Three Shoeboxes e-book

by Three Shoeboxes (epub)

  ⧝

  Jen had always loved shopping, but these days she only left the house out of necessity. The little ones need new shoes, she realized, but the moment she stepped into the store, her heart sank. An unexpected memory—once happy—backhanded her across the face.

  ⧝

  It was early autumn. Mac and Jen were enjoying one of their overnight getaways. Hand-in-hand, they strolled the cobble-stone street, sipping flavored coffees and window shopping. Mac hated to actually shop, so when Jen dragged him into a shoe store he marched straight up to the register and asked the girl, “Do you carry men’s clogs?”

  “Clogs?” the girl repeated, while Jen watched from the safety of a tall shoe rack.

  Mac nodded, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

  The young clerk called out to her manager. “Do we have men’s clogs?”

  “I’m looking for wooden clogs in a size twelve,” Mac added, as the manager made her way to the counter. “I’m a professional Irish step dancer and I never stop dancing until I can smell smoke.”

  Jen laughed from the shadows, drawing several curious looks.

  The girl behind the register studied Mac’s face for a moment before cracking a smile. “You’re joking, right?”

  He started laughing. “I am,” he admitted before heading for the door. “I’ll be outside waiting,” he yelled to Jen, who shook her head over his sick sense of humor.

  He’s so crazy, she thought, still laughing.

  ⧝

  Jen looked around the same shoe store, now empty of her husband’s joyful spirit. I miss that craziness, she thought, a heavy cloak of grief draped over her slumping shoulders. She took a deep breath to help her refocus. Just get the damn shoes, she told herself, and get the hell out of here.

  ⧝

  Officially checked in to the puzzle factory, Mac sat on his new bed dressed in a Presbyterian Hospital robe and slippers. While a howling Nor’easter piled up snow outside his window, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Mac said, surprised that his voice sounded so shallow and broken.

  Dr. Fiore, a kind-looking cleric, entered. He extended his hand for a shake. “Mr. Anderson, I’m Dr. Fiore. Do you mind if I take a seat?”

  Although Mac nodded, he felt confused. “Sure,” he said, “but I’m not sure I need a priest.”

  The doctor chuckled. “Actually, I’m a clinical psychologist, who also happens to be a cleric.” The man sat in the corner chair and opened Mac’s folder. “Mr. Anderson, by signing yourself into our care, I truly believe you’ve made a wise step in the right direction. It may not seem that way today, but I can assure you that before you know it life will return…”

  Although Mac tried to pay attention, not even the rumble strips carved into the side of the road could have kept him in the present. His mind was already drifting off.

  ⧝

  It was morning. Mac and the kids were at the sailboat slip. He could picture them, each donning their bright orange life vests. It was a calm, sunny day, he recalled, with a few clouds bringing about slight winds—a perfect day for Brady to break into sailing. He envisioned the three children seated at the rear of the boat, listening attentively as he worked the sails and gave a lesson on safety. He looked up to see the animals foraging on the shore, the birds gliding in the sky—all that was natural and good in the world. He then looked back to discover Brady entranced in the freedom of it all. “It’s the feeling of freedom,” he told the boy, “that’s what you feel.” Searching all three faces, he added, “But guys, you don’t need to feel happy or peaceful to feel free. Like everything worth living for, freedom lives right in here.” He pointed to his chest, inhaling deeply to drive his point home. The kids followed suit. Grinning, he began to work the main sail. The kids looked at each other and smiled. What a glorious day…

  ⧝

  “Mr. Anderson?” Dr. Fiore said, waiting for Mac to return to reality.

  “Huh? What?” Mac said. “Oh yeah, I’m sorry.”

  The doctor smiled. “Looks like you were quite a ways from here. Where’d you go?”

  “To where my kids are…or were anyway.”

  The doctor picked up on the melancholy. “Can’t wait to get back to them, right?”

  “I wish,” Mac said, sadly. “The judge took them from me and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able…”

  “Whoa there,” Dr. Fiore said, cutting him off. “Where’s your faith?”

