Life in a Box

by Einat Lifshitz Shem-Tov

  I do remember one time where my father came to school, but after that I prayed he wouldn’t ever come again. I was in middle school then. The teacher asked that one of my parents come to a meeting regarding my studies and my social status. After three letters, my father decided to meet with her. He insisted that I also be present, even though the teacher suggested that the meeting be held without me.

  The teacher began by describing the state of my studies. She said that, despite my efforts—and she was aware of them—there were difficulties I couldn’t overcome by myself. She added that my learning problems were affecting my social status, and that many times she would find me reading a book in one of the corners of the school yard. “It is very important for children to have social interactions at this age,” she emphasized. “This will influence her ability to interact with others in the future.”

  My father sat the entire time in silence. His jaws were tense and his hands held tightly to the arm rests. There was a look on his face I didn’t understand. It was a combination of anger and sadness. I saw him swallow, but no words came out of his mouth. After the teacher finished speaking, she waited for his reaction, but it never came. Finally, he asked, “Is that it?” The teacher nodded and then he got up from his place, patted my back and ushered me out of the room. I couldn’t raise my eyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I remember seeing the teacher still sitting, not moving, until she disappeared from view with the closing of the door behind us.

  We were silent the entire way home—me because of my deep shame, and him (it seemed) because of anger. I expected a harsh lecture when we got home, but this never happened. When he stopped the car in the driveway, he turned to me with a strange look on his face. His eyes looked at me with warmth and his hand left the steering wheel, took mine, and softly squeezed it. For a split second, I could see that a crack had been formed. This unfamiliar gesture both scared me and calmed me at the same time. It was only for a second, but in that moment, I suddenly realized that underneath his rigid shell, there was also something soft.

  Life after that day went on as usual and this special moment was covered with layers of other memories.

  9

  The day after I found the contents of the basement, my life was saved once again.

  I arrived at the office a little before nine o’clock. Most of the secretaries hadn’t yet arrived, and the computers with their covers looked like a museum display. I turned on the lights over my space and went into the little room with the coffee machine. I went back to my desk, hot drink in hand, and found Donna waiting, fresh and stylish, like it was already the middle of the day. Her hair was adorned with a colorful comb and her flowery blouse perfectly matched her pink skirt. She wore pointed high heels and her nails were painted pink, completing her curvaceous but distinguished appearance.

  Donna was about thirty years old and boasted the title of Head Secretary. She was very attractive and well-groomed and always left an enticing aroma in her wake. The men in the office, even those in top positions, would change their tone of voice when addressing her and it seemed like their bodies were slightly bowing as they spoke.

  The day began with the monotonous melody of clicking computer keyboards. Phones rang, orders were shouted into the air, and looks were exchanged. Definitely a normal day. At 11:30, Donna buzzed me and asked me to come to her office. Her office was located at the end of a long corridor where she could look out over everything that was going on.

  “Sit down,” she ordered me as I entered. The office, like Donna, was full of bright colors. The shelves behind her were each a different color and jam-packed with different colored binders and other little colorful objects—little angels, a miniature can of Coca-Cola, the figure of an Indian woman with feathers in her hair, cubes in red, yellow and blue. Two pictures were hanging on the opposite wall: one of a clown and the second one of a golden wheat field. Donna completed the atmosphere with her colorful personality and appearance.

  When I was about to sit down in the chair across from her, she stood up and offered me her chair. I looked at her in confusion, smiled, and sat down in the chair across from her, but she said, “No, Eva, sit in my chair.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Sit in my chair,” she reiterated.

  I walked around the desk and warily sat down in her chair.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “I don’t understand,” I repeated.

  “I asked how you felt,” she said.

  “Strange,” I answered.

  “Well, get used to it.”

  Donna left the room and left me alone. I didn’t understand her actions and felt uncomfortable in her chair—I wanted to get up. It wasn’t my place. It wasn’t my chair or my office. Donna wasn’t very talkative. She chose her words carefully, and they were just enough to convey the necessary message. Not everybody liked her—some of the other secretaries gossiped disapprovingly about her appearance—but we all knew that she was extremely professional in her work. I liked her, although I didn’t really know her.

  All this flashed through my head as I was sitting in her chair. My hands played with a pen with a tiny wide-brimmed hat on the end. Under the glass on her desk, there were pictures spread around, most of them of little children. On second glance, I saw that they were pictures cut out from magazines. I didn’t know anything about her personal life—whether she was married or not, or if she had any children. Yet I was sitting in her office, in her domain, and getting used to it. Used to what exactly, I didn’t know.

  I decided to go back to my desk and wait for her to return and explain her actions. I put the pen with the hat down on the desk and gave a last glance around the room. Just as I got up from the chair, there was a dull screech. Everything happened too fast. I pushed the chair on wheels back and jumped to the side. My leg hit the corner of the desk and a stream of blood spurted out. I fell and hit my head hard on the floor. The entire shelf collapsed onto the place where her chair had stood. Binders were scattered everywhere and the papers that were inside flew around like kites until reaching the floor.

