Three Shoeboxes e-book

by Three Shoeboxes (epub)

  Mac composed himself a bit. “I noticed right away that Sam was no longer sitting behind the wheel.” He shook his head in disgust. “I thought he’d been thrown from the car, but found out later that the asshole fled the scene, leaving the rest of us for dead.” He stopped.

  “And you?” Faust asked. “What happened to you?”

  “I couldn’t get out,” Mac said, recalling every painful detail. “I tried. I really did. And then I heard one of the kids moaning. I don’t know how, but I finally squeezed out of my car and started for the Camaro. The driver was still moaning, but the kid in the passenger’s seat was quiet…and he wasn’t moving. That scared me even more, so I hurried to them.” Mac began sobbing again.

  Faust remained silent, waiting.

  “I…I remember fighting back the urge to puke up my guts. The Camaro was a heap of junk with both boys trapped inside. I grabbed the passenger’s side door handle and…and although I’d never seen a dead body before, I knew right away that this kid was gone. There was so much blood and his body was contorted…” He stopped, sobbing so hard that he dry-heaved twice. “My God, he was only a couple years younger than…” Convulsing and struggling to breathe, Mac took a break from the story.

  In a show of support, Faust reached over and placed his hand on Mac’s arm. “Take your time. This is poison, Mac, old poison and you need to get it all out.”

  Between sobs, Mac forged on. “The kid behind the wheel was screaming for his life, so I hurried to the driver’s side door and pulled as hard as I could. It was no use. No matter how hard I pulled, the door wouldn’t budge. So I reached in through the window, grabbed him by the shoulders and started pulling. He was halfway out the window when he looked up at me and…” Mac wailed. “Oh, dear God…”

  Faust squeezed Mac’s arm. “You’re almost there, Mac,” he said quietly. “This is it. Go on.”

  “…and he looked like he wanted to say something,” Mac sobbed. “For a second, I even stopped pulling on him to listen. But he could only gurgle…and I’ve never seen so much panic in someone’s eyes until…until they became distant and…” Through his heavy grief, Mac shook his head violently, pushing through to finish. “That’s when I heard the sound of sirens, but…but I knew they were too late. The kid went limp. I pulled once more, maybe twice, before we both collapsed to the street. I…I looked into his face. His eyes were still staring at me, but there was nothing behind them. That’s when I stopped breathing.”

  “And for years, you’ve been able to repress this memory, right? Just push it down so deep that it’s disappeared from your mind.”

  Mac nodded. “Anytime I thought about it, I just pushed it out of my head. But now…”

  “But you haven’t been able to do that since the accident that you and Jen witnessed on the night of your anniversary,” Faust finished.

  Mac nodded.

  “And it’s been hard to breathe ever since, right?” Faust whispered.

  “Yes,” Mac said, “If Sam had only…” He stopped.

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “He’s hardly my friend,” Mac snapped. “When they finally found him, they locked him up. I was questioned as a witness and cleared of any wrongdoing. I saw a therapist a few times, but I quit the weekly sessions just as soon as I could sleep again.” He half-shrugged. “I’ve never talked to anyone about it since.”

  Nodding, Faust jotted down another note. “Do you remember how you felt when help finally arrived on scene?”

  “I remember grabbing for my chest when the ambulance arrived for the boys we killed. I actually thought I was having a heart attack right then and there.”

  “Killed?” Faust asked, a puzzled look on his face.

  Overwhelmed with the same guilt he’d felt on that hideous day, Mac couldn’t speak.

  “You didn’t kill anyone, Mac,” the doctor said. “You weren’t the driver and, more importantly, it was an accident—something that could have just as easily happened to me.”

  Mac hung his head in shame.

  Faust leaned forward and patted his patient’s arm. “This is huge, Mac. We’ve finally shined some light on the demon that’s been chasing you all these months.”

  Mac nodded, unable to verbally respond.

