The Memory Box (2 page)

I think about my measly three Google hits and can’t help but feel slightly inferior, and I can’t believe I’m letting their adolescent behavior get the best of me.

Meg and I don’t say a word until we’re well past them.

Once we’re down the hill, Meg says, “Were they talking about that au pair again?” She shakes her head, “as if it isn’t painful enough without their … going at it, like some—I don’t know …” It’s clear that Meg didn’t hear them, but she knew their noses were stuck in the wrong place.

Out of nowhere, my sister flashes through my mind. It’s not the first time Meg has reminded me of JD. She’d say something like that. Both of them have an ability to soar above the clothesline of others’ dirty laundry. They rarely engage in it. With JD living so far away, I’m lucky to have Meg to keep me grounded.

Since moving here nearly six years ago, making friends has brought along a certain amount of self-examination. It’s like being a teenager all over again. No matter one’s age, it’s important to feel part of something. To feel like you belong. But the balancing act inevitably becomes how much of yourself are you willing to compromise in order to be part of a community? Which, in this case, is the very specific subculture of stay-at-home moms.

I’m in Meg’s camp as far as choosing not to engage in dagger throwing with the likes of Gabrielle and Bern. It’s one thing I will not conform to as an at-home mom who has put her career as a journalist and future novelist on hold to raise a family in the suburbs.

Apart from being a dagger thrower, Gabrielle is famous for talking about dinners she’s had with “the Lesters” or “the Ferrneggis,” or how, at her beach house, she’s entertaining “the Pinnochets” or some such family with whom she’s “
very
close.” And somewhere after “we just got back from Vail with the Robsons,” she’ll stop midstream and say, “You do know the Robsons, don’t you?”

I have no desire to wear my friends like charms on a bracelet. I have dear friends. We’re
very
close, too.

I wave good-bye to Meg, who has crossed the street to her car. “No worries about the cake. I picked it up already. It’s
huge
—you better take some home!”

The girls and I hop in the car and drive into town to buy a birthday present for Delia.

“Hey, how was school?” I ask, as we stop at the corner for the crossing guard to sweep the streets clean of school children.

“Great,” says Lilly.

“Great,” says Tessa.

“Great.” Who can argue with that?

“The car smells disgusting,” says Lilly. “Smells like puke.”

“That’s gross, Lilly,” says Tessa.

“Well, it does. I’m just tellin’ it the way I’m smellin’ it.” Lilly clothespins her nose with her fingers.

“Smarty had a little accident this morning,” I interject. “But it’s all gone now, and I sprayed it with Lysol.”

“Smarty pooped back here!” Lilly shrinks back in her seat, hoists her legs up, and draws her knees to her chin.

“No, he didn’t poop. He threw up on the floor.”

“Yuck. Did you have to tell us that?”

“Well, sorry, you thought he pooped. Anyway, he caught a chipmunk, and I guess he swallowed it because when I found it, it was kind of very disgusting. Pretty gross actually.”

“Mom! Eww!”

“Hey, go easy on me. I’ve had a tough morning. I couldn’t just leave it there for Daddy to clean up.”

“Did Smarty find it in the basement?” Tessa asks.

“Well … I don’t know. Maybe, because when I walked him this morning, he was on a leash.”

“Ha! Daddy was right!” Tessa exclaims. “Smarty knew something was down there! See Mom, Smarty
is
a dog detective. You have to let Daddy get him a job at the police department.”

“Daddy’s not serious. Anyway, I don’t
think
he is. He can’t possibly believe the police would hire a thirteen-pound Westie to be a search dog. Why don’t we keep Sherlock Holmes to ourselves? Maybe you can train him to find stuff when we lose it. Like Daddy’s car keys, Daddy’s cell phone, Daddy’s wallet …”

“I’m gonna tell Daddy you said that!” Tessa playfully slaps the back of my seat.

Once we finish in town, the girls pack for the sleepover, and we head to Meg’s house, picking up another friend on the way.

