The Memory Box (20 page)

But the front door is unlocked. Before I open the door, I stop. His car is in the garage. He always parks it in the garage after he gets it washed. I open the door halfway … slowly. I extend one foot over the threshold with contrived calm, keeping my hand on the door knob. I crane my neck around the door. Lilly’s backpack is in the foyer next to the bench. There’s the smell of something cooking. But the house is strangely still.

I hold the door against my body for protection like a shield, not knowing whether to stay or go.
And never come back.
I don’t want to live like this anymore. I despise this. I want it to stop. I want it to go away. But I don’t know how. My cell phone rings. Tears percolate from the back room of my eyes. Traces of feigned bravado disintegrate. I quickly answer before anyone in the house hears the phone and knows I’m home. In case I decide to bail.

“Hello,” I whisper, moving back outside, pulling the door almost closed.

“Caroline, is that you? It’s Andy, can you hear me? I gotta ask you something.”

“Yes.” I stand on the welcome mat and stutter, “Where are you? Are you home?” Something trickles down my leg.

“We have a bad connection, where are you?”

“I’m … I … I can’t hear you.
Are you home?
Where are the girls?”

“We’re at the diner.”

I slump down onto the brick stairs, and tears barrel silently down my cheeks. “Did you go … straight from the theater?”

“What?”

“I said, did you go there right from the theater? Or did you stop home first?” My heart waits for an answer.

“Well, the girls were really hungry, so we stopped here first.”

A squall of hot air rushes from my mouth.

“Shoot. I should’ve called you to join us. Listen, they already got their burgers. For some bizarre reason, things have been moving really fast here. Go figure. Anyway, I called to see if you want something. You want a veggie burger or something?”

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
I stink of body odor. My shirt is stuck to me.
I pinch my shirt away from my underarms.

“Caroline? Honey?”

I use the cuff of my sleeve to mop my cheeks and under my chin.

“Are you still there? Caroline … ?”

Once I’m in the house, I lock the door behind me. The deadbolt and the chain. They’ll need to ring.

The article about Timothy is still on the screen for all the world to see.
A
cold front blows through my body like a nor’easter, leaving me shivering in my clothes.

Timothy Byron Hayes III was sentenced yesterday to 25 years to life for first-degree murder. He was convicted of murdering Jane Dory Spencer, 28, in what first appeared to be a suicide but was later determined to be arsenic poisoning. He will be eligible for parole in 18 years.

I see the words. I string them together one at a time in the order they were written. “Murder” and “convicted” and “killed” and “arsenic.” And all the other words flanking them, turning them into unfathomable statements. But my brain is frozen. It’s a block of ice. Nothing’s getting in. Or understood. My entire body is immobile. I sit staring at the screen.

The girls are calling, “Mommy! Mom? Mommy?” I jump from the chair and perch myself at the edge of the desk, clutching my handbag, shielding the screen. How did they get in? The back door is visible from my desk. I would have seen them. I call back.

“
Yes?
”

Silence. No one.

“
Girls?
” I stammer.

Nothing. I ease back down; my handbag’s in my lap.

“
Caroline—
” Now it’s Andy. I spring from the chair and stand with hands on hips—my back concealing the screen—my handbag falls to the floor.

“Yes, Andy? Is that you?” My voice cracks.

No answer. No voices, only the sounds of the house. The gurgling of the fish tank. The deep, intermittent gong of the wind chime on the back deck as it sways in a listless breeze. The almost imperceptible breathing coming from the CPU under the desk. I look down at it with disdain. I hate that fucking thing. I hate it. I kick it violently. “
I fucking hate you! You
piece of ignorant shit.
” It immediately wails—a guttural groan. I drop to the floor and throw my arms around it, pressing my cheek up to the textured metal panel. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please,
please
don’t die, I need you, I … need … I have no one … I’m … sorry …” I grovel at this insulting, abusive, taunting, spineless fucking box. Its partner in crime, my other abductor, sits on the desk telling me everything—with its unabashed open face, it holds nothing back. It doesn’t care how fragile I am, how lonely I feel, how desperate I’ve become.

It’s Andy again, closer this time, “Caroline?” Then laughter.

“
Andy!”
I bellow at the house; I’m shriveled up under the desk. “Where are you? Stop playing with me!
”

Only my echo returns. Then, silence. I sit back down in the chair. There’s a reflection of my hands in the screen. They’re hovering over the keyboard, trembling like a junkie in detox.

The cell phone rings in my handbag.

“Hello,” ekes out of me. I hear Dr. Sullivan’s voice, and I slump over and sob.

