Three Shoeboxes e-book

by Three Shoeboxes (epub)

  “Mac?” Diane answered, reluctantly.

  “You got it,” Jen said, her mind immediately rewinding again.

  ⧝

  The entire gym was preparing for an upcoming meet, the floor of padded, blue mats swarming with tiny acrobats.

  “Don’t worry,” Bella had told her mother, “it’s just a routine maneuver.”

  Jen had laughed, pleased that her daughter was using words like maneuver.

  But it was hardly a routine maneuver. And when Bella slipped off the horse and crashed to the matt, spraining her left arm in the process, she instinctively screamed out in pain. “Daddy!”

  Jen rushed to her aide. “I’m here, baby. Mama’s here.”

  “I want Daddy,” the little girl cried. “I want my daddy.”

  ⧝

  Back in the present, Jen cleared the emotion from her throat. “That’s right, Diane, she called for her daddy.” Jen took a few deep breaths to keep the emotional storm at bay. “Trust me, Di, I may hide it well from the kids but it’s been a living hell trying to move on.”

  Diane exhaled deeply but never dared to utter another word.

  Jen looked up to find Jillian standing in the doorway, listening. “Diane, I need to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She hung up the phone. “What’s up, Jill?”

  Clearly upset, Jillian threw a piece of paper onto the kitchen table.

  Jen read it and looked up. Choosing her words lightly, she said, “If…if you want to go to the father daughter dance, I’m sure…”

  “…that Dad will miraculously appear?” Jillian snapped. She stopped before starting to cry and stormed out of the kitchen.

  Jen caught up to her in the living room. “Jill,” she said gently, “I’m sure it would be all right if I went to the dance with you.”

  “No Mom, it’s for girls who have fathers and I don’t have one of those anymore,” she said, shaking her angry head. “Maybe it’s for the best anyway,” she added, snickering, “because if Dad went, I’m sure most of the other kids wouldn’t.”

  ⧝

  In a room filled with souls in much worse shape than himself, Mac stood in the Presbyterian med line. Nurse Mal handed him a paper cup containing two pills. “Bottoms up,” she said with a wink. Mac tipped the cup to his mouth, drank from a water fountain to wash them down and returned the wink to his spunky caretaker. Even though Mac was starting to feel healthier—with his Xanax dosages being closely monitored—he was still suffering.

  “How’s it going?” Mal asked. “Is it getting any easier?”

  Mac shook his head. “I’m still getting the panic attacks pretty bad.” He sighed. “I never realized I could experience so much pain.”

  “Oh, there’s enough pain in this world to go around,” she told him. “Believe me, I’ve met pain many times in my travels. And he’s a selfish bastard, stealing away time and energy and hope.” She shook her head. “But there’s no way around him, Mac, or over him or under him.” She gazed into Mac’s eyes before winking at him again. “To get past pain, you have to go straight through the son-of-a-bitch.”

  Mac nodded. He understood only too well.

  “Just remember,” she added, as he started to step out of the line, “everyday above ground is a good day.”

  I’m starting to believe that again, too, Mac thought, gratefully.

  ⧝

  An hour later, Mac sat across from Faust, engaged in another intense therapy session. “So I understand that you’ve been engaged in some vigorous exercise regiments,” the doctor prodded.

  Mac nodded. “I’ve been trying to overwhelm the panic attacks by releasing large amounts of adrenaline.”

  “Has it helped?”

  “It does,” Mac said, “at least for a while.” Unfortunately, Mac was also learning that his will was an ineffective weapon against this ruthless enemy.

  “Very good,” Faust said, jotting down some notes. “And when you’re not exercising?” he asked.

  “Just by thinking of the symptoms, I start to feel them,” Mac said, shaking his frustrated head, “so I do everything I can to avoid those thoughts.”

  “Which, of course, only forces your mind to visit them more often, kicking off the vicious cycle that you can’t stop, right?” Faust added.

  Mac nodded. “Exactly,” he said, “and even though we’re starting to get the symptoms under control, it takes everything out of me.”

  Faust wrote down another note. “I’m not sure you realize this, Mac,” he said, “but you certainly don’t suffer alone. In today’s fast-paced, stress-filled world, the number of panic sufferers is staggering, almost epidemic.”

  Oddly enough, Mac felt some relief with having the company. At least I’m not alone, he thought, feeling bad for thinking that way.

  “Try this,” Faust suggested. “Instead of using the time you normally spend worrying, why don’t you learn as much as you can about anxiety and panic attacks.”

  Makes sense, Mac thought.

  “It won’t take you long to figure out that you really do have to venture within yourself in order to heal.”

  I think I already get that, Mac thought, nodding.

  “In many ways, this is a journey only you can make,” Faust added.

  “But at least now I know I’m not alone in making it,” Mac said aloud.

  Faust smiled. “You’re never alone, Mac,” he promised.

  Mac thought about his friend Brandt’s letter and smiled. “I know that.”