After dropping everyone at Meg’s, I head home, stopping first to pick up some Chinese food for a quick bite before my class. I pack a tote bag with a notebook and pens, a bottle of water, and a fresh copy of a chapter I’m working on. My Novel Writing class at Drewer University starts at seven. By the time I get home, I barely have the energy to undress before I flop on my bed and fall asleep.

The next morning, despite it being Saturday, I resist the urge to hide under my comforter so I can instead be somewhat productive before I pick up the girls. A printout of today’s schedule is on my nightstand. I swipe it and head to the shower.

The smell of brewed coffee meets me halfway down the stairs. The closest I’m ever going to get to someone waiting on me is my programmable coffeemaker. And the doggy door. I grab a mug from the cabinet and take my coffee and yogurt to the den to work on some writing.

The house is quiet. It’s just me and Smarty Pants. The only sound comes from Smarty chewing his toy mouse under the wing chair in the corner of the den. A wet rubber sound, a gummy-saliva squeak. Though I often crave quiet, this is not the welcomed kind—like a snowstorm that shuts the world down. Instead, it’s an empty, hollow quiet. A lonely, I-miss-my-family quiet.

I turn on the computer, and it hums softly. It fills the empty air and comforts me. My right calf is pressed against the side of the CPU, which subtly vibrates. Smarty moseys over and snuggles up to my left foot, using it as a pillow for his head.

Through the den window, above the mounds of pink rose bushes, the morning sun is cowering behind clouds. Every so often it slowly bobs and weaves, in and out, but seems ultimately reluctant to reveal itself. The world is still. Or at least Brightwood Road is. No one is racing to work. No dogs are being walked. Nor are there any joggers jogging by. No sign of even a single grey squirrel scampering across any of the verdant lawns. All of the pristine center-hall colonials line up like toy soldiers, their American flags saluting at attention. The street looks like a vacant movie set.

There are a bunch of new emails to read. I check them first before I start to write. Chief among them is one from Andy. His arrival time tomorrow has changed to noon. After a quick glance at today’s news headlines, I open the document with my work in progress.

I stare at the screen without really seeing anything. My mind keeps wandering. Bits of yesterday’s conversation between Gabrielle and Bern float through my mind. It was a stupid conversation between senseless, gossipy moms, and I’m angry that it’s getting in the way of my focus. It’s taking up too much space in my brain. If only I could type a few words, that might get me going. Time’s ticking; I don’t have all day. I need to pick up the girls at ten.

The wooden desk chair is short on comfort, and while I ponder whether a more comfortable chair will increase productivity, I squirm to unstick myself from my body’s right angles. I’m an independent thinker, I remind myself. Just because I’m a stay-at-home mom doesn’t mean I fill my days with vacuous activities, like
other
people.

My attention grows fickle. It’s no longer on the screen at all. My eyes meander around the desk and stop on a framed photo of Andy and me at the beach, taken when we were dating, when I was still Caroline Spencer. Both of us are tanned a golden brown, the color of Andy’s eyes, and I’m wearing a rather skimpy bathing suit, which I hold onto just in case my body ever looks like that again. As I stare at this photo, it occurs to me that the people in this town don’t know my maiden name. Do they? When we moved here, I had already changed my name to
Thompson
. They would never Google
Caroline Spencer
. I don’t even think Meg knows my maiden name.

I quickly type
Caroline G. Spencer
into the Google search box. A visceral sense of promise gushes through me. Maybe I’m a somebody after all.

Smarty’s now in the kitchen, nudging his metal bowl across the tile floor—dog speak for “I’m hungry.” My mind strays to think about when I last filled the bowl while my finger clicks “search.”