“
Is this what a nervous breakdown looks like?
Huh, doctor?”
I beg him for answers without stopping to hear them. “
Tell me, is this what it looks like? Or is it worse, what I have, am I … crazy … ?”
I can’t hear a word he says. He could have confirmed either one or both. Perhaps offered another diagnosis, more gruesome. I can’t calm myself down. I want it to be over. I finally want it to be over.

“
Caroline—
” His voice breaks through. “Listen to me, you need to calm down—so I can talk to you. Can you hear me, Caroline?”

I knew JD didn’t commit suicide. I knew she couldn’t have done that. There was no way she’d kill herself and leave her daughter alone. Not JD. She was … centered and responsible … and happy. She felt right in her own skin. Peer pressure didn’t exist for her. Not even in high school when the girls wore Gloria Vanderbilt jeans—she’d go to the thrift store to buy something old that no one had ever heard of. She never worried about what the other girls thought of her. She was never even curious. She’d look right through all those pretentious girls. Above them. Being admired never mattered to JD. And so the irony was that she was admired more than anyone. We were all dying to be that comfortable with ourselves. She never knew it, and she never needed to.

“Caroline? Are you still there?
Caroline?
Tell me what’s going on. What are you doing right now?”

Timothy killed her because she was the only one who knew he mowed down Lilly, nearly killing her. No one thought Lilly would pull through. So he had to get rid of JD before that happened. Before she told anyone.

“
Caroline, are you there
? Please talk to me, what are you doing right now? Where are you?”

I can’t believe she didn’t blow the whistle on that bastard. This was her chance to cut him down. He gave her half a million dollars to keep her mouth shut.

“Caroline—”

“
Yes
.”

“Where are you?”

“I know about JD …”

“You do?”

“Yes. I … know … what
really
happened …”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Saturday, September 30, 2006, 1:16 p.m.

I
have no choice. I don’t wrestle with the decision. I don’t contemplate or deliberate. Or even think about it, really. I just get in the car and drive to Dr. Sullivan’s at his urging. What’s there to think about? It’s not like anyone needs me around here. For what? To help the girls sell Girl Scout cookies? Or make lunch? Or buy them new bathing suits? I don’t think so. Andy can take the girls to sell popcorn or wrapping paper or the crap du jour to raise money for whatever group of grubby hands it is this week. He can drive Smarty to the groomer—or let his hair grow. I don’t care. They can order takeout. He can take the girls to swim practice or horseback riding or that kid’s birthday party at that pottery place. If that party is today. If any of that’s today. Screw the schedule. Was my mental breakdown on the schedule?

My family doesn’t need me. All these years, what the hell have I been doing? Anyone can make turkey sandwiches.

When I arrive at Sullivan’s, there are two empty parking spaces that flank each side of the office door. Dr. Sullivan is waiting outside, wearing a baseball cap and sitting on one of those cheap folding chairs with nylon webbing woven around an aluminum frame. I remember this kind of chair from my childhood. Our neighbor, Mrs. Gemelli, had parents, older Italian folks, who visited, and they’d sit on her front lawn in those same chairs. Same color, even, except for where a new nylon strip was used to repair an old, worn-out piece of webbing. Every time they’d visit their daughter, they’d pull those beat-up chairs out of the trunk of their car. It didn’t matter that their daughter had nice wooden lawn chairs with striped cushions for them to sit on. They brought their own. I once heard them argue about the chairs. Mrs. Gemelli said, “Why do you bring those ratty chairs here, all the way from home. I have nice chairs. New chairs. You have to bring those every time and embarrass me? Why do you do that?” Then her mother would yell something back in Italian, waving her arms around like an octopus; she’d sometimes rip off the apron she’d have tied around her thick waist and throw it on the ground, and the father would just sit in his green chair and read
Il Giorno
, and Mrs. Gemelli would storm into the house.

I imagine Sullivan taking this chair off his boat once the summer fishing season has ended and bringing it to his office.

I take the parking spot to his left, and he puts down the newspaper. It’s folded in half and half again so he can peer over it or to the side. There’s a can of Dr. Pepper on the ground next to his foot.

He stands slowly and waits for me there. When I approach, he looks curiously at my feet, so I do, too. I’m not wearing shoes. I turn back to the car and hope I have a pair in there. They’re on the passenger-side floor. I slip them on. He holds out his hand as if to touch my arm, then changes his mind. He regards me closely. To get a read. His eyes are heavy and tired. His cheeks seem ruddier than usual, giving him a clown-like appearance compared to the paleness of the rest of his skin.

“I’m glad you came. Caroline. I’m very glad.” He motions for me to walk ahead of him through the open door.

On the way to his desk chair, he stops at the credenza and bends over, peering into the lower cabinet.

“Would you like some water?” he asks without looking at me.

