The Memory Box (17 page)

“After all that, they found that poor kid trembling under a desk in the library. And get this one—George told me that the principal called Donna yesterday to tell her there was no actual fire. That the alarm was pulled by someone, and it was top priority to find out who did it. This is the kicker: the principal asked Donna if she thought Emma could have pulled the alarm and then hid under a desk.

“
Caroline!
” Sylvie grabs my arm and digs her nails through my clothes into my skin. “
Where the hell are you going?
Stay on your side of the road. This ain’t London.”

I quickly veer back onto the right side of the road and say a silent prayer that I didn’t hit the oncoming car.

“Caroline—what the hell?!”

Sylvie’s eyes burn holes into the side of my face.

“Pull over, honey. I’m driving.”

“Sylvie. I’m not pulling over. I’m sorry. I’m fine. I just … wandered for a second. I’m back on track. Trust me.”

“Jesus. That scared the shit out of me. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might actually be safer with George tonight.”

“That poor girl. I feel terrible.”

“Who, Emma? Yeah. It’s screwed up. Seriously, don’t let it ruin your night. You don’t need anything more to worry about.” She reaches out to touch my arm. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”

For a weeknight, there’s a good turnout for the charity dinner. Tonight’s profits go directly to the High Hopes Children’s Hospital.

It’s a warm, starlit evening out on the Pine Terrace where cocktails are being served. The sound of the three-piece band floats in the air like big, puffy cumulus clouds. At the edge of the terrace you can see the lawn dotted with tables dressed in white linen awaiting dinner. The silver cutlery winks back at the stars. The staff calmly scurries to have the chowder and beef medallions ready for two hundred fat wallets.

I make sure to say hello to Andy’s customer and his wife and introduce them to Sylvie, who declares them the most underwhelming people she’s ever met before leaving my side to stake out the party. I’m not at all hungry, but I have a few bruschetta to keep myself busy and take the last sip of my Chardonnay.

Andy and I agree it’s fine to leave once we bid on a few things at the auction table, so I search for Sylvie to say good-night. She’s standing in the middle of a never-ending train of giddy women spanning the ballroom. They look like little kids at an ice cream truck. Except for Sylvie, who looks out of place in this crowd. Most people find it surprising that Sylvie and George live in the suburbs. For one thing, they don’t have children, and they both work in New York and carry city sophistication around like a badge of honor. My theory is that Sylvie needs to feel different from everyone else, and that’s what the suburbs provide her.

“Hey, Sylvie.”

“
Oh–there
you are! Come here. Get in front of me while no one’s looking.”

“For what? I can’t. Andy and I are going. I just came to say good night.”

“
What?
What do you mean? You’re not having a reading?!”

“What reading?”

“This is the line for Madame Troia. I told you, Caroline. I knew you weren’t listening to me. You know you’ve had this far-off, la-la-land look on your face the whole night. What’s up with you?”

I sigh heavily. “Yes, Madame Troia, I know. No, I’m not having a reading. We’re going.”

“Now?! You have to leave
now?
I don’t think you get who she is. I don’t think you do. How do you think Jennifer found out about Brad and Angelina? Don’t be a fool. Here, stand in front of me, I’ll let you cut. You’re not missing this.”

“I’m not in the mood, Sylvie. Really.”

The din of chatter from the front of the line swells and ripples back to us.

“What do you mean she’s taking a break?” someone in front of us blurts out nearly inciting a riot. The crowd waiting for Madam Troia is on the verge of a coup. She’s just announced she’s taking a break because of a difficult reading.

“That’s an outrage! I’ve been standing here for almost an hour,” Sylvie growls to no one in particular. “Hold our spot, will you, hun,” she says to the woman behind her in line. “I’ve gotta tinkle.”

I walk with her to the bathroom, where there are a few women already on line. I get behind someone in a grey pinstripe suit and short, cropped hair. I swear it’s a man, but no one is acting strange about his/her presence. Sylvie finishes up a conversation with someone behind her, turns around, and grabs my arm with the intention, I can only assume, of removing it from its socket.

“
Jesus Christ
—look who’s in front of you!”

“It’s a guy, right?”

“Oh, excuse me,” Sylvie says to the guy in front of me. Leave it to Sylvie to oust him. What guy would want to stand on line in a woman’s bathroom, anyway? Sylvie maneuvers her way in front of me.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror to my right and take in my surroundings through its reflection. Across the rose-tinted bathroom is a row of little vanity seats wearing strapless, taffeta ball gowns. The room smells of old-lady perfume; the candle-lit sconces cast a soft glow. I’m standing ankle-deep in plush pink carpeting. All of the ladies are talking in hushed tones. It’s like I’m standing in someone’s dream.