A tsunami of “Caroline G. Spencers” cascades before my eyes. I blink and cock my head. Come on! My heart giggles. I click page two, then page three, then page four. “Yes!” Fist pump in the air. If only they could see me
now
. The Caroline Spencers don’t stop. Is this juvenile? Am I acting like a teenager who’s counting Prom Queen votes? No. Worse. I’m acting like a catty, immature gossipmonger mom. I gloat for another minute. It’s not like I’m going to count them and brag to everyone at school on Monday. I’m just having a private me-moment of reassurance, that I too have been interesting. So
there.

Before my head swells any more, I should verify that these “Caroline Spencers” are me. But I can’t, nor do I want to, spend all day on this. I check the egg timer. Good, only a seventeen-minute diversion. My eyes sweep over the page. Midway down the screen, it’s my sister’s name, directly beneath mine, that catches my eye.

Jane Dory Spencer deceased at age 28 Lanstonville Press, April 21, 2000. She is survived by….

www.lanstonvillepress.com/.../jane-dory-spencer-deceased...

What?

What is this?

I blink hard, once—twice—the third time pausing with my eyes squeezed closed to the count of five before I open them. I read again.

This can’t be. This isn’t my sister. My heart leaps up in my chest and goes cold. With flurries. Like it’s a snow globe with a wind chill factor. Saliva floods my mouth. I try to gulp it down, hoping it’ll push my heart back into place. I can’t be reading what I’m reading. I let out a barking laugh to cut through my nerves. This is not
true,
of course.
I just
spoke
to my sister. When was that? I struggle to remember. It seems like it was just … I don’t know exactly. For some reason, I can’t pinpoint it. But my sister is not
dead
. That’s for certain. She didn’t
die.
Oh my God, is this some kind of sick joke? Could someone have done this? People can’t
plant
a Google,
can they?

I convince myself to settle down. Take it easy. This must be
another
Jane Dory Spencer. Someone else’s obituary. I can’t wait to tell JD that I found another Jane Dory. She’s gonna laugh her butt off over that—she’s always hated her name. Hence the acronym. Oh, she’s gonna love this!

I inhale with every muscle of my body, and the oxygen blow to my brain makes my head spin.

I sit in a half-lotus, back in the chair, arch my back for strength, and click on the excerpt to read more:

Jane Dory Spencer, 28

Jane Dory Spencer 28, known as JD, a lifelong resident of Lanstonville, Pennsylvania, died on Friday, April 21, at Danielston Hospital in Danielston, Pennsylvania.

Ms. Spencer received her undergraduate degree in Women’s Studies at Barton College and a law degree from Stanton University in Hammond, New York. She most recently worked as a law clerk for the Clarkston County Courthouse. She is survived by her mother and father, Elaine and Wally Spencer …

As I read my parents’ names I become dizzy; small, white, slow-moving spots are now blocking my view of the computer screen. I press my eyes shut to get rid of the spots.

… sister, Caroline Grace Spencer …

Oh my God, that’s me.

CHAPTER TWO

Saturday, September 23, 2006, 10:12 a.m.

T
his time when I gasp, the air slashes my throat. I can’t bear to read more, but I need to find the date of the obituary. My mind speeds in circles. I have to zero in. And forge an explanation. Any explanation. I think about those horrible hidden-camera game shows that I forbid the girls to watch because they’re so mean-spirited—I wonder if those stupid school moms would ever do something so violating and evil. I look for the date of the article. I try to find the scroll key, but I can’t. My fitful pecking is fruitless.
Shit
. I can’t see the arrow key through the swarm of floating spots.

Finally. At the top of the page: “
April 23, 2000
.”

What’s
today’s
date?

I reach for my desk calendar. I always keep my desk calendar right next to my mouse pad. But it’s not here. It’s
never
not here. I search my desk. On the right, the tissue box is perfectly parallel with my note pad. On the left, the lamp aligns with a stack of computer paper and a small cup of pencils (points up). Next to the tissue box is the egg timer. Everything’s in its place.
Except for my calendar
. I thrust myself against the desk so hard that the wheels of my office chair hurl me backward, close to the door of the den where I leap up and spring toward the hallway.

