Three Shoeboxes e-book

by Three Shoeboxes (epub)

  “Mmmmm…” Brady moaned, enjoying his sweet treat.

  “Can you guys guess why?” Sue asked.

  As they both shrugged, Jillian sighed even louder from the corner.

  “The treats were given to children to keep them quiet during ceremonies at the living Nativity scene,” Sue explained, ignoring her eldest granddaughter again, “and the tradition of passing out the candy canes soon spread throughout the world.” She smiled. “So, what does that teach us?” she asked.

  Bella shrugged. “That kids can’t talk and eat candy at the same time?” she suggested.

  Sue clasped her hands together. “You got it,” she said, “candy canes help you listen better.”

  While the family enjoyed their sweet treats, Jillian snickered loudly. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, no longer concerned about her volume.

  Jen took a break from the tree trimming and went to her disgruntled daughter. “You okay?” she quietly asked.

  The pouting teenager shook her head. “Grandma thinks she’s Dad now, trying to teach us everything.”

  Jen looked at her.

  “She’s nothing like Dad,” Jillian said.

  “Jill,” Jen said, “I know it’s been tough with your dad gone, but I think we need to get used to it. I’m not sure…”

  “I know that, Mom,” Jillian interrupted, “and I don’t care. It’s more peaceful in the house now.” She sighed heavily. “I just can’t take Grandma pretending to be him.”

  “Be nice,” Jen whispered. “Grandma’s trying to help.”

  “I think I like her better when she’s drinking spiked egg nog,” Jillian whispered back, getting up and stomping out of the room before she could be scolded for being disrespectful.

  “God bless us, everyone,” Sue said, heading toward the kitchen. “I’m making myself a stiff drink,” she told Jen. “Do you want one?”

  Jen nodded. “Oh, I think I need one,” she said.

  ⧝

  Within the chaos of the bustling newsroom, Jen finished another article and sat back in her chair to proofread it. The office was decorated in red and green, garlands hanging everywhere. Joel pulled a chair up to her desk and threw her a package of snack cakes. “Here,” he said, “Merry Christmas.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she said, throwing the draft onto her desk. “You’re much too kind.”

  Joel giggled. “It’s the least I could do.”

  Jen didn’t counter. She felt troubled.

  “So, how’s life on the home front?” Joel asked, picking up on her melancholy.

  She shrugged. “The same. It’s been a little bit easier since my mother moved in, but you know…” The mounting tears were already fighting to break free. “The kids are just devastated, Joel. Jillian blames me. And even though they’ve been afraid of him for months, Bella and Brady don’t understand why Daddy doesn’t come home.” She shook her head. “And I’m supposed to play Santa Claus in four days.”

  “So, what do you tell them about Daddy?”

  “What can I tell them?” she asked. “I don’t even understand what happened myself. One minute, life was fantastic and the next, Mac was stomping around the house and screaming at everyone, ramping up for his epic meltdown.”

  “And how is Mac these days?”

  “There’s a restraining order in place, so I have no real idea. But I’m guessing he’s not good.” The tears finally broke free and gravity took over. She searched for a tissue from her purse. “He refuses to talk to anyone. I’m sure he thinks I’m trying to destroy him by keeping the kids from him.” She looked up at her friend. “But Joel, my kids are priority one. They have to be.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Jen, you’re doing the right thing. You really are. It’s obvious that something pretty dark is going on in Mac’s head.” He leaned in to stare her in the eyes. “And until he decides to deal with it, you don’t need the kids seeing things that kids don’t need to see. Besides, it’s in the hands of the court now.”

  “But I’m worried about him,” Jen said. “He’s still my husband, Joel, and he’s so alone right now. He’s not working. He won’t talk to any of our family or friends. He hasn’t gone to counseling.” She reached for another tissue. “We go to court tomorrow on the temporary restraining order and, from what I understand, he hasn’t even attended one of the anger management classes that the judge mandated. The court will never allow him to see the kids until he finishes those.” She had to stop to collect herself. “Mac’s spiraling, Joel, and I don’t know how…” She became hysterical and couldn’t finish.

