The Memory Box (5 page)

My eyes are frozen open. The numb feeling a foot gets when it’s sat on for too long has taken over my entire body. I can’t speak, think, breathe, blink.
Abortion?!
It’s as if I’m reading about someone else, not me. But my name
is
Caroline Spencer. At least back then it was. I
did
go to Hammond University. I
had
a boyfriend named Timothy Hayes. I have no recollection of an abortion, for God’s sake.

I remember a girl named Hilary Baldwin. Everyone knew her. Hyster Hilary. That’s what they called her. Because of the hysterectomy. She was one of the Hyster Sisters. God, that’s awful. Who’d call someone a Hyster Sister? She needed a hysterectomy and was on bed rest forever. She had to transfer out of Hammond. Yes, I remember girls talking about her abortion. She went to some guy who wasn’t a doctor, and he screwed it up. Big time. She needed a hysterectomy because he butchered her. She wanted the hell out of Hammond.

What the hell was
I
doing there—getting an
abortion??
I wasn’t pregnant in school! I can’t seem to pull my gaze off the screen. It all feels like too much, too painful to recollect. But I can’t pull myself away, either, even though I’m desperate to. Now that I think about it, there was another Hyster Sister. Another girl needed a hysterectomy because of that same fake doctor. Asshole. The other Hyster Sister, I just can’t remember who that was.

I swallow hard. I
remember
parts of that. I do. So why don’t I remember it all?

I look down at my stomach and my hand is resting on it.
Pregnant?
Me. It’s just too much for me to process. It can’t be true.

Well,
I
couldn’t have had a hysterectomy. That’s not something you forget. You just don’t forget something like that. Not to mention, I have two daughters!

I unzip my pants and pull at the band of my underwear. Everything looks pretty normal down there. I exhale with relief. Nothing out of the ordinary. I pat my stomach and grab the zipper to pull it back up. Before I do, I take one more look. It’s the faintest thing. It’s probably nothing. But I think I see the subtlest pink line through my hair.
Subtle
. Except that it’s kind of long. About three inches. Maybe four. That’s if it’s a line at all.

I did not have a hysterectomy. It’s a no brainer. I have two beautiful daughters. Where did they come from? I didn’t steal them from someone at the mall.

One click of the mouse gets rid of the screen. If only the same could happen with my mind. Reading Timothy’s name is like drinking a quadruple espresso. I scrunch my eyes closed to syphon my memory cells, demanding them to produce. I let the thoughts and images flood over me. Swatches of memories fly at me like frisbees. I don’t slow them down or try to make sense of them. I don’t want them to stop. The swatches are moments in time, not related to each other, like squares of fabric; different patterns, different colors. Timothy and I were crazy about each other. He was in love with me. And I with him. I try to piece the patches together, but the quilt is missing squares. He was brilliant. Just like his dad. His dad and his grandfather were partners in the prestigious law firm in New York, Hayes and Hayes, Ltd. A spot was waiting for Timothy to continue the family legacy.

Come to think of it, Timothy wasn’t really brilliant. Not nearly as smart as his dad. But he had a knack for convincing people he was capable of just about anything. He was determined to finish law school and take the position that was “rightfully his.”

Timothy’s style was a bit strong for some people. I saw it as a sign of self-confidence. I was taken by how bold and self-assured he was. I’d never met anyone like that before. His detractors accused him of being all flash and no substance.

The light bulb on the desk lamp is flickering and is about to extinguish.

What ever happened to Timothy? Parts of my memory are clear, others are faded—like memory glaucoma.

If only my mind could close out of the
Hammond Gazette
article. But it’s stuck there now. So is a heavy feeling in my chest. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know you can’t have a hysterectomy in 1993 and give birth to twins in 1998. Jesus,
God
. I
couldn’t
have been the other Hyster Sister. What kind of surgery did they do on me? I look at my desk calendar to see when I last had my period. I flip through August and July and June and May. Don’t I write this stuff down? I can’t remember having my period this month. Or last month. I can’t remember having it.

I leave my desk and head to the bathroom to look for tampons. Wait. What about the girls? Why don’t I hear them? They were doing arts and crafts in the kitchen. The house is too quiet. They’re never this quiet.

