The envelope was wet from his slobber. It was sealed shut from the dried blood that once soaked the paper towel inside it. I knew instantly what it was. I carefully flaked the cracked pieces of crusty paper towel that, after years of being stuck to the envelope, took on the shape of its corner. They were still in there, exactly as I remembered them. Gauzy red fibers of paper towel clung to the two broken teeth and the chards of a third.
I lunged at Smarty. “
Get out!
This is none of your fucking business!” I seethed through clenched teeth. What if he had swallowed them, or hid them somewhere? Or left them for someone to find. “These things are mine! How could you do this to me? I trusted you.” My cheeks were wet, but I didn’t mean to cry. I wanted to pick him up and throw him out, but I was afraid he’d bite me. Instead, I thrust my foot at his butt, and as that ball of fur flew through the air, I slammed the door shut. For the first time in all the years we’ve lived here, I used the two-way lock—originally intended to keep people out—now from within.
Smarty was still in the room. He barked without pause, that I-don’t-need-air bark, just outside the closet door. The razor-sharp barks mutated into an eerie howl. He wouldn’t relent. But I didn’t care. I was safe now. With my things. I didn’t care if he barked himself out of oxygen.
I held those teeth in the palm of my hand and wrapped my fingers around them and brought my cupped hands to my heart. “I would’ve done anything for you,” I said to her. I would have knocked every tooth out of my head.
Meticulously, up on bended knee, I collected the strewn papers and objects, stacking the pages of my life back together, bringing order to the chaos. With reverence, I placed everything in the box. The envelope had fallen apart, wet from Smarty’s saliva. So instead I wrapped the teeth into a tie-dyed bandana I found in the box, the one JD wore when she was in high school. I held it up to my nose and detected the faintest smell of her still on it.
I hadn’t seen these things in years.
A photo of two young girls in bathing suits, we were about nine or ten, our arms pretzel locked, hair long and wet, skin glowing brown, both wearing a one-piece navy bathing suit, hers with a yellow stripe around the waist, mine with a yellow hair ribbon tied like a belt. Or a stripe. Happy vacation grins. On the back, my mother’s handwriting:
Summer 1978—Cape Cod—Caroline and JD at the beach
. I held that photo for a long time; we always loved each other on vacation. I closed my eyes. “I miss you so much …” I whispered, wishing she could hear me. “You made a terrible mistake, JD. A terrible, unforgivable one. You know that now.”
When I put the flap down to close the box, it wouldn’t sit flush. The flap stuck up. I lifted it to move things around and settle the contents. A bunch of letters, cinched with a rubber band, were snug against the inside wall of the box, their corners pointing upward, keeping the flap from closing. I peeled them away from the side and placed them on top, and lowered the flaps again. Before closing the box, the letter on top caught my eye; it appeared, from the back, to be sealed—unopened. I picked up the bunch and flicked at their corners like a deck of cards. Just the top one was unopened. The return address on the back read
State Penitentiary I.D. #7849382
.
I ripped off the rubber band and the letters scattered to the floor, fluttering like the wings of release doves. They were from Timothy. Love letters. The ones I saved from college. All of them opened but one. It was addressed to me.
Caroline Schwarzenbauer
. It wasn’t like the others that were left in my dorm room. This one had a stamp; it was sent to my house in Pennsylvania. The postmark read
November 2000
. That was before I married Andrew. Before I moved to Farhaven. I never opened it. I never intended to. Reading it would have given him the last word. That was out of the question.
It didn’t matter anymore. I won. Didn’t I? Today proved that. I had everything. And he had nothing. It wasn’t supposed to turn out that way—we were supposed to have each other–but he fucked that up. And I was resilient. Good things don’t come to those who wait. Good things come to those who shift gears.
I picked up the unopened letter from the floor. My Lanstonville, PA, address was written in Timothy’s handwriting. Letters so small you could hardly make out the words, in a scratchy hand, like they were etched in stone, no curves, just pointy, sharp corners, like scissor blades. Still kneeling, I tore the back flap open with no regard for the envelope’s original configuration. I felt flustered. A rush of emotion took over. It was so familiar. Like I was still in college and just found a letter from him on my dorm-room dresser. He’d stop by when I was in class to leave me love notes all the time. They were all in this box. This must be another.
I sat down on my heels and unfolded the letter. My entire body was still, except for my heart. I was twenty all over again.
It was remarkably easy to slide into the world of Timothy. That’s how it always felt to me. He was more than my boyfriend or fiancé; he was an entire world of being. That morning, in the closet, I slipped into that nostalgic place so deeply that I almost didn’t notice Smarty jump onto the door, pawing at the louvers, snapping interminably. I pretended he wasn’t there.
Dear Caroline—
I was thinking about you today. Actually, I think about you every day. I have a lot to tell you.
First, I wanted you to know about the night I fucked your sister. I have a hunch she never told you about that night. I was just trying to have a little fun, but she was crazy. You should see what that bitch did to my face. She bit me. I have a scar to prove it. It’s a good thing she was shit faced, otherwise it could’ve gotten really ugly.