  Joel stood and began rubbing her back. “It’s not up to you anymore, Jen. Just take care of your kids and we’ll all pray that Mac finds the strength to get the help he needs.” He shrugged. “The rest is up to Mac and the judge.”

  ⧝

  Amongst the wreaths and Christmas music, Jen arrived at court—a place where the truth is as rare as a lawyer willing to tell it. She was early in the hopes of talking to Mac before the proceedings began.

  Seconds after Jen approached Attorney Dube to discuss her husband’s grave state, Mac arrived, looking disheveled and in ruin. Oh my God, she thought, mortified. He took a seat near his lawyer, avoiding eye contact with his estranged wife, who stood right in front of him.

  “Mac, please,” Jen pleaded, “we need to talk before things get so out of control that we can’t…”

  “Roland, would you please ask her to leave,” Mac said, facing his lawyer. “I don’t need to go to jail for violating her restraining order.”

  “Mac, I didn’t want this,” she cried, her heart walking the sharp picket fence between spousal love and maternal protection once again. “I really didn’t.”

  Roland looked at her. “Please, Jen,” he whispered, gesturing that she step away.

  Court Officer Beaupre approached Jen, asking that she be seated. A moment later, the judge entered. “Everyone rise,” Officer Beaupre ordered. “The honorable Judge Marge Tremblay presiding.”

  “Be seated,” the judge instructed.

  Everyone did as they were told, just in time for the nightmare to unfold.

  Judge Tremblay opened a folder, fingered through several reports and looked down at Mac, disapprovingly.

  Daniel Aguiar, Jen’s attorney, broke the silence. “Your Honor, Mr. Anderson has failed to complete the domestic abuse program mandated by this court and has also...”

  “Take a seat, counselor,” the judge barked. “I can read.”

  The judge turned to Mac and waved her finger for the defendant to rise. Mac stood. “Mr. Anderson,” the judge said, “two months ago, when you appeared before me, was I unclear with my instructions?”

  “Pardon me, your Honor?” Mac said, his voice no more than a squeak.

  “Do not try my patience, Mr. Anderson,” the judge roared. Reclaiming her composure, she quieted her tone. “I’ll ask again. Did I not instruct you to attend domestic abuse counseling for your explosive temper?”

  Mac nodded. “You did, your Honor, but I’ve been sick and…”

  “…and not truly concerned with seeing your children?” the judge finished, sarcastically.

  “No, your Honor, not at all. If you’ll please allow me to explain.”

  The judge wouldn’t hear it. “I think I’ve just about had it with your explanations, Mr. Anderson,” she said. “Why don’t you take a seat, get comfortable and allow me to explain a few things to you.”

  As if he were pushed, Mac collapsed into his wooden chair. The judge fingered through the folder, wrote down something and cleared her throat. “Mr. Anderson, you were ordered by this court to attend domestic abuse counseling. Attorney Aguiar was kind enough to point out that you did not complete the program. However, even he has failed to report that you did not attend so much as one. I can only perceive this as a blatant act
of defiance on your part.”

  Feeling ready to vomit, Jen looked over at her husband, who now sat paralyzed.

  “I…I tried,” he mumbled, “I really did.” It was as if he were talking to himself. “I tried to attend the classes,” he added in a whisper, “even made it to the front steps a few times, but…”

  While everyone shifted in his or her seats, Dube drummed up the courage to speak. “Your Honor, if I may speak on behalf of my client.”

  “Take a seat, counselor, or find yourself in contempt,” the judge bellowed. “Which will it be?”

  Dube sat, throwing his pencil onto the mahogany table in a show of frustration. “There’s nothing more I can do,” he whispered to Mac.

  The judge directed her next words at Mac as well. “Although Mrs. Anderson has never contacted the authorities, I’d say it’s also a safe bet that you’ve violated the restraining order, am I right?”