“Girls! Girls! Are you in the kitchen?” I walk down the hall and stop right outside the den. “Girls! Tessa! Lilly!
Tessie
?” The house is silent except for the sound of gurgling bubbles from the fish tank. Smarty, who was curled up asleep under the leather wing chair in the den, pricks up his ears and launches into action.

My already threadbare nerves are too vulnerable. I pick up the pace, moving swiftly through the house, into the kitchen. Where can they be? I open the back door and yell, “Girls!” No answer. I turn back into the kitchen. They were just here—

In my socks, I slide across the wood floor toward the stairs. Smarty runs behind me, barking. I pass the kitchen table that has one of Lilly’s swim caps resting next to some nose plugs while I grab the railing to hoist myself up the first two steps.

“Oh, my God,” I say out loud, “they’re at a swim meet.” I exhale so completely that my entire body slumps over until my hands grasp my buckled knees.

I’m losing my mind … I must be. I said good-bye to them myself. They left five minutes––
shit–
–
thirty
minutes ago.

I feel the little sacks of salty liquid stacking up behind my eyes like sandbags meant to hold back floodwaters. I need help. I can’t go on like this. Andy’s coming home in less than twenty-four hours. He won’t even recognize me. How can I act normal? Look normal? I’m in over my head. This isn’t about problem solving. That might work if it were someone else’s life. Someone else’s secrets.

If I had a hysterectomy, that would mean my girls are not mine.

It’s incomprehensible that I’m thinking about this. This is nuts. How can the girls not be mine? I gave birth to them!

I need to cross this off my list. Nip it in the bud. I’m not having Andy come home to me in this state. No way. This is easy. I did not have a hysterectomy. And I am the mother of my daughters. Jesus.

I’m going to get them. Right now.

Lilly will be furious, but this is more important. Isn’t it? The sanity of the mother? The mother is supposed to put the oxygen mask on herself first when the plane is crashing. Before she puts on her child’s. The flight attendant says so. The mother is the caregiver. It’s a known fact that she must be breathing to take care of her children.

I need Lilly and Tessa with me. I’ll feel better having them near. We need to be together. Like some perverse interpretation of “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” I grab my car keys and handbag from the counter, and then a sweater from the mudroom, which I zip to my chin.

On the way to the Y, I attempt to devise my plan of action. What am I going to do once I get the girls? I don’t have a single idea. The wheels in my mind gnash, and it’s not pretty. They’re fractured and rusty and broken and screeching. Though they try to catch at the right time, in the right place, they can’t. What’s the matter with me? I’m a natural-born strategist.

I yank open the front door to the Y. The dense smell of chlorine thickens the air and seeps into my pores, weighing me down, slowing my jog through a long hall on a rubbery black floor that’s used to prevent the swimmers from slipping. The painted cinderblock walls boast photos of past swim teams dating back to the 1920s; the hall leads me straight to the big pool where the meets are held. I grab the railing and take the stairs down to where the team is seated. I pass the rows of bleachers where the other parents sit with legs crossed and hands clasped; moms are wearing quilted jackets in various tones of forest green and brown. It’s one of those September days when autumn attempts to prematurely evict summer, and everyone’s wearing their fall finest. You can smell the new suede of their boots and their big leather satchels. A very good-looking group. Swimming is a respectable sport; it attracts good kids and fine families.

Looking at these people, I remember how important it was for me to immerse myself in the community—to get a fresh start in a new town. I was willing to go the extra mile to make good, solid friendships for me and Andy and the girls. When we got married, we decided not to raise our children in either of our hometowns. So after a good deal of research, we chose Farhaven. Neither of us knew anyone who lived here, and that was part of the appeal. Clean slate. New friends. Friends that would be ours, not
just his
or
just mine
.

The demographics of Farhaven are pretty homogeneous, one could say. People like us. But then, that’s the benefit (or drawback) of living in the suburbs. In fact, if you’re willing to adopt the suburban code, it’s very easy to be welcomed with open arms, to be readily accepted, exist without incident, blend in. Perhaps even go unnoticed. Just live like the suburbans and you’ll be fine. Go to PTO meetings and join the book club, host bunco, watch each other’s children, have a block party or two, join the country club (or try to), maintain a good lawn, and the hummingbirds are guaranteed to buzz around your front porch every morning.