  ⧝

  Mac knelt beside his bed, as he did each night, and prayed with all the strength and conviction he possessed. Once finished, he blessed himself, grabbed the framed photo of Jillian, Bella and Brady off his nightstand and kissed his children goodnight. Lying in bed, he began working out many of his problems in the solitude. Jen was only protecting our children, he finally understood, and being the great mother she’s always been. And to his surprise, he realized that he missed her too.

  Chapter 16

  Mac was discovering that the formal classes on anxiety disorders were well worth the time and effort, teaching him many things. The horrid condition of panic disorder transcended all barriers: race, religion, economic. No one could ever forget the first time they stood face-to-face with this sadistic demon. Ain’t that the truth, he thought.

  The relaxation exercises seemed so much like childbirth classes that, at first, Mac considered them a waste. But being desperate for peace, he stuck with them. Thank God! With one hand on his belly, he learned to watch his abdomen rise and fall with each breath. I never realized it, he thought, but it’s been years since I’ve breathed from my diaphragm.

  After learning the value of affirmations, transcendental meditation had him chanting one-syllable mantras, while he breathed in and out like a baby. He’d tighten each muscle in his body and then allow them to relax. He did this until his limbs felt like rubber bands and the rest of him felt submerged in Jell-O. The instructor whispered, “Imagine the safest place in the whole world. Now, imagine a staircase that leads down to this wonderful place. There are ten stairs. As you descend each step, you will breathe in deeply and exhale, feeling more relaxed with each step down.”

  Mac said the word ten in his mind, took a deep breath and imagined stepping down. Nine, he thought, took in a deep breath, exhaled and stepped down. He was definitely more relaxed. By the time he hit the number one, he felt paralyzed, completely serene—like I’m out on the water, sailing. There was no longer a need to think—just be.

  For twenty glorious minutes, Mac imagined spending time in his favorite place—adrift on a sailboat with his three children. When it was time to return, on cue, the instructor helped him breathe his way back up the staircase.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes and smiled. Although the trip had taken him through countless days of hell, he’d finally returned with an answ
er. With all the responsibilities, the obligations and the important things I needed to remember each day, he realized, I forgot to breathe.

  That afternoon, Mac took a leisurely stroll through the Presbyterian grounds with Faust.

  “It’s great that Butch and you have gotten close,” the doctor said, “but I haven’t seen you making any real friendships with the other patients.”

  Mac grinned. “It’s like I always tell my kids—I’d rather have a silver dollar in my pocket than twenty nickels.”

  The first few drops of rain fell from the darkening sky.

  “That’s good, Mac,” Faust said, chuckling, “I like that. Although I can’t imagine that Butch has ever been described as a silver dollar before.”

  “Getting to know Butch is like wondering why kids who play T-Ball wear batting helmets,” Mac said, chuckling.

  “How so?”

  The rain immediately picked up in speed and volume.

  “It’s because they hit themselves in the head with the bat.” They shared a laugh before Mac turned serious. “Listen, my court date is quickly approaching, Faust,” he said, reminding his captor of his legal battle, “and I know I can’t leave, but…”

  Faust nodded. “I’ll call the court and explain, okay?” he said before scurrying off to get out of the storm.

  “Sure,” Mac said, suddenly standing alone in the yard.

  With a short stack of letters protruding from his back pants pocket, Mac tilted his face toward the heavens. The rain drenched him from head-to-toe. He checked his watch and the tears began to mix with the weather. He lifted his face back toward the sky. “Please God, help me go home,” he yelled, knowing there was no choice but to honor Faust’s contract. I can’t leave, he thought, but what I wouldn’t do to bust through those front gates and sprint all the way to that courthouse. But he’d learned the hard way. I have to do it right this time.

  As quickly as it had come on, the storm blew away. Alone in the yard, Mac bathed in the fresh air that followed. Light peeked out from the dispersing clouds, its soft rays being trapped in the small puddles left behind. We don’t get what we wish for, Mac, he reminded himself, we get what we work for—steeling himself for the final push to get home.

  ⧝

  As the intermittent rain tapped against the windows, Jen stood before Judge Tremblay, the disciplinarian who’d imposed the one-year restraining order. The judge appeared to be in her usual foul mood.

  This woman is one tough cookie, Jen thought, already feeling intimidated.

  The stern woman finally looked up from her bench, leaned down and spoke in a business-like tone. “Mrs. Anderson, your husband’s clinical psychologist contacted me to report that Mr. Anderson is currently enrolled in an inpatient treatment program and will not be able to join us today.”

  “That’s correct,” Jen said.

  The judge nodded. “That being said, I think the restraining order remains in the best interest of your family for another year. Once your husband is released from treatment and decides to show some interest toward reuniting with his children, we can take another look.”

  “Ummm…okay,” Jen said, taken aback by the frigidness of the process.

  “Although it’s good that he’s in treatment,” the woman said, robotically writing notes into a manila folder, “for the time being, I’ll extend the order for another full year. Mr. Anderson can petition the court for a hearing when he’s ready to do so.”

  While the rain continued to pelt the courtroom’s giant windows, Jen nodded.

  The judge signed a document forbidding Mac from his children for an additional year.

