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Elena died. Mom called an hour after we first spoke to give me the news. I didn’t have time to fly out there or to hold Elena’s hand. I didn’t even have time to say thank you or goodbye.
Jason, the girls, and the men who were helping us, moved the rest of the furniture and boxes into the apartment while I hid inside the locked bathroom and cried. I sat on the linoleum floor under ugly, white lights hoping the fan would drown out the sound of my sobs. God was trying to tell me something. I needed to figure out why so many major things were happening at once.
I heard a light rap on the door. “Sam? It’s Jason.”
Sniffling, I wiped at my eyes with crumpled toilet paper. “Yes?”
“We’ve got everything moved in. I’m going to take the girls out for dinner before I pick up Gavin and my kids from Cameron’s. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No.” I said, barely recognizing my own voice.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, if you think of something, just call me. I’ll keep my cell phone close.”
I listened as he hustled Sophia and Savanna out the front door and the three of them thumped down the long flight of concrete stairs. Pushing open the bathroom door, I peeked around the apartment, my eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. It was a disaster. Boxes stacked from floor to my waistline in every room. I considered taking off and losing myself in a long strenuous run along the beach. The walls and clutter of this tiny three bedroom apartment were going to smother me.
Instead I stood my ground, convinced there was a message here for me, some sort of sign that would guide me on how to make something good come of all this terrible loss.
Each of the packing boxes was labeled. Kitchenware, Linens, Savanna’s Clothes, Sophia’s Clothes, Gavin’s Toys. I looked up and down the stacked towers searching. Why did I bring all this stuff with us? I should have left some of these things in our house. It’s not like we were never going back.
I continued searching the boxes. Mom’s Toiletries, Gavin’s Clothes, Cleaning Supplies. Books. Then I saw it. The box I was searching for. Keepsakes.
I took my apartment key and dragged it along the packing tape. Ripping it open, I pulled the box flaps out of my way. I found the first thing I was looking for right away, the beautifully wrapped Christmas present my father gave me so many lifetimes ago. I contemplated whether to open it nicely, as if I wanted to save the shimmering red and white paper, or if I should simply rip it open. After having waited three decades, I decided to just go for it.
Slipping off the curled ribbons, I tore at the festive paper. Tape lifted. Strips of red and white shredded. I removed the pretty gold cardboard lid and reached through thick layers of heavy cream tissue paper. Inside rested another smaller gold box. I shook my head in wry amusement, Dad used to make a big deal about hiding the shapes of the presents he bought for Mom and me. He said it added to the suspense because it made it harder to guess what was inside.
Removing the top of the smaller box, I found his gift, a gold heart-shaped locket with the letters SJ engraved in cursive. Sammi Jane, my childhood nickname. With trembling hands I opened the heart. He had fastened a tiny picture inside, one of him and me, a close up of our faces, Dad’s dark haired good looks and my crooked and missing teeth. We both smiled wide for the camera.
Mom had a copy of this picture. She had kept it protected in a photo album for years before I got angry one day and ripped it in half. Mom taped it back together and placed it back in her photo album. Right up until the day I moved away from home for good, I refused to look at it.
Why did my dad go through the trouble of putting together such a beautiful gift for a daughter he was planning on walking away from? I closed the locket and stared again at the face of it before turning it over in my hand. There were words on the back:
I will always love you,
Love, Dad
Did he really mean that? Did it hurt him when I never thanked him for his gift or answered his follow-up calls to make sure it arrived? Squeezing the gold heart in my hand until my fingernails dug half moons into my palm, I cried. Why had I been so stubborn for all of these years? Over time, the longer I waited to open his last present to me, the harder it was to confront. Before he left town, my dad made life feel safe and beautiful. Had I opened this gift when he first sent it to me, would things have turned out different? Maybe he thought I rejected him. Maybe he decided I was the one who didn’t want a relationship so it was easier for him to forget about me rather than fight for his daughter.
Setting the locket on a nearby box, I took a deep breath and prepared for my next big search. Halfway into the same “keepsakes” box, I saw it, a beat up camel colored leather journal. Elena’s sixth grade graduation present to me. Growing up, I turned to this journal when I felt intense joy, depression, anger or loneliness.
I leafed through the collection of my old stories. Some were scrawled on the thick, ragged-edged cotton paper. Other entries were written on elaborate stationary of pinks, pale violets, and soft yellows, tissue paper thin and taped directly into my journal. They contemplated metamorphosis, sorrow, and the difficulties of change. Memories of junior high, cruel neighbors, gossiping girlfriends, and first kisses played in my mind.
I searched the pages until I found the story I submitted to my UC Santa Cruz’s writing department. The one that got rejected.
It was titled Washed Away, and it recounted the story of Bobby and me. How I adored him, centered my life around him, and how he used and abandoned me, destroying my trust in men.
True, I had changed some names. My tale also included a large family full of impressionable young sisters, a hip mom, and a genuine best friend—all the things I’d wished I really had. That aside, the story was still mine. I owned what Bobby had done to me and turned it into dramatic art. Sadly, the department’s committee didn’t find my over-the-top suffering as riveting and universal as I’d expected. They rejected me.
From the other side of my apartment wall, I could hear the laugh track of some sitcom. Looking back at my words from the perspective of time, I could see my autobiographical account had only revealed fragments of my real story. My actual history was much more painful, and had started years earlier, with a different man.
I made a promise to myself. Even if it made me sick, as soon as I got this apartment organized, I was going to sit my ass down and write the truth.
I knew what my message was.
You can run from your fears and your hurts, lock them away and put on a shiny face for your friends and the mirror, but that garbage doesn’t go away. It waits for you.