I summon my typical composure. I decide to abandon Plan A, which was to take the girls immediately. Where I would have taken them, I don’t know exactly, which makes Plan A seem rash. So I quickly shift to Plan B, which is to wait out the meet as best I can. It’ll give me time to think. I clasp my hands, too, to borrow a sense of calm from these people. I stand in place for the count of five to center myself, and scan the benches to locate the girls.

I look over the sea of familiar faces. First, I spot Vicki, who puts her hand up halfway to wave, then crinkles her face, turns to Meg, and whispers something. Meg is sitting in the row behind Vicki. She waves, smiles warmly, and pats the spot on the bleacher next to her to offer me a seat. I feel a tug. I want to sit there and spill it. She’s my closest friend in this town. Or anywhere, at this point. If I could tell anyone, it would be her. She’s been loyal from the beginning. In fact, she was loyal when we were mere acquaintances.

We first met when the girls were in preschool together, and we discovered we were both new in town and decided to be each other’s emergency contacts. Much to my surprise, the school secretary needed to call her the second week of school.

Smarty was a new puppy then and was keeping me up at nights, like a newborn baby. I was exhausted during the day. One afternoon, I had fallen asleep on the couch and slept right through the girls’ pickup time. Even the nonstop calls from the school’s office staff didn’t stir me. To my utter embarrassment, Meg brought the girls home that day. The next day I found a small wrapped package at my front door. A lavender-scented sleep mask and an alarm clock with a note that read,
Sweet Dreams, Your friend, Meg
.

I’m not going to sit next to her. I don’t trust myself. Let’s see: a sister’s death, a forgotten pregnancy and possible hysterectomy, two daughters with questionable parentage. I don’t think so. No one is that unconditional. How would I react if she came to
me
with a story like that? I’m on my own. I’m not going to risk losing her. I can’t chance this leaking out to anyone, especially Andy.

In reply to her seat offer, I do a lame job of sign language. I point at myself while mouthing “I need,” then do a quacking motion with my hand (the international sign for “talk”). But I can’t think of anything that will mean “the girls” so I just say “the girls” out loud. A bunch of heads swivel in my direction. I sidestep across the cement floor behind the Sea Lions bench, where Tessa is sitting, stretching her arms over her head. I sit quietly behind her. I can’t tell if I’ve made it in time or whether they’ve already started, and I’m not sure the girls know I’m here.

I take a deep breath and collect myself. These are my daughters. And I am their mother. I’m not going to let some stupid, ancient newspaper article from some pokey town in upstate New York rattle my world.

I stick my head over Tessa’s left shoulder and whisper in her ear, “Hi, Tessa!” She’s so startled, she nearly takes a nosedive into the pool from the third row. “I’m here. See. I made it on time. Your mother is here,” I say plainly while slapping my lap for emphasis. I spot Lilly, who is up on the platform waiting for the whistle, which is imminent. In an enunciated whisper, I call out, “Lilly, Lilly! Mom’s here! Your proud mother is here! To see her daughters!” I stand up and practically salute and then quickly sit down again. She’s already squatting. Oh God, I’m glut with pride as I look at the two of them. They’re gorgeous and strong. Lilly tilts her head slowly toward me, in millimeter increments, then her body leans subtly to one side and her arms start to swing in big, wide, propeller-like circles. Then she topples into the pool.

The entire team gasps, as well as the onlookers and me. The sound of our collective astonishment shakes my fragile composure. I’m horrified. I glance over at her coach, who is now on her feet, her head whipped to the side to glare at me with a big nasty puss. Lilly could get a false start for that.

I immediately look down at my feet, sit on my hands, cross my legs. All tucked in. And quiet.

Vicki nicknamed the coach “Coach Mouth Fart” because she has a habit of blowing air audibly through one inflated cheek like French people are famous for when they’re absolutely disgusted with you. Which is exactly how she’s feeling about me right now. She adds an exasperated arm thrust into the air (like an old Italian woman is likely to do if you turn down a fourth helping of her homemade gnocchi), while I try to envision
her
parents. Maybe she’s picked up these mannerisms from them. They could be French. Or Italian. Who knows? Are mannerisms in our genes? Do the girls have any of mine?