  While everyone in the courtroom took a deep breath, Jen stole another look at her husband. He never flinched. His eyes look dead, she thought.

  The judge was hardly concerned with a response. “Mr. Anderson, let me cut to the chase,” she said. “For the time being, your probation will remain intact and you will be spared incarceration. The temporary restraining order protecting your wife and children, however, will be extended to a period of one year.”

  There was a sudden wave of chaos, causing the judge to raise her voice. “Or until you can convincingly prove to this court that you are not a threat to yourself or anyone around you.” She looked directly at Mac. “Am I clear this time, Mr. Anderson?”

  Mac stood. “A year?” he screamed. “I’d never hurt my kids. They’re everything to me. How could you…”

  Jen could feel her husband’s extreme pain; it was as though the walls were closing in all around them and the room was starting to spin.

  Attorney Dube grabbed Mac and forcefully placed him into his seat, preventing a certain jail term. Mac was wheezing, struggling to take in oxygen.

  The judge’s harsh ruling was exactly what Jen had feared. Her heart ached. And the pain—which was now completely in control of everything around them—was gaining momentum. Yet, she could do nothing but sit back and mourn.

  Once the room quieted, the judge softened her cruel demeanor. “Mr. Anderson, contrary to your beliefs right now, I am not an unreasonable woman,” she explained. “You need professional help. It’s also clear to me that this is something you must choose to accept in order for your family to be reunited someday. In the meantime, I have no choice but to protect your children and insure that they are kept out of harm’s way.” There was a thoughtful pause. “I don’t expect that you’ll ever thank me for this, but hopefully, you’ll understand someday. Until then, as a parent myself, I implore you to search your heart and commit yourself to a hospital that can treat whatever ails your mind and make you well again.” Without another word, she stood and exited the court.

  There was silence. Mac, Jen and their respective attorneys each sat in shock.

  “I can’t see my kids for an entire year,” Mac confirmed aloud, crying whatever inconsolable tears remained.

  At the next table, only twenty feet away, Jen struggled to breathe. Can this really be it? she wondered, confused about a deep love they once shared and enduring the abuse of a man she no longer recognized. Is it really over?

  ⧝

  For several weeks after the dismal New Year passed, Mac cycled through the first four stages of grief—denial, anger, depression, bargaining—like he was on a cross-country trek. But maintaining a constant drunken stupor made it difficult to separate fantasy from reality.

  One night—as he did on many nights—he staggered aimlessly for hours, until he spotted a couple holding a whining golden-haired puppy wearing a tiny red collar. He lost his breath, nearly vomiting over the precious scene. Enjoy it while you can, he thought, his mind returning to the not so distant past.

  ⧝

  Bella had begged for months before Mac and Jen finally relented and decided to adopt a four-legged friend for her. For many reasons, their family situation was best suited for a small breed: a lap dog. They looked around for a while before ending up at a local breeder that specialized in tea cup poodles. “There’s no way,” Mac told Jen in the gravel driveway. “I love dogs, big dogs, not guinea pigs with wagging tails.” They went in to meet the puppies anyway. There were two new litters to meet and consider.

  From the moment Bella saw the little balls of fur, hopping around like hyperactive bunny rabbits, Mac realized the decision had already been made. “How big do they get?” he asked the breeder.

  “Some can get up to four and a half pounds,” the grinning man said.

  Oh my God, Mac thought. I just ate a bigger breakfast than that.

  Weeks later, Santa Claus delivered a female teacup poodle that Bella named Sophie. The tiny creature whined so much that first night that Mac actually slept on the living room floor with her. In the days that followed, Sophie relieved herself in a litter box—like a cat—before she was fully house trained. And Mac quickly learned that he’d never be able to take her for a walk. Sophie’s legs were so short that she’d become hypoglycemic and collapse due to exhaustion. To overcome this challenge, Jen purchased a baby stroller—in Bella’s favorite Cheetah print—so the dog could explore the world outside of their backyard.