  “Faith?”

  “Yeah, faith. You don’t honestly think this is the end of the line for you, do you?” He shook his head. “Oh no, this is just another starting point, Mr. Anderson, that’s all.” He nodded. “You’ll be with your kids again. Just by the look in your eyes, I can guarantee it.”

  “You must know something I don’t, doc,” Mac said gratefully, “but I hope you’re right.”

  “Sure I’m right,” the man confirmed, smiling. “Besides, how can anyone take something from you when it lives right in here?” Dr. Fiore slapped his chest.

  Mac’s heart skipped a beat, while goose bumps covered his body and every hair stood on end. Dr. Fiore continued smiling like an angel sent from heaven—an angel who knew Mac well. It can’t be a coincidence, Mac thought. Is this the sign I asked for? In one random moment in time, his faith had been challenged and left bare for further examination.

  ⧝

  Forty miles away, Jen and Jillian were having a difficult conversation about why Jillian had been suspended from school for three days.

  “Are you hurt anywhere?” Jen asked.

  “I’m not, but Amy’s probably not feeling too good right now,” Jillian said defiantly.

  “What on earth were you thinking, Jill? Now I have to worry about you getting into fist fights too?”

  “Are you going to let me explain?” the teenager asked, her resentment apparent.

  Jen took a seat at the kitchen table, gesturing for Jillian to do the same. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  Jillian took a seat. “I confided in Katie about Dad going away and the blabbermouth started telling everyone. Next thing I know, Amy Case, you remember her, the nasty girl from elementary school?”

  Jen nodded.

  “Anyway, we were at lunch and everyone was sitting at the table when Amy walks up and says, ‘So your dad’s been locked up, huh?’” Tears glassed over Jillian’s eyes. “So I stood up and got right in her face.”

  “Oh Jill,” Jen whispered, shaking her head.

  “And I punched her as hard as I could right on the nose.” Jillian became more upset. “I’ve never seen so much blood,” she said, starting to cry.

  “Oh Jillian,” Jen repeated, torn between anger and feeling bad for her daughter. “I know you were defending your father, but he wouldn’t want you fighting either.”

  “You know what?” Jillian said, nearly convulsing. “I wasn’t defending my father. I was defending myself.” She shook her head, a mix of pain and anger betrayed in her eyes.

  Mac’s always been Jill’s hero, Jen considered, and she’s been so filled with bitterness and resentment since he’s fallen off her pedestal.

  “I don’t give a damn what my father wants,” Jillian added. “If he really cared about me, he’d be here with…” She stopped, trying to gather herself. It was no use. Now hysterical, she ran out of the room.

  “Sweetheart,” Jen said, hurrying after her, “that’s just not true.”

  Chapter 12

  The distinct scent of apple pipe tobacco wafting on a warm breeze competed with the smell of freshly cut grass. Mac straddled the seat of a weathered picnic bench beneath the shade of a weeping willow tree. He took in a deep breath and then another. A giant clam boil was being prepared in an oval, copper pot, fish steaming in wax paper on top. While the Boston Red Sox played ball on a small transistor radio, empty quart bottles of beer helpe
d to raise voices and inspire laughter. Mac looked left to see his grandpa stepping out of his pigeon coop. Removing his cap, the old-timer wiped his brow with a red handkerchief retrieved from his worn denim overalls. There was a dog, Buttons, at his heels, awaiting the old man’s next command. Mac headed for the willow tree, past the circle of women gossiping in lawn chairs. He was deep into the tree’s thick limbs—his Army Base Camp—when he looked out onto the yard. I bet Grampa would let me drive the red tractor if I wanted, he thought, or maybe even let me win another arm wrestling match. He considered jumping down, as the changing light of dusk always made him feel like he could run faster than he could, chasing fireflies with an empty mayonnaise jar. Instead, he lay on his belly in that tree and watched as the night crept in and the faces of those he loved became unrecognizable shadows until they completely disappeared.

