by Zeia Jameson
She turns and walks away into Amelia’s room and slams the door. And that is where she stays all night.
I make no effort to go in there and talk to her. I don’t have anything to say. She said she had intended to apologize but I didn’t give her a chance. That kind of makes me feel like a dick. But I’m also still mad that she left. I don’t know what to do. I’m so tired. I’m tired of working and I’m tired feeling the way I feel right now. Like no decision I make is the right one. Like I’m failing.
The next morning, I wake up and decide to try to have a civil conversation with Livy before Mom brings Amelia back. However, all I find is an empty apartment and a note taped to the front door:
Went to get Amelia. Don’t go freaking out. I will be back.
Yeah, she’s still mad.
***
35
Livy
One week later
I haven’t spoken to Jeremy since the night I slept by myself in Amelia’s room. When I came back with Amelia the next day, he tried to talk and ask a lot of questions but I gave him the silent treatment until he gave up.
Real mature, I know, but I couldn’t get over the fact that he had the nerve to even think I was being a bitch. I knew if I said anything to him, I would yell. So I just said nothing. After that day, I avoided him. Also juvenile, I realize, but until I can think about him almost calling me a bitch, without a rush of heat and anger bubbling inside of me, I just need to stay away from him. He’s still working his regular schedule so it’s not like he’s here to avoid much. Rosalie has called me a million and one times asking if I need help or if I’m feeling ok. I’ve only answered a handful of times to reassure her I’m not a flight risk.
I’m better than I was last week. I’m still tired and I’m sad that I feel alone and that I can’t think about my husband without wanting to throw something across the room. The difference now is that I’ve since had a realization that I am where I am because of my choices. I chose this. I chose to get married and I chose to have a child, whom I love so much. I went against my better judgment and this is where I ended up—in a marriage with a man I don’t think I know any more and a baby that needs love. I’m not going to break this family up. It’s not fair to Amelia. She will not grow up in a broken home. So I will do whatever I need to do to make sure she knows she is loved. I’ll be miserable if I have to be, I don’t care. I’m good at hiding emotions from people. I can put up a good front for her. And if Jeremy never slows down with work, I’ll tell Amelia every lie I can make up so she’ll think her father hung the moon for her. I will not disappoint her and have her become an adult who feels unloved and worthless.
It’s close to two o’clock in the afternoon when the doorbell rings. I pick up Amelia from her play mat and go to answer the door. It’s a delivery man with a box. “Sign here, please.”
I crinkle my brow at him, this man with a beer belly and hideous shorts who is demanding things from me. “What is it?”
He raises his shoulders, “I dunno. But it requires a signature, ma’am.” He stretches the electronic stylus out further to me. I huff and shift Amelia on my hip so I can take the stylus from the man’s grubby hands. I didn’t order anything and if Jeremy is expecting something, he would have told me.
Except I’m not speaking to him and I’m avoiding him.
Well, Jeremy should have left a note!
“Have a good day,” the potbellied man says.
I’m investigating the box. It’s pretty significant in size. “Yeah, you too,” I say, still focusing on the box. The delivery man walks away and I move out into the hall. With Amelia still in my arms, I nudge the box with my foot, over the threshold and into the apartment. It’s somewhat heavy, but manageable.
I set Amelia down in her high chair and give her some snacks to occupy her for a moment while I take a closer look at this package. It’s addressed to Jeremy and me both. That gives me full license to go ahead and open it. I pick up the box. It’s heavier than I originally thought and the size makes it awkward to lift. I give it a good heave and elevate it up to the breakfast table. I grab some scissors from a drawer and slice open the tape from the top and sides of the box. I open the flaps. Underneath the flaps, is a folded piece of paper sitting on top of packaging paper that is covering whatever else is in the box. The piece of paper says, “Read this first”. I pick up the paper and unfold it. On the inside, there is a typed message that simply states:
Jeremy and Livy, review the contents of this box together.
Seriously?
Great. I have a mystery box from a mystery sender with mystery contents and I have to wait for Jeremy to come home before I know what it is?
I stomp one foot on the ground like a five year old. I turn to Amelia and I see she’s all done with her snacks. I pick her up and take her back to the living room for some more play time. I try to forget that there is a big box of something on the table in the kitchen. But of course, I can’t. For the whole afternoon, it’s all I can think about.
What’s in the box?
What’s in the box?
What’s in the box!?
I give Amelia her dinner while I sit next to—and stare at—the box.
I take Amelia in for a bath and settle her into bed.
Box. Box. Box!
I go to the kitchen and sit, again, next to the box. For three hours. I know I could peek and later pretend that I hadn’t looked before Jeremy did, but I also find myself a little fearful and hesitant about what is in the box, and what the consequences might be if I do look inside without Jeremy.
I hear keys rattle and the lock turn. Jeremy comes through the door and looks over at me and the box.
“Hey, you’re still up?” He points to the box, “What’s this?”
