crosses his arms in front of his chest and straddles his feet. He lifts his chin a little.

“Just a
bag
! I don’t need to look around or anything. I don’t even need to go in—you could bring it out to me. I have cash. Keep the change!”

“Honey, we’re
closed.
Can ya see we’re locking the door? Whatcha been doin’ out there? Saw you pull in two hours ago.”

Does she call this customer service?

Someone who wears teal polyester pants and a shirt covered with kittens should not be so nasty to people.

“We were open
then
.”

“You listen here, little lady, you have time enough to spy on me and call the police, don’t you? But you don’t have the common decency to sell me a bag of lousy ice? Shame on you!
You … you … spy!
This is the last time I’m ever coming here. Or any of my friends—which it so happens I have many of, and they’re all at my house right now—and as soon as I get back, I’m going to tell them exactly what kind of … indecent … not decent … people you are!”

At the end of my rant, my cell phone vibrates.

“
Who is
this?”

“Caroline?”

“Oh, hi, Andy—”

“Is everything okay?”

“Well everything
would
be okay if these devil-people from
Siedermann’s
 …”

“You’re still at
Siedermann’s?!
Do you know how long it’s been?!”

“Yes, of course I know how long it’s been!”

“What have you been doing? Caroline … Caroline, are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes I’m still here … . I fell asleep.”

“
What?!
Behind the
wheel?!”

“No, Andy, I was parked. At Siedermann’s. I just put my head down for a second, and—”

“I sent George out looking for you. He didn’t see my car there—”

“What?!
Why would you—?
Well, he’s right. Because I drove the minivan.”

“I was just about to call the police. You didn’t return my calls, and—”

“The police?! They have better things to do than …”

“I should have gone for the ice. I hope you’re happy, Caroline, people are leaving, you missed everything …”

“Well, if the party’s over—we don’t need
ice
.”

Andy blows out a gust of frustration. Then he says, “Just bring one bag.”

“Fine. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

The parking lot has completely cleared out. The rude Siedermanns have gone. My minivan and I are an island on a concrete sea.

I drive to the grocery store for ice.

Andy is cross
armed, leaning up against the kitchen sink across from the island, when I get home. “It’s over. You missed the whole entire party. Congratulations. I hope you’re happy. Nice job.”

The girls are watching a movie in the family room. The caterer is packing up. Two burned hot dogs sit on a sunflower paper plate. The dishwasher is purring.

He begins pacing the width of the kitchen, taking a sponge to the counter around the sink, the island, the stovetop.

He stops at the sink, rests up against it again, his shoulders hunched. “I don’t know what to say. Really I don’t. I tried so hard. To do something for all of us—but especially for you. Just to show you—” His voice cracks. He stops.

My eyes search the floor. I can’t bear to look at him. My heartache throbs. “It was a really nice party …”

“
A really nice party?!
Is that a joke? I mean, what’s with you, Caroline? Do you care to tell me? You stay in bed all morning—all week, practically. Except for when you’re out, God knows where, and sneaking into our house late at night, at God knows what time.” His arms are flailing all over the place, and he can’t spit the words out fast enough. “To say you’re not acting like yourself is an understatement. You say you don’t feel well. But you forbid me to call your doctor. You’ve got a bruise on your face, a gash on your forehead. You’ve been wearing the same clothes all week, even to bed! Except for what you have on today, which looks like it was on the losing side of a food fight at McDonald’s, and your hair, well—I don’t know what to say about that, did you have an appointment with our lawn mower?” He paces with angry arms— once in a while he shoots me a scared look or maybe he’s just making sure I’m still here. “Then, you insist on picking up the ice. So I let you. And you fall asleep in the car and return three hours later?” Andy looks up at the kitchen clock. “No—
three hours and twenty-five minutes.
” He throws the sponge in the sink, a good six feet away.

“Oh, but you feel okay to go out last night past midnight? Somewhere? Oh my God!” He stops and faces me. “Are you having an affair?”

“An affair?” I choke. “Of course not. Jeez, Andy.”

“Well, how do I know?” Arms in the air. “That’s how these things happen, right? I don’t know! Great—so you’re not having an affair. Whew! Well, that’s good.” He pulls out a stool and perches at the end of it. “Then what’s going on, please tell me, I want to know. Go ahead, I’m all ears.” He doesn’t know whether to be scared or angry or worried or furious. He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them, leaving them hanging at his side.