  Even full-grown, Sophie weighed just under four pounds. And looking like a puppy, she was treated as such. When she barked to protect their family, she sounded more like a squeak toy than a dog. Preferring to snuggle than play fetch, she played with cat toys. She’s nothing like those big mutts I’ve adored my whole life, he thought.

  Mac was a fairly big guy in physical stature, so his self-esteem had been tested multiple times because of Sophie. At the veterinarian’s as well as the groomers, while other guys walked out with their bulldogs and German Shepherds, Mac walked in with a dog that weighed half of what most house cats weigh. But he couldn’t have cared less. I don’t think I’ve ever loved a dog more than Sophie. They loved each other, completely and unconditionally. And as an added bonus, she’s reminded me not to take myself too seriously.

  When push came to shove, he would have done anything for the dog—except push a Cheetah-print baby stroller. Every man has his limits, he told himself.

  ⧝

  And now Sophie’s been taken from me, too, he thought, returning to his world of pain. His eyes welled with tears. Everything’s gone.

  Returning to his cell-like room, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at a TV screen of gray static. An intense flurry of anxiety ripped through him, one debilitating punch after the next. While country music drifted in from the bustling street, flickering, holiday lights, yet to be taken down, joined the roach motel’s neon sign in penetrating the dingy draperies. It’s over, he finally decided, done. He reached for the nightstand, opened the top drawer and removed a pistol. He spun the revolver’s barrel once before staring at the cold blue steel. There’s no coming back from this, he told himself, his eyes beginning to leak. As he spun the pistol’s barrel again, slowly placing the muzzle against his throbbing temple, he took notice of the telephone. Reluctantly, he put the pistol down, lifted the telephone receiver and dialed.

  All three kids answered. “Hi, you’ve reached the Andersons. Please leave a message and we’ll get right back to ya. Have a great day.”

  He hung up and bawled. Reaching into his wallet, he removed a picture of the kids and dialed the phone again. Jillian, Bella and Brady repeated the same. “Hi, you’ve reached the Andersons. Please leave a message and we’ll get right back to ya. Have a great day.”

  Mac stared at the photo—and dialed again.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the Andersons. Please leave a message and we’ll get right back to ya. Have a great day.”

  “How did this happen?” he groaned, sobbing
like a baby. “How did I get here?”

  Suddenly, his own words of wisdom returned to him. There are people, very sad people, he’d told his children, who go through life blaming everyone but themselves. They complain about their troubles and all the things they want and don’t have. The problem with that is—as soon as you consider yourself a victim in this world, you’ve lost control of your own life. He’d peered into his kids’ eyes. We’re given one life, he’d said, so take accountability for it and make it a great one.

  Mac looked down at pistol. “It’s me,” he whimpered, nodding at the anguished truth of it. “It’s always been me and I need to own it.” Swiping the pistol onto the floor, he looked at the photo of his kids and dialed home again.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the Andersons. Please leave a message and we’ll get right back to ya. Have a great day.”

  The sound of his children’s voices made him dry-heave. I can’t friggin’ do this to them, he realized. I won’t. They’re what’s most important: their feelings, their well-being, their lives. Anger welled up inside him. “I have to stop playing the victim,” he grumbled. “I’m the only one who can fix this.” Immediately, he decided that anger was a much better place than despair.

  He dialed one last time and listened. “Hi, you’ve reached the Andersons. Please leave a message and we’ll get right back to ya. Have a great day.”

  He hung up and walked to the mirror. Wiping his swollen eyes, he stared hard into them. “You’re going to let everything just slip away, you stupid bastard?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Hope had arrived and not a moment too soon.

  Mac finally understood why he hadn’t allowed himself to reach the final stage of grief. There will be no acceptance, he vowed in his mind, not in this lifetime.

  Quickly rummaging through his wallet, he slid out the wrinkled piece of paper that Brandt had given him. He picked up the phone again and punched in the numbers. Wherever this call takes me, he decided on the first ring, whatever it takes, I need to get back to my kids.