  ⧝

  Mac opened his eyes, awakening from a brief afternoon siesta. I’m not in heaven, he suddenly realized, a wave of thick sorrow rolling over him. I’m still here, he thought, still alive. Through squinted eyes, he surveyed his small, white hospital room. Well, that really sucks, he thought—until he remembered his kids.

  ⧝

  Joel stepped up to Jen’s desk wearing a plaid blazer. He spun twice like a male model, working it hard on a New York City runway.

  “Well, don’t you look sharp today,” Jen told him.

  He smirked. “As opposed to any other day?” he teased.

  “I didn’t say that. You always look nice.” She shook her head. “I never could get Mac to wear bold prints like that.”

  “So you’re suggesting that I’m a gay stereotype then?”

  She slapped his arm. “Listen, I’ve got enough to worry about. I don’t need to start walking on egg shells around you too.”

  He started laughing. “Relax, boo,” he said. “I’m just playing with you.”

  “Please find another play thing,” she said, grinning.

  “Nope, I happen to like the one I got,” he said, spinning again to show off his new blazer.

  She laughed.

  “So have you decided whether you’re going to Lauren’s winter wonderland wedding?” Joel asked.

  Without having to give it much thought, Jen shook her head. “I doubt it,” she said sadly. “I love Lauren but I can’t bear the thought of…” She paused. “I don’t think so,” she added, trying to clear the emotion lodged in her throat.

  Joel quickly placed his hand on her arm. “I get it, girl,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s not you, Joel,” she told him, “trust me.”

  ⧝

  Dressed in his faded hospital pajamas, the scratchy sound of slippers dragging the floor led Mac into one of the many offices off the main corridor. Dr. Fiore gestured that he take a seat. Mac did. He opened Mac’s pea-green folder and wasted no time in getting down to business. “Mr. Anderson…”

  “It’s Mac.”

  “What’s that?” Dr. Fiore inquired.

  “Please call me Mac. I won’t be able to confide in you if you call me by my grandfather’s name.”

  Dr. Fiore smiled. “Very well, Mac,” he said, looking up from the folder. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Mac took a deep breath. “Well, let’s see, I recently destroyed my career and dozens of professional relationships that took me years to build,” he confessed. “I lost my marriage and my…” He stopped, unable to say it. “I’m such a…”

  “…a good man who needs help,” Dr. Fiore interrupted. “I think we need to concentrate on…”

  Mac tried to stay focused, but he was already slipping back into the past.

  Beneath a shedding tree in their back yard, Mac and Jillian shared a game of catch, both smiling contentedly to be in each other’s company. “You keep throwing the ball like that,” he told his eldest daughter, “and you’ll definitely be in the playoffs next season for sure.”

  Returning into the house, he found his son at the kitchen table, struggling with a math problem. In time, they worked it out together. “I’m telling you, Brady,” he told the young boy, “all you have to do is apply yourself and someday, you’ll be flying the space shuttle for NASA.” The boy believed.

  Mac then knelt beside Bella in her pink bedroom. Together, they spoke to God. He tucked his little girl into bed, pulled the covers under her chin and finished the nightly ritual with a kiss. “Sweet dreams, princess,” he said.

  “Sweet dreams, Daddy,” she answered.

  Everything in the world is exactly how it should be, he thought.

  “Mac, are you still with me?” Dr. Fiore asked.

  Mac’s mind stumbled into the present, where he found Dr. Fiore sitting beside him. The man’s hand was actually resting on Mac’s shoulder.

  “Mac?” the doctor asked, softly.

  Mac peered up from his fog. “What? Oh yeah, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I was just thinking about my kids.”

  “Listen, I’m sure there’s no happier place than being with your children,” Dr. Fiore said, “but for right now, we need to concentrate on what’s going on with you so we can get you back to them, okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Fiore. I…”

  “It’s Faust.”

  Mac looked up, puzzled.

  Dr. Fiore smiled. “If we’re going to cut out the formalities, then let’s do it all the way around.” Faust Fiore extended his hand. Mac took it. “The name’s Faust.” After a firm handshake, the therapist said, “Listen, we need to get you into our rehab program right away to address your alcohol abuse. It’s imperative for you to get healthy again before we can…”

  “Rehab program?” Mac interrupted, his internal alarm clock going off.