I am surprisingly calm. Like the air before a storm. Still. Yes, this is the right thing to do. To tell Andy everything.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sunday, October 1, 2006, 6:37 p.m.

O
ver Andy’s shoulder in the backyard, I see the Fosters, our empty-nest neighbors, having a beer by the pool. They’re always the last to leave. They don’t even care if the hosts are around or even home.

I pick up the bag of ice and heave it onto the island. The bag is wet and heavy; it pirouettes several times before the end with the crimped staple gives out, hurling an ice chunk across the counter, through the air, pelting Andy in the chest.

He doesn’t flinch, not even to pick up the cubes that have crashed to the floor or the ones that are now afloat in puddles of ice water streaming off the top of the island, running rivers around a huge bowl of apples.

“Okay.” I’m still calm. “If you’re sure. I know you think you wanna know.” My cheeks stretch to fill with air until they hurt; a second later they’re flat. “Okay. Fine.” My shoulders slump forward. “I can’t bear it anymore, anyway. I’m not the kind of person I thought I was. What made me think I could handle this myself? And what’s worse, I’m not the kind of person you thought I was.” Andy’s back stiffens. He looks alarmed. He stands up. The energy shifts.

“What are you talking about? I thought you were sick. You have the flu or something, right? It’s worse?” He tilts his head to the side and grabs one of his eyebrows, yanking the hair.

“Andy, I been thinking a lot lately about … a bunch of things. I don’t know why. But like, well, how we met …”

“How we met?” Andy’s body caves. He shakes his head. “Why? Why are you bringing that up, Caroline? What’s going on?” He pulls his shirt out of his jeans. “I thought we had a deal. Neither one of us would’ve planned it like that. But look at us now. Right? It wasn’t out of convenience. We love each other.” His eyes look defeated. “I mean, thank God you knew Debbie. Right? If you weren’t at her wake, we wouldn’t be here right now. In
our
kitchen. With
our
family. I mean if you really think about it, Debbie brought us together. She was our guardian angel.”

Oh my God
.
He thinks I knew her
.

The back door slides open too fast and slams against the door frame with a thud—rattling my bones. I pray that when my body settles, everything will shift into the place.

“
Caroline
—
there
you are!” Delores Foster sticks her head in the kitchen. “We’ve been looking for you all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding us.”

She’s now completely in the kitchen. I can’t deal with her right now. Or her husband. Or my husband. If only I could vacuum up the words that just came out of me. I need to get out of here. I need to think before I speak.

Delores’s husband, Howard, waves from the patio. “I just love what you’ve done with the backyard. Did you put in all new landscaping? I did see the landscaper here. It must have been every day for two weeks, right?” She slides onto a stool and teeters a bit before grabbing the edge of the counter for dear life. “Boy, those landscapers with all those motors zazzin’ away. Lotsa noise, but it sure does look good. Anyhoozle—what’s you been up to?” She slips off the stool, then quickly gets solid again.

“Um …”

She reaches for a napkin and knocks her Heineken over. It spins around a few times on the wet surface, whisking a few ice cubes across the island.

“Oh, dear, did I do that?
”

“No problem.” Andy picks up the bottle and throws it in the recycling bin by the door and smiles awkwardly at our guest. He stands by the door anxiously, with his hand on the lever. I take a step back toward the stairs.

“Thanks for getting that, hun,” Delores offers. She looks at Andy and me, one at a time. She swooshes around a napkin.

“Is Howard still out there? Let me go get him, I know he’d love to see you, Caroline. You too, Andy. Let me get him in here.” She totters toward the door through tense air, smothering a good Heineken buzz in the process.

“Let me get that for you, Delores.” Andy grabs the lever and yanks it open. He raises his hand in greeting to Howard, who’s still drinking by the pool.

While I cower out of the kitchen.

I grab two sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet and fall heavily onto my bed.

I don’t know
how much time has passed. I drift into a medicated sleep; my thoughts are slow and outside of my head, floating around the room; my body is heavy, making deep depressions in the bed. I have a faint sense that the bedroom door opens, and I think it’s Andy. I think I hear him whisper, “
Caroline?
”

Tuesday, October 3, 2006, 7:30 a.m.

My cell phone
alarm is set to the happy, carefree banter of chirping birds. I used to love that sound. I realize now how ridiculous it is. No one’s that happy.