When he hands me the bottle, I gulp half of it and place it on the table beside me, keeping it in my grasp. An anchor for my hand.

“I’d like to talk about yesterday, Caroline.” He stands behind his desk. “First let me please express my sincere apologies, once again, for leaving at such a critical time for you. I’m sorry it happened that way, and I appreciate your understanding.”

For the first time since yesterday, I think about his other patient.

“Now then, there was a lot of information there—from the tape. Let’s talk about that.” He sits in his chair, and it sighs. “Did you know about Lilly’s accident, or going to JD’s and hearing her phone messages?” He uses his pudgy hand to sweep away the hair from his eyes.

“No.”

He looks at me with concern. “How has Lilly been developing, physically? Have there been any health-related repercussions for her? Has she had any setbacks from the injuries she sustained?”

I pause to think about this. It’s still hard for me to think about the little girl in the tapes getting hit by the car and belonging to JD as my Lilly. It occurs to me now that these tapes are a prequel to my life as I know it. “No, thank God, she’s been good.” I’m relieved to realize things could be a lot worse.

“That’s great. That’s really great to hear. She’s very lucky. Well, then, let’s talk about the day you went to JD’s and heard the message from Timothy. Did you know about their communication?”

I shake my head without looking up.

“Let’s step back. Tell me about Timothy … and your relationship with him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Anything you can remember.”

If he had asked me that a week ago, it would’ve been a different story. But in the last seven days, any memories of Timothy have been wrapped in barbed wire. Getting to the Timothy I knew will take more than a pair of shears.

“It’s hard to say, now. Maybe I never knew him. Anything I remember of our time together, well, it—he—doesn’t seem like the same person. So, I can tell you what I thought of him, what I remember of him, but it may be the thoughts of a deluded schoolgirl.”

“That’s okay. Your relationship with him was real. Tell me about that.”

“Well, I remember thinking we were a lot alike. We were drawn to each other from the start—the first weekend of my freshman year. We fell in love and stayed together almost till the end.” I say this without thinking.

“End of what?”

“College. He proposed to me during the summer before our junior year. I couldn’t imagine being happier than when I was with him. We made plans for the future—lots of plans. Our honeymoon was going to be in Greece; we planned to live in Greenwich, Connecticut, have five children—we even named them.” I stop and think about how easily these memories come to me. It’s like unpacking an old box of Christmas ornaments that got lost in the attic. Things I haven’t seen or thought about in years, but as I unwrap them from their tissue paper, I remember each one with a flood of emotion.

“What did you study in college?”

“I was an English major, Timothy, poly-sci. He had plans to go to law school and follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and work at the family firm in New York. He even spoke about public office someday. I remember the apartment Mr. Hayes bought for Timothy after we announced our engagement.” Again, a surge of euphoria. “I was thrilled to get out of my dumpy apartment. I shared it with two girls. It cost me two-hundred dollars a month, and it was all I could afford. My mother didn’t even argue with me when I moved in with Timothy. She was happy to see me out of that apartment. She was excited about the engagement.

“It was all too good to be true.

“I remember the day I realized I was the girl who’d hooked Timothy Byron Hayes. That didn’t stop the other girls from trying. He was handsome—and the way he dressed, not like a typical college kid, always in collared shirts and khakis. He was charming. He always knew the right thing to say. Ultimately though, his charm did one of two things: got him in, or out, of trouble.

“You said you were together for over three years. So your relationship ended before graduation?”

“Well, I … Yes. I didn’t graduate.”

“Oh, I see. Why was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Well, I, no, I didn’t remember—but I … recently found out.”

“How did you find out?”

“I read an old newspaper article online. I didn’t finish college because I had surgery at the end of my junior year.”

“I see.”

“It was a hysterectomy, I think.”

“Caroline, I’m very sorry to hear that. What do you mean, ‘you think’? Did you not remember the surgery?”

“No. I’ve been piecing things together. After I read the article, I had to see the doctor for my fall. She confirmed the hysterectomy.”

“Why a hysterectomy, were you sick?”

“I got pregnant. I was getting an abortion … when … well … the guy wasn’t a doctor. I almost died.”

“And Timothy, was he—?”

“Yes.”

“How did he handle all of this?”

“I don’t know exactly, except he found the guy for me, to do the abortion.”

“What happened after the surgery?”

“I don’t remember ever speaking to Timothy again. I moved back in with my parents. I didn’t finish school.”

“And Timothy?”

“I heard he went to law school.”

“That must’ve been very painful.” He looks at me and stops talking. And I stop talking. I just sit there with my half thoughts. Maneuvering the squares of a Rubik’s cube to see if colors will align.