  In seconds, the room filled with people. The noise made by the falling shelf could be heard all the way down the hall where the secretaries worked and even to other rooms. My colleagues grouped around me with concern. I was more shaken by the commotion than by the shelf. They called for an ambulance; somebody pushed me gently to the floor and put a pillow under my head; someone else brought me a glass of water. All I wanted to do was run away and hide.

  When things died down, people began to return to their offices. Only a few people remained in the room, among them Richard, the company’s owner. Richard hadn’t seen me since my parents died. Between my first day at the office, when he wished me good luck, and today, I hadn’t seen him. His office was on the second floor, away from the secretaries. Now he stood over me, worry etched on his face.

  How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I’m OK,” I answered with effort.

  “I’d like you to take a few days’ vacation and rest; the company will pay for any expenses you may have. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him.

  He touched my forehead with his hand and looked into my eyes for a number of seconds. “You sure are a Brown, no doubt about it,” he said, and he turned around and left the room.

  The clicking of high heels announced Donna’s arrival. “What happened?” she asked, her chest rising with each word. She must have run with all her strength. Her hair, normally flawless, was draped over her face with a barrette hanging on the end of a strand that had come loose.

  “I’m OK,” I reassured her. “Everything is fine.”

  Donna looked around and slowly began to understand what had happened just minutes earlier.

  “I don’t believe it,” she mumbled. “I don’t believe it.” She was on the verge of tears. It was the first time I had ever seen her lose her composure. Her face showed honest concern.


  “I am so sorry,” she continued. “I should have been sitting there, not you.”

  “Donna, I’m fine, really. Actually, I can get up and continue working,” I said, trying to calm her down.

  “Absolutely not,” she said decisively. “I’m taking you home right now!”

  It was obvious that there was no point in arguing with her. I lifted myself up with her help, but once upright, I felt dizzy. Donna held on to me firmly and led me to the red sofa underneath the pictures. She sat me down, gave me a glass of water, and ordered me to drink. I did as she said and waited for the dizziness to pass. In another few minutes, I felt better and asked her to take me home. She led me outside slowly, supporting me.

  The ride passed mostly in silence. Every once in a while, Donna would inquire how I was feeling and if everything was OK. When we arrived at my house, she poked around in my purse in search of the key and put both purses on her shoulder, one arm hugging my back as we walked slowly to the front door.

  “Thanks, Donna. It’s OK, you can go. I’ll just lie down a bit,” I said.

  Donna didn’t answer—I thought she didn’t hear me. We went inside. I saw her quickly take in the surroundings, and then she continued to lug me toward the living room. She gently sat me down on the sofa, helped me lie down, and brought me a pillow for under my legs.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” she asked. I pointed back toward the hallway. Donna came back holding my blanket and a pillow.

  “Kitchen?”

  “Behind you,” I answered.

  A few minutes later, she came back with a cup of tea. “Drink,” she ordered.

  I sat up. She sat some distance from me.

  “I am so sorry,” she apologized again.

  “It’s not your fault,” I reassured her.

  “It is my fault. I shouldn’t have crammed so many binders on the shelf,” she said.

  “But it could have happened to you too,” I said, trying to comfort her without success.

  “Yes, but it happened to you,” she said. “I should have been more careful, less complacent.”

  “Donna, stop it. It happened by chance; I just happened to be sitting there. By the way, why did you want me to get used to sitting in your place?”

  “I’m getting a new job. I’m going up to the second floor—Rachel’s floor.”

  “Rachel, Richard’s secretary?”

  “Yes, she’s retiring. Actually, Richard asked her to retire.”

  “I see…” I said, but my mind began to concoct different scenarios. Donna saw me looking pensive, and I lowered my gaze. She said quietly, “You think I’m having an affair with him and that’s why he’s giving me the job.”

  “It’s none of my business,” I said.

  “You’re right; it isn’t any of your business. But it’s insulting! I’m good at what I do. I’m a professional, and that’s the only reason I was offered the position.”

  I could tell she was angry. I immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. The truth is, we don’t know each other very well, and I thought that… I’m sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven,” she said. “And you are not getting out of bed till tomorrow. You’re not coming to work. I’ll be back at the end of the day.”

  She helped me to my room, made me another cup of tea, set it down on the nightstand by my bed, and covered me with the blanket.

  “I’m taking the key to the house with me so I can come in without you getting up.”

  I nodded. I didn’t have the energy to resist or argue.

  I heard the front door close and remembered that Donna had never explained to me why she wanted me to get used to her chair. Exhaustion drew me into a deep dreamless sleep.

  I woke up with the house beginning to darken. Is it early or late, night or day? It took me a number of minutes to remember the events of the morning. My body was heavy. I could have continued sleeping, but if I went back to sleep, I would wake up in the middle of the night.