I asked her about you that night. But she wasn’t very chatty. It could’ve been because I had to grab her from under the chin so she wouldn’t bite me again.
There was a time I thought maybe JD was too wasted to remember anything about that night. Especially because it didn’t seem like she told anyone. Not even you. Am I right? Surprising, since she didn’t like me very much. She dropped me a line when her kid was in the hospital after a car accident. She needed money for the hospital bills. She said if I didn’t come through with the money, she’d go to the police about that night.
She was smart not to take her law degree too seriously and throw around accusations that would never hold up in court. Good judgment not to take on Hayes & Hayes over an innocent roll in the hay. Who’d believe her anyway? Everyone knew I could have any girl I wanted.
Isn’t it funny how life works? I had both Schwarzenbauer sisters, and you both had me. JD really played me, didn’t she? She hustled half a million dollars out of me. She was a clever one, JD. She made me think I was the kid’s father. I guess you thought the same thing, huh, Caroline? Well, I’m not the father. The kid’s not mine.
At law school, your sister had quite a reputation. Not like the sluts in her class, JD wasn’t putting out for anybody. I’ll never know how that was a turn-on for my frat brother, Paul Lilliana. He was in love with JD. I used to pity that poor loser because he wasn’t getting past second base with her. I remember thinking what a bitch she was for not throwing the guy a bone before he died. Looks like I was wrong. At least he got some before the brain tumor killed him the week after we graduated. Nice family they would’ve made. At least those lovebirds are together now. Right?
I must admit, I thought the kid was mine. That’s why my brilliant “lawyer” didn’t want me to take a paternity test. So I didn’t. Until it was too late to matter. For now, anyway. When you’re in jail, you have a lot of time on your hands. It got me thinking maybe the kid wasn’t mine. I had a friend of mine handle it. He took care of what we needed for the test. I’ll spare you the details. But let’s just say you’re not the only resourceful one.
So, looks like Lilliana got his way with her after all. Your stupid sister would do anything to protect you. Didn’t want you to know I fucked her. All to protect you and your feelings. How lame. I have a suspicion she never knew who the kid’s real father was. Doesn’t matter now anyway.
So that leaves you Caroline. You and the girl. Is that why you killed JD? For the girl? I don’t get you, Caroline. I never did. You’re a sick one. Thank God I got rid of you when I did. But I would never have thought you could kill your own sister. Even though my fucking father couldn’t prove it. I know it was you. Yours is coming, Caroline. I’m not going away. I have a new lawyer now. He’s on to you.
Timothy
My mouth dropped open. I let go of the letter. It zigzagged through the air until it landed on the floor next to the others, taking forever to get there. My heart changed its tune. It knocked like a gavel on a steel drum. I gasped aloud and sprang to my feet. That ignited Smarty again outside the closet.
“No!”
I boomed. I circled around in place. No, he did
not!
Jesus, JD! What the
fuck?
I used a scarf to pick up the letter so my flesh wouldn’t touch its unfathomable contents. I did the same with the rest of them.
Why,
JD?!
Why didn’t you tell me?!
How could you let him get away with it?!
I shoveled the letters with the scarf in my hands and dropped them into the box and kicked the flaps closed. I spit on my hands and then rubbed them on the sleeve of a denim jacket hanging behind me. I stepped back from the box. My heart was knocking hard against my chest. Or was it my brain against my skull? Or was someone at the door? I couldn’t isolate anything. Sounds. Thoughts. I stood alone in the closet with my mutant reality. For how long? How long have I been living this fucking mirage? I swirled around again and felt the wall for the light switch. If only I could turn the spotlight off this horrifying show. I was desperate for darkness. My hands swished big circles on the wall until I found the switch. Off. My throat grew thick and tight, my tongue heavy and too big for my mouth. I yanked at the closet door. It didn’t budge. I tugged at it. Again and again—like a crazy person—frantic to get out. It was locked. I turned back to the box and pummeled it with my foot, again and again until my foot throbbed, and the box gave way. I kicked the shit out of it.
JD’s old, beat-up wallet was on the floor behind the box. Damn. I didn’t want to see that fucking thing. I ripped open the flap for the last time to bury the wallet. But instead, I dropped to my knees, snatched it from the floor, and tried to smooth the scratches in the leather with my thumb. I tore through it. Why? What was I looking for? The soft leather in my hands made me think of JD in the summer, her golden skin. A dump of memories fell on me. JD and her easy smile. Our secret language. I searched the wallet for anything JD. I wanted to see her so badly. Loose change and her Social Security card. I needed to see her face. I needed to find forgiveness in her eyes. Her law school ID, driver’s license and phone numbers written on torn pieces of paper nestled in with the coins. Oh my God, the photos. I couldn’t look. I thought I could. Each one a knife piercing my heart. The tears came. Would she ever forgive me? A silent sob warped into pain.