“What did you do then, after you left school?”

I think about this before I answer. “I don’t know, exactly. I’m not sure what my condition was … emotionally. Or physically. I have a recollection of my parents arguing a lot. My mother wanted me to see a psychologist once I got back home, but my father thought I would “snap out of it” on my own. He’d say, “As soon as she meets a new boy, she’ll be fine. She just needs to get a job. They’re always looking for kids at the mall. She’ll meet a boy there.’ I don’t think he even knew what I studied in college. Or that I was the editor of my school newspaper and wrote articles for our town weekly. My mother would argue back, “She’s not going to work at the mall, she’s a smart girl.” I’ll never forget that. It was rare that my mother said anything complimentary about me. I guess I was surprised she noticed. That was the only time I felt some sort of admiration from her.”

“Were you in love with Timothy?”

“Yes.”

“But then you met Andy.” Sullivan smiles gently.

Just as he says Andy, my phone rings in my handbag on the floor. The nerves at the back of my neck buzz, sparking like firecrackers. I don’t look at the number or even the phone. I know it’s Andy. I completely forgot about them. I never left him a note or a message that I was going somewhere.

“Do you want to get that, Caroline?”

“No.” It rings a few more times, then stops. A moment later, a different sound indicates a message.

We sit for a minute in quiet. I can’t worry about them. They’re fine. I don’t have the wherewithal to worry about one person, let alone four. “You stopped the tape yesterday, before it was over.”

“Yes, I know. I have it cued up to where we left off. We can listen to that now unless there is anything else you’d like to talk about.”

“No.”

He opens the center drawer, first rolling back on his chair to clear his stomach out of the way, and reaches his hand in for the tape. He pops it into the recorder and presses play. I place both my hands on the arms of the chair and curl my fingers around the thick wood. Time for take-off.

Caroline:
Then Timothy said, “I don’t care if she looks like my clone, no one will ever believe you, anyway.” I thought the message was over, I thought he was hanging up the phone. There was a long pause, but he started talking again like he just remembered something. He said it under his breath, almost to himself, “How many guys can say they knocked up sisters—” Then he gasped. Like he caught himself saying out loud what he really meant to be thinking, because he started to freak—knowing this was on the machine. What a jackass. The dumb asshole tried to retract. He started panicking: “I mean, I didn’t mean—I didn’t say—JD, listen—you erase this message. Do you hear me? If you know what’s good for you
.
I don’t want to threaten you, JD.” Something like that. Then he told her to erase the message, to go buy something nice for herself, before he threatened her. “Don’t make me send someone to get the tape from you. I don’t want to hear from you again. Even if she dies.”

And that was it.

Clone?

Knocked up sisters?

What. The. Fuck?

The tape continues. Zizzing and zizzing. My voice. Dr. Sullivan’s voice. I can’t discern any of it. I’m obsessed with a feeling in my throat. It feels tight. Pulled and twisted, so tight there’s no channel for air, in or out. I can’t get air. Where are all the windows? There are no windows in this office. The door. From which did I come? There are three. Which goes to the hall? I snatch my handbag from the floor and launch clumsily out of my chair.

“Caroline—where are you going?” Sullivan is on his feet with his hands out to the side like a farmer trying to corner a pig. “Caroline, don’t go like this—we need to talk about it. That’s why you’re here, that’s why you came to see me—”

I finally spot the door and stumble to leave before he says another word. I can’t bear to hear him talk. His voice is now in stereo since the tape is still playing. Actually, three people are talking. Two of him and one of me. It’s like a freak house. His voice makes me sick. I grab at the doorknob and pull with all my strength, but the door doesn’t open. Pressure is building inside of me. Like I’m filling with steam—it’s hot and it’s heavy, pressing hard against me from within. My head can’t take the pressure, nor can my chest or my heart. I wring my fingers around the neck of the knob and strangle it with both hands—turning it and twisting it opposite directions. Nothing.

“
You locked the goddamned door?! Open this door! Open this fucking door now!”
I pound my fist against it.
“Open it!!”

“Caroline.” He inches his way from behind the desk toward me
.

“You knew the whole time, you fucking loser. You knew who Lilly’s father was! But you still had to ask me? ‘Did you love Timothy?! Tell me about your relationship with Timothy?!’”

“Caroline—you shouldn’t get in your car. You can’t leave here like this. You need to calm down. Why don’t you sit?”

“
You open this fucking door now before I—
” I’m about to threaten him with bodily harm as I give the door one more violent yank and fall through the other side. He comes after me, but I shuffle to my feet, get through the next door, and make it to the car. My key remote beeps and obeys me by unlocking the door. I shift into reverse and back out of this memory lane for the insane for the last time.