I look back at the mirror. The monkey is hardly recognizable. As a primate, anyway. It’s down to a prune-shaped bruise in the hollow of my cheek, and the gash above my eyebrow has shrunk and scabbed over.

“This is my friend Caroline,” Sylvie says as I turn my gaze away from the mirror and shake the hand that’s outstretched before me.

I turn to look at my watch while saying, “Nice to meet you.” I just want to go to the bathroom and get out of here. If my bladder weren’t ready to burst, I would be home by now. The line is taking an eternity. Andy’s probably sent out an APB already. I lift my arm to check my watch and realize Sylvie’s friend has not let go of my hand. I look up now, this time with vested interest. It’s the guy in the suit. But it’s not a guy. He’s a she. And she doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable about still holding my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your name,” I say.

“
Caroline
, what’s wrong with you,” Sylvie says with an embarrassed chuckle. “I’m so sorry Madame Troia—my friend is a little preoccupied.” She then kicks me in the shin. My reflex to grab my aching shin is waylaid since this person still has my hand. “Caroline was just leaving, but I told her she couldn’t go without meeting you. Did I tell you that you practically saved my friend’s life? Patrice Summer. You warned her about her husband—
ex-husband
now—at the movie premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival. Do you remember—oh, of course, you
must.
You were right on the money with that one.”

My thoughts are having a three-way tug of war: Why would a psychic choose to take a bathroom break if she “
knew”
there’d be a line; why did my so-called friend just kick me in the leg; and how exactly am I going to reclaim my right hand? I can’t believe this is Madame Troia. She looks like my accountant.

“You are not staying for a readingk?” Madame Troia breaks into my internal monologue while she lassos my eyes with hers.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” She still has my hand, now sandwiched between both of hers. “I really must go—” I turn my head away from her, and this time I move my whole body to the right so she’ll have to let go. She doesn’t.

She leans into me and says, “Do not believe all that you read.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thursday, September 28, 2006, 9:10 p.m.

W
hat? Was she talking to me?

“Excuse me?” I say.

This prompts Sylvie to drape her arm across my back and pop her head in between us so she doesn’t miss anything.

“You will be deceived,” Madame Troia says matter-of-factly.

I look at Sylvie and then back at Madame T. Is she doing her thing right now, right here in the ladies’ room? She remains stone-faced. She hasn’t moved a hair, and it looks like she hasn’t even moved her mouth.

“Soon you will discover something you have known all alongk to be true. Other things you think you know, but are wrongk.”

A bathroom stall opens up, and the lady in the suit turns her back to me, walks into the stall, and closes the door. And just like that—she’s gone. Not a “Do svidaniya” or even a “Good luck with that one!” Nothingk.

“Well, that was bizarre,” I say out loud to myself while trying to figure out what just happened. I smooth the skin on my arms to quiet my bristled hair.

“
Caroline
, oh my God, did you hear what she said? ‘You will be deceived.’ Isn’t that fantastic? ‘You’ll find out something you always knew.’ Was that it? Do you remember what she said? I mean, I didn’t even know she was reading you. I thought she was just shootin’ the breeze. Damn, she’s good. No cards, no nothin’.”

I hightail it out of the bathroom without peeing. There’s no way I’m going to let her hold my hand again, especially on her way
out
of the bathroom. My thighs are squeezed against each other the whole way home so I don’t have an accident in the car. Andy knows not to talk to me when my bladder is ready to burst. Or rather, not to expect me to talk to him. All my concentration must be funneled into not peeing in my pants.

I’ve never believed in psychics or mediums of any sort. Not tarot cards, wishbones, black cats, or horoscopes. Not fallen eyelashes, ladybugs, or even the Super 8 ball. Not even paper origami fortune-tellers my friends and I made when we were kids.

I don’t even believe in birthday candles.

I’ve always believed I’m in control of my destiny. I certainly don’t go around blaming my zodiac sign for my mistakes.

Friday, September 29, 2006, 7:30 a.m.

Meg called last
night to see if Lilly and Tessa were available for a play date with Delia after school today, which is perfect. I’ll be home from Sullivan’s in time to pick them up by 5:30 and won’t have to explain my whereabouts to anyone.

Sylvie’s story about the lockdown weighs heavily on my mind. As if I didn’t feel guilty enough for pulling that goddamn panic inciter in the first place. It has to psychologically damage a five-year-old in the process. Now she’s one of the suspects. Then, I had to deal with the hocus-pocus of Madame Crystal Ball. “You are right about some stuff, and wrong about other stuff”; gimme a break. Although as much as I’d like to block out that whole thing, it was kind of comforting to hear, “Don’t believe everything you read.”

I try to think back on my life when it was normal. A week ago. What did I do with myself? If not for dodging Internet accusations, petty crimes at the grocery store, racing to the emergency room, and elementary school misdemeanors, what would I do? To think I used to cut coupons.