“
April 23, 2000, April 23, 2000, April 23, 2000,”
becomes my chant, to remember it long enough to find yesterday’s paper.

This is crazy—
beyond
crazy—like someone has kidnapped and drugged me. And
—and
—plopped me into a
cryogenics experiment.
How can this be? I’ve completely lost sense of the day—the
year?

Not to mention—if this is true—
tragic
life events
.

I rush from room to room, panicked, like a mom who’s lost her toddler at the mall, tackling anything in my way. Poor Smarty, I trip over him twice, yet he continues to follow me underfoot with mirrored anxiety. He knows something’s wrong. He always knows when something’s up. Smarty has this sense. I don’t know what to call it. He just senses stuff. He knows
me.
I’m getting crazy now. What am I talking about? I’m not in my right mind.

The sound of Smarty’s nails on the wood floor is like the clicking keys of an old typewriter, a repeating staccato, a rhythm, a pulse. I can’t stand it. It’s creepy. But it’s just Smarty. It’s as if he’s typing a note I don’t want to read. He’s right behind me, following. Or is he pushing? Crazy again.

I race around the corner of the den into the kitchen, and my left heel hydroplanes across a slick of oil. I skid with arms outstretched until I stub my small toe on the iron leg of a kitchen stool. My body jerks sideways from the shocking tremor that soars up my leg, causing my cheek to smack against the iron cut-out monkeys that line the back of the stool. My face singes from the contact. My body buckles. Determined not to lose ground, I clamber to my feet.

“April 23, 2000.” The chant grows stronger and louder as if it’s possible to ward off the unspeakable if the mantra is not broken. I have no idea what today’s date is. Or the year. My memory is paralyzed. “Where’s my goddamned calendar?!”

Finally, on the bathroom floor, sits last week’s
Sports Illustrated
. I collapse on the cold, hard tile and snatch it.

September, 2006.

Not until I hear the doorbell do I realize Smarty is licking my face and I’m lying on the bathroom floor. The sound bellows through the house again and again like a blow horn.

Who would ring the doorbell like that? It’s insane. Paranoid that it’s the police with horrific news, I peel myself off the bathroom floor, but misjudge the space and smack my forehead against the corner of the sink.

Voilá, the Macy’s Fourth of July Fireworks Spectacular.

I wobble out of the bathroom and fumble for the closest wall to support me, down the foyer to the front door to kill the person on the other side of it. From the hall mirror, I catch a glimpse of myself. There’s a bruise on my cheek in the shape of what appears to be a small monkey, the color of freshly burst blood vessels, a dark reddish-purple with a faint skinny monkey tail curving alongside my hairline. God, I’m a freak. The room spins. I steady myself on the cool brass of the doorknob just before opening it.

“Electrolux, ma’am. How are you today?”

Electrolux? Is he shitting me? He was doing Morse code on the bell like a soldier with Tourette’s. The only people excused for ringing like that are cops and trick-or-treaters. Or a kid who has to pee.

His cell phone rings. He mouths “sorry” while he answers it. I’m in no mood for the vacuum man. Plus, he was just here, practically. Like four weeks ago. Who vacuums that much? I’m nauseous, and my head is splitting. Unease and confusion move through me like morning sickness. Looking at this guy makes me feel worse. Does he always look like this? He’s wearing wrinkled grey. Pants, shirt, even his skin is lacking any discernible color. “Electrolux” is embroidered onto his right breast pocket, like he sewed it himself in the dark. His hair is pasted to his head—oil concealing its true color—though at this point I’d speculate grey.

Who am I to criticize?

He finishes his call and looks back at me tentatively. He starts his spiel, “Do … you … uh, need … some … bags, or
help
with anything?” He stutters and keeps staring at my cheek. “Uh, would you like me to call … somebody. A
doctor
?” His eyes zip back and forth as he sneaks glimpses of my cheek and my forehead while he repeatedly pats down the back of his hair.