There’s no schedule on my nightstand. Thank God. That means one of two things. I have nothing to do today … or I don’t give a crap about any of it. If I didn’t need to get the girls ready for school, there’s nothing that would get me out of bed.

My palm touches the crest of Andy’s pillow. Cold. I think of what’s become of us in one short week. I’m bobbing and weaving his every move. He’s demonstrated every emotion on the mood meter. Most of them I’ve never seen before. I’m sure he’d say the same about me. There’s no use trying to shake this sense of dread that’s lodged in me these days, as if I carry a chromosome for it.

In the bathroom, there’s a note on the mirror. “We need to talk. Let’s make some time tonight after the girls go to sleep. I hope you feel like your old self today. I love you so much, Andy.”

At least now I can prepare for it. It’s time. Andy’s a good man. He deserves to know. And what am I ashamed about? I’m a good person. With a troubled past. But that’s because I’ve been let down by people. And I’ve buried some memories. Andy may be shocked at first, but he’ll come around.

The girls go with the neighbors to school, and I float in and out of rooms, trying to be productive. I do some laundry, the dishes. I put the television on so I won’t be so lonely. I sit on the couch and look into space and think about what I’ll say to Andy.

The sound of my cell phone wakes me. Time has passed. I try to get my bearings. What time is it? I grab the phone from the coffee table.

“Hello?”

“Caroline, is that you?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Dr. Sullivan—

Click.

I’m not talking to that phony son of a bitch. He has some nerve calling me. He can burn in hell for all I care.

When the phone rings again seconds later, I let it go to voice mail. I erase the message before listening to that windbag and promise myself never to listen to another thing he has to say. To think I ever thought he’d help me. I don’t need him. No wonder I’ve been a problem solver all my life. How can I depend on people?! So that’s what I do: I depend on myself to figure stuff out. No one lets you down that way. God, that feels great, knowing that about myself. It feels right, actually. Like I’m meeting myself for the first time. That’s who I am. Self-reliant. And come to think of it, no wonder I forgot all this stuff. Who’d want to remember any of it, anyway?

What if I never know all of it?

Maybe that’s a good thing.

It’s 4:00, and I’m still in my pajamas. I go upstairs to change; I need to pick up the girls from Diane’s house soon. I grab some sweats from my closet. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth.

I can almost swear I hear Andy calling my name. How can that be? He never comes home this early.

I open the bathroom door. “Andy?”

“Caroline?” He’s calling from the stairs.

It’s definitely him. He’s in the house. I pull off my pajama top and hurry to get dressed. I grab a hooded sweater.

“There you are. How ya doin’?” He walks into the bathroom and gives me a hug. He rests his hand on my pajamas, which are in a ball on top of the hamper. “You just getting dressed?” He pulls away from the hug and looks at me.

“I’ve gotta pick up the girls from Diane’s house. She took a bunch of them on a Girl Scout thing.” I turn to brush my hair at the mirror, moving quickly. “You’re home early.”

Andy looks at his watch. “Oh, yeah. Good. I’ll be able to say good-bye to them.”

“Good-bye?” I stop and look at him through the mirror.

“Yeah, I tried calling you a few times today. You haven’t answered your phone, huh?”

I walk past him to get my cell from my dresser while he continues.

“I’ve got to go to Frankfurt. It’s an emergency. Total PR disaster. Charles was supposed to go. They called me yesterday during the party. I told them I couldn’t go. I said no. I didn’t want to go out of town with all of us … like we are.”

I have three missed calls from Andy. Two missed calls from Dr. Sullivan’s office. Two from Meg. Three from Vicki and one from Diane.

“Caroline, I guess you didn’t listen to my message. I’ve got to go. And it feels like the worst time. It seems like you’re—I don’t know what to call it. We’ve got to figure this out. Together.”

I fidget with my phone some more to keep my eyes off of him. I can’t do anything for him.

“But now I have to go to Frankfurt. Charles’s brother died last night. He was sick. But still, Charles didn’t think it was imminent. Anyway. I have no choice now. I’m leaving this afternoon. The car is coming to pick me up. I need to pack right now. Honey?”

“Okay.” I don’t know what to feel anymore.

“Okay, what?”

“I understand. You have to go. Okay.” I grab some socks from my dresser. “Maybe it’s better that he’s going. It’ll give me time.”