  “The car accident you witnessed when returning from dinner with your wife was enough to light the wick on the time bomb you’ve been carrying around inside of you for nearly two decades,” Faust said. “From that point on, your anxiety level became so heightened that the panic attacks took over and then became so severe that it was nearly impossible for your body to ignore the repressed trauma any longer.”

  Mac nodded again.

  “And the rest played out like it normally does.”

  Mac’s sorrowful eyes pleaded for him to explain further.

  “At first, the symptoms frightened you to the point where you acted rashly,” Faust said, “and then it consumed you to the point where you lost the ability to manage your actions. From there, you railed against the world for putting you in this position. And finally, you arrived at the understanding that only you could get yourself out of it.”

  “Exactly,” Mac said; the word sounded like a distorted grunt.

  “As a consequence of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Faust added, “you also started suffering from depression.”

  “P.T.S.D.,” Mac murmured, feeling disheartened.

  “Mac, listen to me: Two teenage boys died in an accident that you were also the victim of. Nothing can ever change that. But it was an accident, an accident that could have happened to anyone.” Faust leaned in to hammer his point home. “And the only way you’re going to heal is to forgive yourself.”

  “Forgive myself?” Mac interrupted in disbelief.

  “Mac, I have no doubt that you did everything in your power to save those boys. And I’m sure you would have given anything for a different outcome. But that was not to be. Trying to accept fault or blame for their premature deaths is nothing more than self-mutilation. What you need to do is accept that it was an accident. And you need to forgive yourself for not being able to change how it turned out. Although you never realized it, you’ve been walking around poisoned with guilt and shame for years. And it is poison, Mac, poison that doesn’t do anything but destroy everything it touches. So we need to get rid of it, once and for all.”

  Mac shook his head, both his heart and mind riddled with this newly-exposed guilt. He began to cry.

  Faust leaned in closer. “I need you to do something for me.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, I need you do something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need you to write a letter to those two boys who died in the accident.”

  “What?” Mac asked, thinking he’d heard wrong.

  “Write them a letter, Mac,” the doctor confirmed with a nod, standing to leave, “and tell them how you feel. Once you ask for their forgiveness, I promise you’ll find it easier to ask yourself for the same.”

  ⧝

  After Faust left, Mac sat on his bed, gathering himself with more than a few deep breaths. Grabbing a pen and paper, he began to write his letter to the dead boys. As Mac wrote the letter, he dictated it aloud. “Dear boys, forgive me for not knowing your names, though I can promise that I’ll never forget your faces.” It seemed strange calling them boys given that they weren’t much younger than him at the time. “I’m so sorry for that night,” Mac continued, “I’m sorry it rained and the streets were wet. I’m sorry Sam didn’t see you sooner. And I could never begin to explain just how sorry I am that we weren’t able to stop in time.” He paused, crying. “I tried to save you, I swear I did. You were so young, with your whole lives ahead of you. I’m so sorry that was taken from you. Please forgive me, boys.” He wept freely. “Oh God, please forgive me…” He wept harder. “Forgive me…Mac.” He dropped the pen
onto his bed. Please Mac, he told himself.

  ⧝

  Jen sat at the kitchen table, trying not to cry. She’d found an old family photo album—covered in gaudy gold foil—in the hall closet. Should I even look at this? she wondered. For all intents and purposes, I’ve lost my husband. Slowly, she flipped open the front cover.

  The Anderson family photo album was one of life’s wonderful treasures, but Jen was hesitant about taking the trip down memory lane. Even more slowly, she began flipping through its bent pages. Each picture was like rediscovering their family’s lives together.

  The album began with baby pictures of Jillian, Bella and Brady. The three miracles I begged God for, Jen thought. Jillian, the first born, was actually the smallest, weighing in at six pounds, eleven ounces. The pink knitted cap covered her cone head. She lay in her dad’s arms and Mac couldn’t have looked prouder. Bella came next, cradled in her dad’s arms right there in the same hospital chair, with Mac beaming just as brightly. Brady followed suit. He was such a porker, she thought, and laughed. Nine pounds even. As she recalled, At the maternity ward window, some people said, ‘He’s such a big boy and so handsome.’ And Mac had agreed with every one of them. She was already getting choked up.