I stand up and take the note I read earlier out of the box and hand it to Jeremy.
He reads the paper. “Who is it from?” he asks.
I shrug my shoulders.
“Livy, are you still not speaking to me? This is ridiculous.”
“No. Jeremy, it’s not that. I wasn’t meaning to…” I don’t want to start on some tangent of a conversation that will delay me any further from knowing what is in this box. “Never mind. Look, let’s just see what’s in the box, please. I’ve been staring at this thing all night!”
Jeremy lifts the packaging paper. Underneath, is a plain white envelope with both our names on it and the phrase, ‘Read this before opening anything else’ beneath our names. The envelope is sitting on top of what appears to be a large container of some sort. From what I can see of it, it’s wooden, somewhat dark in color and has two leather straps going across the top, parallel to each other, from back to front. It looks like a treasure chest. No. I think on it more. It looks more like a traveler’s trunk.
Jeremy looks at me and then looks back at the box. He picks up the envelope and rips it open. Inside is a folded piece of paper. Jeremy unfolds the paper and begins to read it. To himself.
“What the fuck?” is all he says.
***
36
The Box
Jeremy and Livy,
You are receiving this package because your relationship is strained and in trouble.
The items contained in this trunk are going to help you remember why you are together in the first place and they are going to help you find who you once were.
In the trunk you will find a series of envelopes, all numbered in sequence. To begin the restoration of the relationship that was once indestructible, open the envelope labeled #1 and follow the instructions.
Only open one envelope at a time and be sure to follow all instructions precisely.
If you don’t, there is no guarantee that this will work.
Keep in mind that the two of you are kindred spirits who were not brought together by accident. You were meant for each other. You know that. All you have to do is remember.
Best of luck to you both.
***
37
J
eremy
Envelope #1
I remove the trunk from the cardboard box it was delivered in and set it on the table. It’s slightly heavy. There is age and wear on the trunk and it looks like it had been put to good use in its early years. If I had to guess, I’d say the trunk looked to be at least one hundred years old. It gave me a strange feeling of nostalgia and I found myself wanting to know the history of the trunk and all of It’s owners of the past.
Livy and I sit at the table and stare at the trunk for what seems like an eternity. The note left no indication as to who sent the box. Who could it be? Mom? That’s the obvious answer since she knows how stressed we’ve been lately. But why be so mysterious about it? And then, I think about how we got to this point, Livy and me.
How it came to someone anonymously sending us a trunk full of...whatever is in here, to fix our relationship?
Fix us. We were once indestructible and now I fear that it might take a shit load of duct tape to keep us together. I wish Livy would talk to me. I wish we could rewind a little and tell our pre-parenthood selves what was going to happen so that we might be able to prevent it. I wish I didn’t have to work all of the fucking time. I wish Livy would let my mother help her.
A bucket full of wishes...
A bucket with a ton of fucking holes.
We’ve sat here too long. I finally break the silence, “So, are we going to do this? If not, I’m just going to go to bed.” Livy doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at me. She’s acting like I didn’t say anything at all. She’s acting like I’m not even in the room.
I huff out and stand to head to the bedroom. Without even turning her head in my direction she reaches out to me and grabs my arm. “Wait.”
I back up and sit back down, elbows on the table, hands clasped. I lean in, “Livy? What is it?”
It takes her a moment but she finally looks up at me with a sullen look on her face. “How did this happen? Why?”
“What do you mean, Livy?”
“How did we get here? How did we go from us…to this? Why can’t we figure this out?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. There are a lot of issues, but I don’t know what to do to fix anything.”
Livy stares past me for a few but very long minutes. “Let’s look in the box, Jeremy. What have we got to lose?”
~~~
There are two clasps on the front of the trunk, securing the lid closed. I click them both open, simultaneously, and lift the lid up as far as the hinges on the back side of the trunk will allow. There are two brass brackets on either side of the trunk that scissor shut and then click into place, to keep the lid from falling, once it reaches its maximum height.
I look into the box and Livy is looking over my shoulder. There are a number of items in the box, but none directly exposed to eyesight. All of the objects are either wrapped in package paper or sealed in envelopes.
The first envelope, labeled simply as #1, is sitting on the top of all of the other items, in plain view. It is a large, yellow envelope with a clasp holding the flap closed. I fold in the clasp, open the envelope and glance inside. There are numerous, smaller envelopes inside. I turn the envelope upside down and empty it out onto the table. Livy shuffles through envelopes and picks one up.
“Each of them is labeled with a letter—A.” She holds up the envelope she has in her hand. “B, C and D,” she finishes, as she points to the others still on the table.
“This seems so complicated,” I say. Who has time for this kind of meticulous detail? “So I guess we start with A?” I question.
“Seems logical.” Livy shrugs.