As I drive the girls to school, I’m preoccupied with my session today with Dr. Sullivan. I didn’t get the blood test he requested to check my B12 levels. I’m not going to Dr. Kriete’s, that’s for sure. Her office has left two messages for me already this week, but I don’t care. Maybe I can find a clinic around Dr. Sullivan’s office.

I pull the car up to the school and spot Gabrielle in the distance. She’s walking in my direction with the smugness of someone who’s got news to hawk. It’s all in her shoulders. Perhaps she’s already tossed her gossip grenade to a bunch of unsuspecting innocents. She could be striding out of a cloud of shrapnel right now, leaving a ballet of gaped mouths behind. She better keep her distance from me. I can’t handle her when my backbone’s
intact
. She couldn’t be frothing with news of Sylvie’s niece, could she? That little girl was in the library the entire time. Did she see me? Does she know who I am? Could she have turned me in?

I should’ve had my neighbor bring the girls to school today.

It’s 8:35, and the bell will ring in five minutes. The crossing guard nearly has a stroke blowing her whistle at kids weaving dangerously through cars. Others zigzag across the school lawn. Horns blare. Lilly and Tessa are jabbering about the bake sale and clamoring for money. Every morning, my senses are assaulted. My body braces, on the ride over, in expectation of the onslaught. I have to get here earlier, before anyone arrives. When it’s desolate and quiet, and I won’t run into anyone.

Getting closer by the nanosecond, Gabrielle takes long, emphatic, cross-country-skiing strides toward my car. Anxiety bubbles under my skin. Out of the corner of my eye, another figure appears, as determined as Gabrielle, walking in my direction from the other side of the school. It’s Mrs. Stanton. She zeroes in on me, and her index finger soars into the air to say
hold on there
. I’ve successfully dodged that finger for three days now.

My anxiety is foaming.

Mrs. Stanton swings her arms for momentum like a speed skater. The best I can hope for is that she and Gabrielle collide on their way over here to incriminate and irk me, respectively.

Breathe in. Breathe out. I thank my lucky stars for the school drop-off lane; it keeps you in a constant state of motion. You just pull up alongside the parked row of cars at the curb in front of the school entrance, your kids jump out, you close the door, and you’re on your way. Virtually no interaction with anyone. No explaining, confessing, defending, apologizing. It’s impossible to linger. It’s against the rules. Gotta keep moving. I’ll be out of here before you can say, “Arrest that woman.”

If this car in front of me would just get going. In my rearview mirror there is a train of cars lining up behind me, and more filling in to the left. Wait! Why are they filling in to my left?
Shit.
I’m not in the drop-off lane. I’m in the park lane. Well, how the hell did that happen? And as if that’s not enough, to pick like a vulture at my already tattered central nervous system, the car to my left is idling without a driver. It can only belong to the woman running across the lawn with a Batman lunchbox yelling “Kyle!”

I’m trapped. I’m fucking trapped.

I can’t believe this. There’s no way I’m gonna watch Gabrielle slither her Burberry-ed body over here to trap me. Or worse. Mrs. Stanton will have just enough time to alert the police of my whereabouts for a quick arrest. I’m sweating through my shirt.

So much for a painful collision; they’ve just joined forces, and they’re approaching together. They might as well link arms. They keep shading their eyes like they can’t see anything in front of them. That’s a good thing. The sun is slamming my windshield. Another good thing. They might not see me sitting here. I can’t believe that I haven’t prepared for this. I mean certainly I had to expect someone would talk to me about that morning. There must be a way to identify the exact alarm that was pulled. They could have fingerprints, for Christ’s sake. Can you plead the fifth to a principal? Would that be incriminating? I’m having really horrible thoughts right now. Really, really horrible. If I throw Sylvie’s niece under the bus, I’m in worse shape than I thought I was.

I either need to abandon my car right now and run the other way, or … where is Kyle’s mother, for God’s sake?!

I can’t consider leaving the car because if I stand up, I will pee my pants. I have to hide. I’m in the park lane, so it won’t seem odd that the car’s empty when they get here.

I quickly slide my seat back as far as it will go. I adjust the cruise control so the wheel sticks out to the max. Then I slip into the little cavity under the dashboard. It’s not as easy as it sounds. As I lower myself to the floor, I swaddle myself with my arms, squeeze my toes under the brake pedal, and stick my head between my knees. They will never see me.

I could really use some oxygen, but my stomach has no room to inflate. Short breaths. I definitely won’t pee in this position. My bladder is somewhere under my armpit. There’s a frenzied tapping at the window. Shit.

“Caroline? Caroline! Is that
you?”
Jesus!
“
What are you
doing
down there? Caroline?
I can see you.” Shit.
Does she have to be so goddamn loud?
“
Girls, why is your mom
hiding
under the steering wheel?”