My body cowered and my back rose and fell, again and again, like whip.
“Lilliana,”
I cried out loud.
Lilliana! Oh my God.
My body shriveled into itself. My head tipped over and met the floor
.
I wish I could have sunk through the floor and kept going. How could this have happened? How could I not have known?
Paul Lilliana
?
Why didn’t you tell me?! Why didn’t you trust me?
Weren’t we better than that?
I would’ve done anything for her.
I wanted the wallet out of my hands. I threw the wallet so it smacked against the box. It splayed open. The photos fanned out. It was JD and me at our high school graduation. Arms slinked around waists. Proud sister smiles. Caps and gowns.
“Sweetie!” Andrew was in the hall right outside our room. Oh my God. Andrew. I turned to face the louver door. Could he see me through the slats? I bit down on my hand to silence my chattering teeth. My body rattled.
“Caroline?” He walked into our room. His voice was light and airy—like angel food cake. It came from the opposite side, by his closet. I hugged my knees and rocked myself back and forth, back and forth.
“
Caroline
, are you in here?” I could hear a grin on his face. He opened the door to our bathroom. My body jerked in the air from the sound of the knob. Then I stiffened.
He walked to my side of the room and stood in front of my closet, on the other side of the door, inches away from me. If the door wasn’t there, I could reach out and grab his leg. Or he mine. “Smarty, what are you growling at? For God’s sake, calm down. There’s nothing in there. You sound scary.” I saw Andrew pick up the dog and pet him. Smarty growled in my direction. “Lilly, come up here, will you?” Andrew called into the hall. “Take Smarty out. He’s going crackers. He thinks he found something.”
My body coiled into a mangled knot of skin and bones and nerves.
Lilly walked in. “Smarty, you quiet down,” she said, wagging her finger.
“Take him, will you?” Andrew handed Smarty over to her. “Where’s Mommy?”
“I dunno. At the computer?” Lilly’s voice trailed off as she left the room, “Shush, Smarty. That’s your outside voice.”
Andrew turned to leave the room and called into the hall, “Caroline, you in the attic? You wanna do that Google thing?” My body froze.
“Honey—where are you?” His voice drifted away, clinging to the air. “Caroline, let’s Google ourselves. It’ll be fun …”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The road to publication is a pothole-filled journey. If you’re a writer, you know there are one million chances you could hit a bump in the road, fall out of your car, get bruised pretty badly and decide driving is not for you. Then end up walking everywhere you go for the rest of your life. There are infinite potential detours. Red lights that never turn green. Drivers who swerve into your lane and crush your car to smithereens. Sometimes you’ll think you know where you’re going when you set out, only to get lost along the way. Or maybe you simply run out of gas. There are as many opportunities to sabotage your success as there are days in your creative life, or even hours. To not listen to those cynical voices, whether they are external or internal, in order to get to this day—the day your flicker of an idea becomes a book—is close to a miracle.
There were many people whose encouragement, both big and small, kept me going. Thank you for cheering me on, holding my hand or paving the way for me to go the distance. To you, I bow my head in appreciation.
When
The Memory Box
was a preemie, there were early enthusiasts. This supportive network buoyed my resolve. I am so grateful to Sidney Offit for his generosity, his exuberance and encouraging me to “run home” and finish writing, but mostly, for believing I could. Sally Harrison and Joel Harrison for your persistence on my behalf and for being legit movers and shakers. Sue Temkin for calling in a favor for an unknown, Kathy Neumann for tackling a literary conundrum, Sheila Valenti, for being my first real fan. Lillie Bryen, for exceeding every definition of
best friend
. Rosanne Kurstedt for helping me slog through in my darkest hours and always seeing things with fresh eyes, even for the hundredth time. Westfield Writers Group, Cheryl Paden, Lillian Duggan, and Ann Ormsby to whom I could always bring my draftiest draft. For your personal magic and for seeing things I was blind to: Emma Schwartz, Marisa Mangione, Kathy Maughn. To my editor, Candace Johnson, whose enthusiasm, savvy, and collaboration were invaluable.
A special thanks for words or deeds: Chris Tomasino, Emily Rapoport, Laura Studwell, John Biguenet, Wendy Loggia, Yoonsun Lee, MaryCaye Swingle, Lois Walter, Mary Pat McCourt, Kim Manning, Brigid Robertshaw, Marci Bandelli, Robert Foley, Hannah Tinti, Dani Shapiro, Arielle Eckstut, and David Henry Sterry.
To my mom, dad and grandparents who taught me the virtues of hard work. To Stephen, Luke and Anne Lesko who think highly of me at exactly the right time.
To Peggy Natiello, for your effortless affirmation and for showing, not telling, that the first step to doing something is simply making the decision. To Bob Natiello for being my biggest cheerleader and for keeping me on my literary toes—who needs Strunk and White when you have Bob Natiello in the family?
For being the truest believers and everything to me, Margaux, Mark and Joe.