  Jen stared at the photo and felt conflicted to see her husband’s smiling face again.

  Tiny bums in bathtub shots were almost as cute as those of all three kids sleeping on Mac’s chest. I can still remember walking into the living room to find my babies snuggled against their dad, she thought. That’s when I knew, if only for a moment, life could be perfect. She paused to collect herself. Mac had always insisted on catching everything on film. At one point, we took so many photos that I decided to rearrange them according to event and not chronological order. She chuckled. I don’t think he liked it, but I did.

  Jen quickly returned to the book. She could see her children growing up on each page she turned.

  After capturing the three trips home from the hospital, Jen caught the grubby faces of people learning to eat on their own. She snapped their first steps, with Mac waiting with his arms spread wide. There was even one that was supposed to show Jillian speaking her first word. Jill grunted Dada, she thought, grinning, and Mac never let me live it down that he came first. Jillian’s tiny eyes were bright red in the picture, evidence of the crying that must have taken place before the shot.

  The next series of pictures was devoted to Christmas. There were brilliant glossies of Mac stringing lights on some sad-looking trees with some little people at his feet. The kids were covered in tinsel, their eyes beaming in anticipation of a fat man in a red suit. Christmas mornings began with a mountain of unwrapped gifts neatly stacked beneath decorated evergreens, followed by the squinted eyes of children still half asleep. They were dressed in different-colored feet pajamas and, though they looked innocent, Jen now held evidence that proved differently. The once orderly living room had become overrun with balls of red and green wrapping paper, with hints of children jumping from one toy to the next. “Oh God,” Jen said aloud. There were even a few surprise shots of Mac. He always looked the same—dead tired. Looks like he enjoyed too much eggnog, Jen thought, and sighed. Those were the days.

  Jen dove back into the thick photo album discovering that birthdays were obviously her next theme. Glowing chocolate cakes shimmered from the pages and, behind each one, the pucker of a child. Homemade chocolate cakes were all Jillian, Bella and Brady ever blew out. The presents that followed, year-after-year, showed their changing styles of fashion. Various haircuts were trapped in time. Jen shook her head. I remember when Jillian feared a trip to the beautician more than going to see the dentist. Jen laughed, thinking, Amazing. Everyone looks so young. Even those who are no longer with us look like kids themselves. She shook her head again.

  Turning the page, the first pictures of the three kids heading off to school were priceless. Each waited at the bus stop in new clothes, holding their lunch boxes and willing themselves to be strong in the face of the unknown. I remember it like it was yesterday, Jen thought, and for Brady, that’s not so far from the truth.

  She turned the album’s oversized page. Summer vacations began with day trips. There were poses taken in front of museums, amusement parks, zoos and the aquarium. One summer, Jen and Mac went all out and hit every highlight in New Hampshire. The photos revealed the Old Man in the Mountain, Clark’s Trading Post, with its dancing bears, Santa’s Village, Story Land, Six Gun City and the Polar Caves. In five long days, they saw it all and the pictures betrayed the incredible energy spent. Jen had captured each warm moment.

  As the kids got older and money was easier to come by, Florida replaced New Hampshire, with Magic Mountain preferred over the White Mountains. Staring hard at the memories, Jen admitted to herself, I still can’t decide which was more fun. Sometimes, it really felt like we had more with less. She shook her head. There was more need for imagination and it was better appreciated. The album proved a long-standing theory that Jen had always believed. Summer vacations aren’t relaxing. They’re hard-fought missions.

  Softball pictures showed Jillian in her striped uniform. Bella’s dance recitals were held during that same period of time. Mac really loved those four-hour recitals, she thought, chuckling.

  Jen realized that she was already thinking in the past tense. Although it felt odd, there was a certain amount of relief that came with it.