Livy opens the first envelope and pulls out a folded slip of paper. “This one is typed also,” she looks at me and says. She reads the paper for about a minute and then I ask, “What does it say?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not doing this. This is pointless.” She hands the paper over to me:
To begin this process, you must first figure out why your heart is hurting. Only then can you begin to mend your wounds and heal. Inside the box, you will find two journals, one labeled for each of you.
Your first journal entry will be a list of all the reasons you are angry at your spouse. All of the reasons. The list can be as long or as short as you want it to be but it needs to be thorough.
These journals are for your eyes only so be as honest as you need to be.
Sometimes the best way to express how you feel is to write it down on paper. Once it’s out there, it’s no longer bottled up inside and you can fill that new empty space back up with good things.
Don’t write this in front of each other. You need to take this opportunity to write everything down, rather than waste the entire time focused on what the other is writing.
Do this in solitude. Once you are done, move on to envelope B immediately.
“Why do you think this is pointless?” I ask, once I’m done reading.
“If I start writing stuff down, Jeremy, it’s just going to make me angrier.”
I wave the letter I have in my hand at her. “Or, it might make you feel better,” I say, suggesting the letter’s advice.
Livy looks at me as though she might throw something at me. She’s looked at me like that a lot lately. It pisses me off but it also makes me sad.
“Look, if you don’t want to do this then we don’t have to. But the first letter was right. We are broken. You won’t talk to me, and every time I say anything to you, you look at me like I’m an idiot or an asshole. I feel like everything I try to do is wrong.”
“Try to do? Really? You don’t try to do anything, Jeremy. You aren’t here long enough to make an effort!” Livy snaps at me.
I have a kneejerk response to defend myself, “Well if I wasn’t so worried about trying to provide for my family and its future, I wouldn’t have to work so much!”
Livy’s face tightens harder, “Don’t raise your voice! And stop saying stupid shit like that! You don’t have to work so hard, Jeremy! It’s your fucking company. You are the boss! You get to tell people what to do. You can do that from home!”
“It’s not that easy, Livy, and you KNOW it! The company isn’t ready to function without me being in the middle of everything.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Jeremy! You’ve had that company for long enough now. You’re expanding the business, for crying out loud! You mean to tell me that you are going to expand when you don’t have all of your ducks in a row here?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Livy. You have no idea…”
“I have no idea? What, you think I’m stupid? That I don’t know anything about running a business? I went to college, Jeremy! I took the same damn business classes you did! Get the fuck over yourself! How about you stay at home with Amelia all day and I’ll go run your goddamn company!”
“What the fuck, Livy? You aren’t even making any sense. You are just saying shit to be hateful.”
Livy’s scowled face instantly turns the other direction. Her brows are raised and her eyes are big and immediately glass over.
I used the wrong word. She once said her mother was a hateful person and I’ve just used that word to describe her. It came out before I thought about it. But, it’s not entirely untrue. Livy’s demeanor towards me has been brutal since she came back, when I can get her to talk at all. And when she talks to me that way, it’s like taking an arrow to the heart. She just insulted all of my hard work and my company. I try to just let it roll off my back, but there is only so much one person can take before the words fester and spoil and all you begin to think about is retaliation. I called her hateful to get her to stop saying things she didn’t mean. I should have used another word.
Livy looks over at the trunk and as she does, a tear falls to her cheek. She reaches into the trunk and rummages for a moment. She lifts out an object wrapped in packaging paper, with a typed label attached that says “For envelope A”. Livy unwraps the paper. Within, are the two journals. Livy inspects
them for a minute. They are quite nice as far as journals are concerned. They are leather bound with silver-edged paper, and outfitted with a leather strap, securing each book closed. Tucked into the straps are very elegant silver pens. Someone really put a lot of time into this trunk.
Livy hands me my journal. “I’ll be in the bedroom,” is all she says. She turns and walks away and as I watch her do so, I see her wipe her face. When she’s angry, I’m angry. And when she’s sad, I’m also sad. I suppose it’s a good sign that at least I still have emotions towards her other than just anger and frustration.
I guess I’ll put that in the journal.
***
38
Livy
Writing about why Jeremy makes me angry did, in turn, make me angry. And it made me cry. Jeremy calling me hateful also made me cry. I know that he was in no way comparing me to my mother (or should I say comparing me to the perception I gave him of my mother, considering he’d never met her), but just him using that word stung. It was like he’d pierced my heart with an arrow.
But after I went through the anger and the tears and after I’d finished writing all I had intended to write, I had found that the trunk was right.
Yes, I did refer to the trunk as an animate object, as if it had come up with this idea all on its own. But I have no clue who sent us the trunk. My suspicions lie with Rosalie, but I feel like she would make no effort to make it anonymous. She’d shove it in our face and try to feed it to us like pie. Rosalie isn’t a game player.
Or is she?
But until we figure it out, I will carry on as if the trunk is the sole provider of all of the wisdom being bestowed.
Because the trunk was right. Writing was therapeutic. I did feel better. And I also did feel empty.