  When I dragged myself out of bed, dizziness overwhelmed me; I steadied myself until my confidence returned. After washing my face and changing clothes, I took the cold cup of tea from the nightstand, trudged to the kitchen, and made myself a cup of black coffee, needing something strong to wake me up.

  I sat down at the table, put my elbows up, and held my head in my hands. The day’s events flew in front of my eyes like a speeding train. I saw myself sitting in Donna’s chair, wondering why she put pictures of children cut out from magazines under the glass. I remembered lifting my gaze and looking at the paintings on the wall across from me. I distinctly remembered the second when the dull, almost imperceptible creaking, like the footsteps of a cat on sand, started—and the way my body was suddenly pushed aside, as if on its own, away from danger.

  I ran those few seconds through my mind again and again and tried to understand what made me jump away from the source of danger; I had had no idea the shelf above me was unstable, and I was not worried that it would collapse under the weight. Slowly, my thoughts turned to another place and time—to the car accident that should have occurred but didn’t. The two incidents were connected. This aroused a strange feeling in me. There was no logical explanation for what took place in either incident. I certainly should have been injured in both of them—it ought to have happened, and yet it didn’t. Something or someone saved me. Something or someone protected me again.

  My body flushed with warmth, and a gentle smile appeared on my lips. This enormous feeling of security was filling me up, and new energy surged through my body, filling me with vitality. I wanted to share my feelings with someone, but it still wasn’t the right time. How could I tell someone about my certainty that my father was still by my side? How could I describe the shapeless creatures that were hovering around my house and leading me to all kinds of places? How could I convince someone that I was protected from accidents—not by chance, but by a guiding hand?

  With a smile on my face, I got up and walked confidently to the basement. This time my steps were less hesitant. Sitting down again, in the same place as before, I eagerly opened another box. It was brimming with my childhood games and toys. As I began to take them out one by one, nostalgia overcame me. The first object was a board game that contained plastic soldiers. The board had pictures of planes, bridges and tanks, and the player had to plan phases of war and bring his soldiers to victory. The game wasn’t that much fun, but my father gave it to me as a present, and I couldn’t refuse to play it with him. I used to wonder why he liked playing games with me that were considered masculine; he never bought me dolls or other feminine things.

  Underneath this game were other boxes of games, mostly war games. At the bottom of the pile there were boxes still closed in their original packaging; boxes that had never been opened. There were art and craft kits, works in plaster, tons of coloring books without a mark on them, and crossword puzzles. There was also a heap of crayons and markers. I didn’t recognize any of these objects. They didn’t arouse any memory. I wondered who they belonged to.

  I went to another nearby box. It opened easily, and surprisingly, there were dolls of various sizes inside, as well as a doll’s bed and a doll-sized folding stroller. There were also other things that were completely foreign to me: tiny kitchen utensils, such as pots, cutlery, and plates, and a pouch containing different kinds of plastic makeup. I thought, it’s possible that these things belong to someone else who asked my parents to store them in our basement. I returned the toys to the box and turned it around to see if something was written on it. I turned it in each direction until I finally found it. On one of the sides, written in large letters with a dark-colored marker, it said “Ethel.”

  The sound of a key turning in the lock snapped me out of my reverie. Donna was calling me from upstairs. I could hear her hands groping the wall in search of the light switch.

  I got up, turned out the light, and walked up the stairs, where I met a face full of concern.

  “How do you feel?” she immediatel
y fired at me.

  “I’m fine,” I answered.

  “Did you rest?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Did something happen? Is everything OK with you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, pacifying her.

  “Come to the kitchen. I brought you something you can’t refuse.”

  Donna took some muffins out of a bag, filling the kitchen with a strong aroma of cinnamon. She found a plate and set them down on it. In another minute, the table was set with two cups of tea as well. Donna moved about with efficiency, and even though she had only been in the house a short time, she seemed as natural as if it were her own home.

  How strange that Donna was the one in whom I chose to confide my experiences since my parents’ deaths. But something about her made me trust her and want to confide in her. Maybe it was her true concern for my welfare, or maybe it was the fact that she was a stranger. In any case, she listened to me patiently. Every once in a while, she asked a question to clarify something for herself, but most of the time her eyes rested curiously on my mouth. When I finished speaking, my clothes were drenched in sweat. My hands were forcibly stuck to my body and I could hardly breathe. I waited for her reaction. Like a defenseless animal in a dark forest, I had no idea where the predator would come from.

  “Ghosts, huh?”

  I was immediately inundated with shame and regretted my candor. After all, Donna was my boss. What was I thinking, telling her, of all people, my strange story of ghosts hanging around my house? I waited for her to clear her throat and suggest my taking an extended vacation from work, but she just said, “You know, Eva, you just told my story.”

  “What?” I was shocked.

  “I listened to you and felt as if your words came out of my mouth.”