Something warm slowly trickles over my eyebrow.

“No … not today.” Vacuuming is the last thing on my mind.

“Uh, okay … I gotta go.” He jerks backward down the steps.

I step back to close the door, then see him stop on the brick path to pick something up. He turns and hands me something. It’s today’s paper.

My eyes find the upper right hand corner where the date is printed.

September 23, 2006.

A sick feeling slides from my eyes to my throat and settles in my stomach.

Visions of the obituary sneak back to my consciousness like a whiff of something rotten. How could my sister be—? There’s no way.

Just inside the house, an idea hits me.

I hurry back to the kitchen; Smarty chases behind.

My anxious finger presses the “Message” button on the dark grey box that listens to people when we can’t. The automated voice starts, “You have two old messages in your mailbox.”

“First message:”

“Hi, honey. I just got here.” The minute I hear Andy’s honey-roasted voice, my heart inflates. “I’m calling on the hotel phone because I think I lost my cell phone.”

This would be the third time he’s lost his phone this year. I can imagine him furrowing his brow as he talks into the phone, thinking he should be bummed out about losing it again. But down deep he isn’t because “it’s just a phone!” He often feels bad for not feeling bad. So he pouts to conjure self-condemnation.

“Why aren’t you home!” I yell at the answering machine, and my eyes begin to mist. I wouldn’t be so vulnerable if he were home. I don’t like feeling this way. It’s not me.

What am I thinking? How exactly would this be better with Andy home? Would I really tell him JD’s dead and has been for six years? And that I thought we spoke recently? No way. I need to sort this out first. My fingers fumble to find the stop button on the answering machine. He’s getting to the part when he tells me he loves me. I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want any reminders of how great my life is. Was. Until this morning. Why don’t we realize things are pretty damn good until they aren’t?

There has to be a message on here from JD. I press the button again.

“Next message:”

“Oh hi, Mrs. Thompson. It’s Rachel. I can’t babysit on Thursday, the twenty-eighth, ’cause I have band practice. Sorry.” Crap. “But I can do October eighteenth. Okay? Okay, ’bye.”

Click. “Message erased. There are no more messages.”

No messages from JD. That doesn’t prove anything.

I’ll just call her. Jeez, how long was it gonna take for me to come up with that?

Her number comes to me immediately. Like I dialed it an hour ago. My hands are trembling so badly that once I dial, I rest the phone in the crook of my neck and shove my hands in the back waistband of my pajamas. Why am I so nervous? She’ll answer, and this charade will be over.

“Hello.”

“Janie!!” I jerk my head up, and the phone slips. I grab it just in time.

“No. This isn’t Janie. Who’s this?” says a guy.

“It’s Caroline. Is, um, JD there?” My voice cracks.

“No. There’s no JD here. What number are you looking for?”

I rattle it off, and he tells me it’s the right number. My voice is shaking. “How long have you had this number?” I ask him, my teeth knocking against each other.

“About four years. Who are you looking for?”

“Uh, uh, my sister … JD Spencer. I know it sounds crazy … but, we’re a little out of touch, um, I’m trying to track her down… . Do you know her?” My voice hiccups, and my eyes leak.

“Sorry.”

I put the phone back, and it rings. I jump like a canned snake.

“
JD???
” A tear slides down my cheek.

“Hi, Caroline—no, it’s Meg. Are you expecting a call?”

“Meg? Oh my God,
Meg. What time is it
?” The oven clock says ten-thirty. “I’m
so
sorry, is everything all right? Oh gosh, I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I was just going to ask you the same—only because you’re never late. Hey, I feel like a jerk calling you, but I have to bring my kids to the dentist in fifteen minutes, and I’d drop Tessa and Lilly, but I can’t fit them in my car.”