  She returned to the book. Next were the school plays. Brady never lived down his role as Peter Pan at summer camp—or the green tights that made him famous. Bella made a distinguished Betsy Ross and, for whatever reason, Jillian never made it beyond the roles of talking trees and walking snowflakes. Jen laughed.

  Picture after picture, Jen decided that her favorites were not those that were posed for, but the ones that were unexpected. A photo of Brady smiling on the potty like he’d just learned the secret to world peace was invaluable. There were also shots taken at the beach. As she recalled, Jillian had carried the camera that day. From the sand dunes, the young girl had captured every inch of Jen buried from head-to-toe. Mac kidded that if he could cook well enough to keep the kids alive, he would have left me for the buzzards, Jen thought, chuckling. Her giant smile in the photo spoke volumes.

  The Halloween costumes got cooler with each passing year, as super heroes were traded in for rock stars.

  Jen turned the page again. At summer cookouts, when water balloons soaked the camera, I’d scream while Mac chased me all around the yard, she reminisced. I used to be pretty quick. She studied the shot. Through the pages, she could almost hear her husband’s contagious laughter.

  Photos of three grinning snow angels revealed glimpses of their playful dad in the background. Jen couldn’t help it: tears were starting to build up behind her blinking eyelids. Mac and I really did put together a portfolio of love, she thought. The album was a growing and maturing book of life.

  “Where did the time go?” Jen whimpered aloud. “It seems so unfair.” She shook her head. But I shouldn’t complain, she thought, because we enjoyed every moment. She shrugged to herself. Well, at least most of them anyway.

  She closed the cover—on some magical childhoods in progress—and wiped her eyes. Whether or not the world would agree, Mac and I have been the wealthiest people on earth. She nodded. “Maybe I should share this with him the next time…” she said aloud, her voice barely audible from emotion.

  “Share what?” Jillian asked, startling her mother.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Jen said before pointing at the closed book. “I was just looking at an old photo album I found in the closet.”

  “Sounds like a waste of time to me,” Jillian remarked sarcastically. “You should just throw it out.”

  “Never!” Jen said defensively. “Listen, just because things have changed doesn’t erase everything we’ve shared.”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
>
  “Why doesn’t it matter?”

  “Do you really think Dad’s ever coming back?” the tortured girl asked.

  There was a long pause before Jen answered. “I really don’t know, sweetheart,” she finally said, needing to be truthful.

  “Do you want him to?”

  The simple question felt like a punch to the gut, emptying Jen’s lungs of air. “I don’t know that either,” she whispered, shaking her sad head. She studied her teenage daughter’s eyes. “Either way, there’s nothing wrong with remembering all the good times, Jill,” she said. “I’m sure you have many great memories of your dad.”

  “I don’t,” Jillian fibbed.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Jen countered.

  “Whatever you do, don’t share that photo album with the kids,” Jillian said. “They’ve finally stopped whining about Dad coming back.” She started to leave the room. “And I don’t want to have to hear it again.”

  ⧝

  Jillian returned to the safety of her bedroom. Although she didn’t want to—and had spent months intentionally avoiding it—her mind travelled back in time to those glorious days with her dad.

  ⧝

  While the two little kids made a beeline for the swings, Mac and Jillian said hello to the other adults on supervision patrol. Most offered a grin, a nod, or a heavy sigh, and then quickly returned to the army of small children who attacked the jungle gym without mercy. Mac took a seat and shifted to get comfortable on the hard green bench, opting to do some people watching. “Why don’t you go play,” he told Jillian.

  She shook her head. “I will when you do,” she teased.

  He smiled, watching as his younger children played nicely with other kids. “Sometimes I wonder whether you guys are paying attention when Mom and I are trying to teach you,” he said, pointing at Bella and Brady, “and then I watch you guys out in the world and I realize that you are.” He grabbed Jillian’s hand. “All three of you are genuinely good people…” He nodded, his eyes misting over. “…selfless and kind.”