“It’ll give you time for what?” His face is like a road map to Crazy Town.

“What?”

“You just said, ‘It’s better that he’s going, it’ll give me time.’” Andy sits at the edge of the bed and pulls me to sit next to him. “Time for what, why is it good I’m going? Caroline, you’re really upsetting me.”

I pop back up and check the time. “Andy, I didn’t say that, I didn’t mean that.”

“Caroline, what’s happening to us? To you?” He leaps up. “I admit it. I’m scared!” He throws his hands in the air.

Now I look at him. My behavior is torturing him, and it’s not fair. “Andy. It’s all my fault. I know now, I need to just tell you.”

“What? Tell me what?”

“We’ll talk when you get home. It’s gonna be okay. It really will.” As I say that, I actually feel it’s true. We’re gonna get through this.

The doorbell rings, and Andy runs to the bedroom window.

“Crap. The car’s here.” He turns from the window and looks at me. “Jeez, this sucks.” He rubs his cheek with the back of his hand. Is he crying?

I try to smile. I don’t want him to leave like this. “It’s all right, Andy, trust me. Everything’s gonna be okay. I have to get the girls now.” I kiss his cheek. “Have a good trip. When you get back, I will be my old self. You’ll see.” I hug him tightly. And just as I hug him, I smell his scent and feel something odd on my chin. I rub my chin, but the feeling doesn’t go away. It feels itchy, like it’s touching something scratchy, but it’s resting on Andy’s suit jacket. In a flash, a memory crosses my mind of the day I met him. I hugged him at his wife’s wake. I told him I was Debbie’s friend, and I cried real tears. Only they weren’t real because I never met her. He cried, too. Could that be the last time I saw him cry? At the wake, his suit jacket was itchy when I rested my chin there. I remember that. And I can remember the smell of that place. The funeral home, like dead air and mothballs. And Andy’s arms hugging me back; his jacket was on, and I felt the stiff crinkle of the suit fabric around my waist, as I do now. Only then, I wasn’t mourning the loss of a friend; I was on a mission. To find a father and sister for Lilly. But not just any kind of sister …
the perfect twin.

Thursday, October 5, 2006, 9:13 a.m.

The days just
morph into each other. With the blinds kept closed, if not for the girls’ presence, it’s hard to tell the time of day. Sullivan’s tenacity is really annoying. Now he tries to call before the girls leave for school. I just answer it without saying hello. And hang up.

What’s in it for him? Considering my last three visits, there’s nothing in it for me. Why can’t he just let me go like he did the first time?

Speculating his motives starts to bug me. I don’t want to be thinking about that fat phony, but something nags at me. Like a mosquito in the kitchen—impossible to catch, impossible to ignore. I need to give up because I’m not going to talk to him. No more digging or sifting or mining. There’s no gold there. I’m not opening myself up anymore.

But something else bothers me. There’s no way Timothy would be stupid enough to kill JD for fear she’d call him out on the hit-and-run. He gave her the money. No, he’s not that stupid. There’s something else. Something I don’t know. I feel it in my bones.

When my cell rings, it startles me, and before I’m conscious of it, I answer it.

It’s Sullivan.

“Stop calling me. This is harassment now. I call the police and you’re busted. I’ve got phone records.” I threaten Sullivan on what must be his seventeenth call.

“I wouldn’t do that, Caroline.”

“Then leave me alone.” I pull the venetian-blind cord open and closed. “You sprinkled your devil dust all over the goddamned place, and everything is back. Only worse.” He starts to talk, but I don’t let him. “How am I better—can you answer that? How am I a better person? Is this what
cured
looks like? I thought I could move on. Live my life, whatever I could piece together. But what is my life? I’m like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. I’m living in a private hell. I don’t know who I am. Everything’s … nothing’s …”

“Caroline—”

“She didn’t kill herself. I knew JD could never kill herself. It was Timothy. He killed her. He almost killed his own daughter, but instead he killed JD. The mother of his daughter.”

I never listened to JD. Every time she warned me about him. Always, “You decide for yourself, Caroline,” she would say, and “Do you really love him, Caroline?” But now I’ll never know if it was because she knew he was evil, or because she wanted him for herself. Look where that got her. I never figured Timothy for a murderer. He might look like a peacock, but he’s got the backbone of a chicken. With the balls of a vulture.