“You should’ve called me sooner. I’m screwing up your whole morning.” I barrel through the house looking for my car keys, trying not to pant into the phone. “If it wasn’t for the vacuum guy …” In the mudroom I slide into flip flops. “Did everyone have fun?” I squeeze out a light, happy voice. It sounds breathless and psycho.

“Uh, yes and no. Or no and yes. Two left last night and one left at two in the morning. She had a nightmare, and I found her roaming around the house, crying. Poor thing. I hate sleepovers. You’ll be happy to know your two fell asleep first.”

“Oh, good. Listen, I’ll be right there.”

I hang up the phone. Smarty is sitting in front of me, his ears pointing to the moon. I can’t go to Meg’s in my current physical state, especially considering that I’m still in pajamas. There’ll be questions. I could tell them I slipped on a lubed-up piece of broccoli swimming in a puddle of oil and went flying into the kitchen stool, but that sounds ridiculous. Who’d believe that? Wouldn’t slipping on a piece of broccoli mean I was running for my life through my kitchen? Why would I be sprinting through my kitchen? Because I was freaked out of my mind, that’s why! I’m an open book, for Pete’s sake. I don’t own a poker face. I own a scared-shitless face, an I-ate-the-last-granola-bar face, an I-got-a-scratch-on-the-new-car face, and an I-know-something-I-can’t-tell-you face. Which means I shouldn’t face anyone. I strain to think. I need something short and sweet. Short and sweet and neat. Not something that will prompt questions. Meg will want to fuss over me and be hyper-concerned, especially since Andy’s in London. My friends are like a SWAT team when Andy’s on a business trip. In a flash, they emerge from the nooks and crannies of their own lives to swoop in and help me. Meg will ask if Andy knows. If I’ve seen a doctor. If I passed out. And I’ll just lose it. And I just can’t. Where would that get me? With the morning I’ve had, probably the psych ward of Mountainview General. I can’t even think about Andy getting
that
call. Thank goodness Meg has a dentist appointment. She won’t have time for me.

I arrive at Meg’s house with a large Band-Aid stuck to a swollen forehead and a good slathering of foundation that fails to conceal the monkey. I look like a battered old lady. Thank God I have my teeth. A stately Dutch Colonial stands before me in a medium shade of putty, with a black lacquered door on which hangs a pineapple doorknocker in weathered verdigris. I’m embarrassed by its composure. I pick up my shoulders, smooth down my shirt, and ring the doorbell. Then I slip my hands in my back pockets to settle them.

“Oh, hi, Caroline. That was fast…” Meg barely turns to look at me because she’s on the phone. She motions with her head for me to come in, then whips back around, her eyes bulging. “
Caroline … what happened to you?”
The hand with the phone drops to her side.
“Are you okay
? Oh my God, what …
look
at you.” She puts the phone back to her ear and says, “I gotta go. Call you back,” then squints her eyes and peers back at me. “What happened?”

I finger my hair and mess it up so it falls on my face. I cup my chin in one hand and cross the other arm along my chest to support my elbow. “I fell, but it’s okay. It looks worse than it is. I’m fine, really. Really, I am.” My eyes find the floor. I become woozy. Then I inch my head up to look for Tessa and Lilly. I’ve got to get out of here.

“
Fine?
Caroline, my God … look at you.”

I can tell this is not gonna be easy, and my emotions squirm and wrestle.
Let go, and tell her everything
is in a headlock with
Beg her for help
at the hands of
Shut up and get the hell out of here.

I practically vomit my explanation. “I slipped in the kitchen. There was food on the floor from dinner last night—Chinese—I ordered it steamed, but they put oil on it! Anyway, I slid and smacked into the stool by the island.”

What should I have said? It was the truth. I was relieved not to lie. It’s always the truth that sounds made-up. Which would explain the look on her face.

“What?!”

Meg puts her hands on her hips but says nothing. She tilts her head and gapes at my bruise. It must occur to her that her mouth is hanging open because she shuts it emphatically. In her silence, I call out for the girls, who are in the kitchen past the archway.