  Another year, Jen thought, a torrential downpour of mixed thoughts making her feel like she’d been tossed upside down into a whirlpool.

  ⧝

  It was late when the kids and their inebriated grandmother were tucked into bed. Jen sat on the couch with her sister, Diane, explaining her recent court appearance.

  “So, Judge Tremblay extended the restraining order?” Diane said.

  Jen nodded. “She said she thinks the restraining order remains in the best interest of our family, or until Mac decides to show some interest in the kids.”

  “But Mac didn’t appear in court because he’s in inpatient treatment, right?”

  Jen nodded again. “The judge knew that and, from what I could tell, she couldn’t have cared less.”

  “Wow,” Diane said, “even I couldn’t be that cold.”

  “As of right now,” Jen said, “Mac’s forbidden to see the kids for another full year.”

  “Which is a good thing, right?” Diane said.

  Jen started to shrug but was able to restrain the impulse. “It is,” she said, sounding resolute, “at least until he gets well.”

  Diane stood to leave. “Wow,” she repeated under her breath, “another full year.”

  ⧝

  Once her sister was out the door, Jen returned to her seat on the couch. She looked up at the fireplace mantle where a row of family photos had once smiled. Only a single picture including Mac remained. Any other reminders of him were too painful and had long been removed. Grabbing a pen and pad, she started another letter to her long lost husband.

  Dear Mac, I pray this letter finds you well. I cannot begin to explain how sorry I am for everything that has happened. Most of the time, I can’t make sense of any of it. But what I do know is… She stopped and, after quietly reading the newest letter, she threw it onto the floor where all the others ended up. Collapsing onto the couch, she hugged one of the throw pillows. I’m still not sure how all of this could have happened? Although she could still feel the pain, it had become dulled over time. And for the first time, she recognized there were no tears to follow.

  ⧝

  Mac read aloud, “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.” Although his eyes were filled with tears, his breathing was deep and even. He looked up from the wrinkled letter.

  “That’s wonderful,” Faust said. “Not so long ago, you would have never been able to share that with me.”

  “I know,” Mac admitted. “It’s the first time I’ve read it aloud.”

  “How does it feel to hear those words?” Faust asked.

  “Like I don’t have to bury it way down deep anymore,” Mac said, nodding. “I don’t have to pretend it never happened.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “But it did happen. God knows I would have done anything for it not to have, but it did. And there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “That’s right,” Faust whispered.

  “I’ll always feel sad when I think about it—that I know. But I’m done with trying not to think about it.”

  “Very good,” Faust said.

  “Although I’ll pray for those boys for the rest of my days, something deep inside tells me they’ve already forgiven me.”

  “And you,” Faust asked. “Have you forgiven yourself.”

  “I have,” Mac said without hesitation.

  “Excellent,” Faust, standing to leave. “You should be very proud of the work you’ve put in.”

  “I am,” Mac said.

  With a genuine smile, Faust left the room.

  Mac sat quietly for a while, contemplating just how far he’d traveled in the healing process. Although he’d counted every tormented minute it took to get to where he was, he was now a world away from the horrifying place he’d started.

  ⧝

  Feeling completely spent, Mac returned to his small room. Trying to focus on his treatment and not on how much he longed to be with his children, he eventually fell asleep. But his subconscious had different priorities, escorting him back in time.

  ⧝

  Jillian—then ten years old—had returned home he
art-broken from school.

  “What’s wrong?” Mac asked her.

  “Some kids at school were laughing at me, saying there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”

  “No such thing as Santa Claus?”

  “Well, is there?” she asked, searching her dad’s eyes for the truth.

  Mac took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, knowing full well this was going to be a defining moment in their relationship—as well as his daughter’s young life. Just like his father before him, he answered Jillian’s question with a question of his own. “What do you think, Jill?”

  Jillian thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “I don’t think Santa’s real,” she said and looked at her dad, her eyes filling with the tears of betrayal.

  Mac shook his head. “I think you’re all wrong,” he told her and stood. “Come with me. I need to show you something.” He led his girl into the basement.

  Climbing over a pile of boxes, he finally reached the box that was filled with Bella and Brady’s Christmas presents.

  “Who are these for?” Jillian asked, peering into the box.

  “Your brother and sister,” he told her honestly. “And I need your help wrapping them, okay?”

  Jillian nodded and they began their work right away.

  As they wrapped the toys, Mac explained, “Santa Claus is the spirit of Christmas, Jill, the spirit of giving from your heart as an expression of love. Santa Claus is a reminder that there are more important things in the world than the worries of everyday life.”

  Jillian’s eyebrows danced in confusion.

  “Santa Claus is the spirit of true fellowship,” he added, “of feeling connected to the human race and celebrating that bond through simple acts of kindness and generosity.” He then watched the struggle behind Jillian’s innocent eyes, as she tried to understand.

  “Who are these presents from?” she asked, sticking a new tag onto one of the gifts.

  “From you,” he told her, “but write Santa Claus on the tags.”

  Her eyes flew up.

  “Santa Claus lives in all of us, Jill,” Mac explained with a nod, “so the kids at school are wrong.”