  Faust nodded. “That’s correct. We need to deal with the past before you can tackle the future, Mac, and all the pressures of life that come with it. But we can’t do any of it until we wean your body off the chemicals you’ve grown addicted to.”

  Mac thought for a minute. “Okay Dr. Fiore,” Mac said, “I mean, Faust.”

  “Good man,” Faust said, nodding. “As I’m sure you’ve learned, drugs and alcohol are nothing more than Band-Aids that’ll eventually drag you deeper into your own hell.”

  Mac nodded vigorously in agreement. “But how long will it take?” he asked. “Rehab?”

  The doctor shrugged. “It varies for everyone, but what I can tell you is that it’s taken you some time to get where you are right now, so it’s going to take you some time to make your way back.” He smiled. “It’ll take as long as it takes, Mac. The only thing that matters is that you commit yourself to the process, one hundred percent, no matter how long it takes.”

  Mac sighed heavily. “I…I will,” he reluctantly stuttered, surrendering. “I can’t keep going on like this.” He nodded. “I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

  “Good,” Faust said, nodding. “If you give me a signed commitment to work through a rigorous treatment plan, I guarantee the worse of it will be over for you.” He looked down at Mac’s pea green folder. “Besides treating your addiction, we can also cover off the domestic abuse classes that the court has ordered.”

  On the outside, Mac remained calm, nodding that he understood. Internally, he was crawling out of his skin. But how long will all of this take? he screamed in his head. Panic worked its way back into his heart and mind. What about my kids? he wondered, considering so much time being separated from them. Tears began to build. Then, as if he reached a place called acceptance, he softly muttered, “And if I commit to the program, then what?”

  “Then I’ll go to court myself, if I need to, and testify that you’re one of the most loving fathers I’ve ever met,” the doctor said, “and that it would be an absolute injustice to your children that they spend another day without you in their lives.”

  Mac nodded, agreeing
to the inpatient treatment plan. Although he began to cry, his tears were filled with hope.

  Faust broke out the contract. “Mac, let me be clear. Once you sign this contract, you’ll be mandated to stay on the hospital’s premises until I deem that you’re healthy enough to be released. If you leave for any reason before then, I will not be able to help you or testify on your behalf.” He slid the contract toward Mac and offered his pen. “It’s important that you understand.”

  I have no choice, Mac thought, knowing that without the doctor’s testimony the court would tear him to pieces. “I understand.” He grabbed the pen and, with a trembling hang, signed himself into the mercy of this smiling stranger.

  Tucking the signed contract into the green folder, Faust sat back in his chair. “So let’s get started.” He raised one eyebrow. “Tell me how you feel.”

  “Right now?” Mac asked.

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, and how you usually feel.”

  At last, Mac was given the chance to hit the release valve on his pressure cooker. “Most of the time, it starts with cotton mouth. Then I can’t swallow and it feels like a pillow’s been lodged in my throat. My heart starts pounding and my chest becomes tight, like there’s an elephant standing on it.” He shook his head. “You name it—I get sweaty palms, trembling hands. Even my fingers and toes start tingling. My breathing gets quick and shallow. And although I do my best to stop it, I usually start hyperventilating. Then, the worse happens, and it feels like it comes right from my…” He stopped.

  “From your?” Faust prodded.

  “I’m not sure. What I do know is that I get this sense of doom that becomes so intense that it’s unbearable. I feel like my friggin’ heart’s going to explode, or worse, like I might actually lose my mind. I get lightheaded, drunk on fear, making me feel like a man who’s lost all control.” He shook his head again. “The adrenaline rush is so intense, I can’t even explain it.” He took a few deep breaths. “But when I search out a reason for it, there’s never anything there—nothing for me to defend myself or run from. And that makes things even more confusing.” He paused again. “And afterwards, when the rush is over, I always feel off, you know?”