Girls??
Oh good
God
,
I thought they jumped out already.
Jeez …
they’re in the car? No
way
 … for God’s
sake. “Girls,”
I say in a loud whisper without turning my head, which I can’t do anyway, “
are you guys still here?!
”
Geez,
does Gabrielle have to announce to everyone in North America that I’m hiding from her? She’s making a
spectacle
of herself, and she’s embarrassing the girls. Moving in millimeter increments, I lift my head. Lilly and Tessa (who is red-faced) are waiting. I whisper, “I didn’t think you were still back there.”

“What are you doing down there? Are you really hiding from Mrs. Callis, Mom?” Lilly asks, half-smirking.

“You told us to wait while you looked for money for the bake sale. Remember, you said, ‘Let me pull over and get you some money.’”

“I thought you dropped money on the floor and crawled down there to get it,” Tessa adds.

“Mom, we’re late. The lines went in.”

“Uh … yes, uh, let me …” I try to move my head. At least Lilly has the good sense not to remind me that I forgot to
bake
something for the bake sale. “Okay, all right, will you—I … is she still standing there?”

“Yeah, Mom, she’s still there, and she looks sorta angry,” Tessa whispers.

I slowly unknot my body out of this ridiculous idea. “Just looking for my contact!”

“You wear contacts?” Gabrielle is still talking through the window. “Well, that’s a new one on me. How could you find it like that?”

I work myself back up on to the seat and go through my handbag to find some guilt money for the girls.

Lilly grabs onto the front seat from behind.

Tessa asks, “Mom, do you have my lunchbox up there—I don’t have it.”

“I don’t have mine, either.”

“Oh, jeez, did I not make your lunch?
God
 … okay, that’s all right, here’s some money.” I look in my wallet. “Buy something big. You can have dessert for lunch, and then tonight, you’ll have lunch for dinner … something like that …” I grab two bills. “Here—here’s some money. I don’t know what the big deal is. I used to have dessert all the time when I was a kid. Especially at school. And a lot of it.”

I turn to the girls who are facing each other in what looks like an eyeball-bulging contest. Then they see the money in my hand.

“Five dollars each!” they say in unison. They look at each other, and Lilly shrugs and says, “Works for me! You’re the best mommy in the world!”

Lilly gives me a hug and asks softly, “Do you wear contacts?”

“Not really,” I whisper.

“Oh, good one, Mom! Love you!”

I stretch my neck to give Tessa a kiss as she starts to back out of the car, then she closes the back door with gusto.

Gabrielle is still there.

She sticks her fingers into the slender window opening, then shifts her eyes at me, thinks better of it, and retrieves her fingers.

“
Caroline
,” Gabrielle taunts through the crack in the window, “I just discovered something
very
interesting, ya know …”

Mrs. Stanton is nowhere in sight. She must have gone inside once the bell rang.

“ … something
you
may want to know—”

My foot presses the gas pedal, and I pull away from the curb. Gabrielle lets out a screech that could wake the dead.

“Can’t chat, Gabrielle, I’m in a terrible hurry!” I yell back at her while keeping my eyes on the road ahead. I glance in the rear view mirror. She’s waving her arms frantically.

“
Are you crazy, Caroline?! I was leaning on your car!!
Caroline, did you hear me?! I have something to tell you!”

After I return home, I sit in the kitchen and stare at the clock above the stove. The morning moves like a boulder. I figure I should just start driving to Dr. Sullivan’s office since I can’t bear waiting.

No other patients will be there because he’ll be coming from an outside appointment. Sullivan’s receptionist has the day off to attend a funeral. I was instructed to ring the bell.

When I arrive, there’s a yellow sticky note stuck to the door.

“C.S.: I’m on an important phone call. I’ll be off soon. I’ll come get you when I’m finished. I hope you don’t mind waiting in your car. Thank you for your patience. F.S.”

After about fifteen minutes, the office door opens and he hurries out to greet me. He’s flustered. He’s walking and talking faster than last time. He doesn’t look me in the eye even once.

He hastens back to his office and jumps right in before we even sit down. As much as I admire his waste-no-time approach, I’m slightly put off by his abruptness. The honeymoon doesn’t last very long around here. It wouldn’t hurt him to throw me a “How ya doin’?” or “Nice shoes,” or something.

“Caroline, after our last session, I took some time to review old notes and transcripts, and I’ve chosen a few that I think will be helpful to you in piecing together the past. If at any time it becomes overwhelming or disturbing for you to listen to the tapes and you wish me to stop them, you must let me know, otherwise I’ll let them play. It’s sometimes through an episode of heightened emotion, as tumultuous as it may be, that you arrive at crucial realizations. I think you know now, after your last visit, that this isn’t going to be easy. Remember, we don’t need to listen to these old tapes at all. There are other ways that we can proceed with your therapy.”