CHAPTER TWELVE
There’s a shoebox under the bed where Mackenzie sleeps at my parents’ house. It’s filled with things I don’t want to remember but am afraid I’ll forget.
I’m on my stomach on the comforter, legs kicked up behind me, propped on my elbows. My feet are bare, like a kid’s. I can hear Mac downstairs talking with my parents, and from the tone I know it to be one of my daughter’s discussions, not just a chat. Most of the time, I find Mackenzie’s grown-up way of interacting with adults something between cute and impressive. Most of the time, when I hear her intelligent mode of discourse, I’m proud, figuring it means she’s smart and I’ve taught her well. But today, it makes me sad. Because my daughter may seem so grown up at times in part because I’ve forced her to grow up fast. It’s always been the two of us, with supporting roles played by people who are even old by grandparent standards. Mackenzie has her friends. But she also has chores and responsibilities. She’s been asked to understand a lot, because there’s a lot in our lives that requires understanding. And forgiveness.
I’m picking up each item in the shoebox, giving it a glance before setting it aside. I’m not sure if my heart is breaking or if this is my normal malaise. So many varieties of sadness. So many ways to describe all I’ve done wrong.
My mind keeps wanting to flash back to what happened with Chadd. I’m repelled by my actions, and if someone else had performed them, I’d have many judgments. Not only did I let him take me into the bathroom where I work (and then take me in the bathroom, a devilish voice wants to add), but I did it after swearing I never would. I know this path. I’ve been down it before. I suppose when I was young, it could be forgiven, because I was acting out — monogamously, when I had that option. Maybe I’ve always been sexual, and maybe it’s not my fault. Maybe it’s not even the kind of thing that should carry fault. Maybe my parents, well meaning though they’ve always been, instilled me with morals that don’t mesh with the way my body and spirit need to be.
Or maybe I’m broken.
Maybe I’m weak.
Maybe I have no will. Because not even twenty-four hours before Chadd returned to the Pit, I was chiding myself for my last lustful indiscretion, swearing it would never happen again. It could never happen again, because it’s not just me in this life. I have Mackenzie to consider, and if she ever found out how I am or if rumor ever reaches her ears, when she’s older …
The idea pours ice water down my spine. A moment ago, even while hating myself, I’d been imagining the cool movements of the porcelain under me as Chadd slipped inside. I’d been recalling the delicious, sinful carnality of it all even in the midst of decrying it. But imagining what could happen cools me off in a flash. Because oh God, I remember being a teenager. I know how this town is, how people gossip. Everyone seems to know everyone else. When I got pregnant, I remember the way everyone tiptoed around me well before I’d admitted it to anyone. I had to tell my parents early because if I didn’t, someone else would. Somehow — maybe from my doctor’s office, maybe from the pharmacist I purchased the pregnancy test from, maybe from someone who noticed I was puking during second period — people knew.
If someone ever told my little girl what they heard about her mother’s actions in a store dressing room, I couldn’t bear the way she’d look at me. If I got the reputation I deserve. If …
Another splash of cold water. I don’t want to think about that. I won’t think about that.
Things used to be simpler, when life had promise. And maybe, despite all I’ve done, maybe it still does for Mackenzie. It should. She’s a great kid, and my parents have filled in the gaps I’ve left wanting. I wish she had a father or at least a father figure, but at least she has Dad. He wasn’t able to run alongside her bike when she was learning to ride without training wheels, and I doubt he’ll be coaching her soccer team, but he’s kind and gentle. Strong in his own way.
Still, I’ve seen a change in Mackenzie. At first, I thought it was nothing, but the more time passes, the less certain I am. She seems wary about school. She seems more timid than usual, less willing to talk about her day. Maybe less willing to talk period.
Hey, Mackenzie! I noticed your mom going into a bathroom with a stranger from work. What do you think she was doing in there?
I’m being paranoid. Even if kids today are jaded enough to think that way at nine, Mackenzie doesn’t have the knowledge to disrespect me. Or the context if she did. Yesterday was great, and I did my best to give her another great day today. I doubled-down. You hear stories about parents overcompensating for a divorce, spoiling kids because they feel guilty. I didn’t have a divorce, but I wonder if this was the same.
No. We’re fine. I’ve got a shitty boss and a shitty job, and I often think about how I flushed my future down the toilet when I got pregnant. My parents, churchy and proper as they are, always did a great job of keeping their guilt mongering in check. They said I could keep on living with them and raise my daughter at home. I left anyway. It’s working well enough — and as far as my issues with sex are concerned, I can figure it out. If I want to beat myself up about something now, it shouldn’t be that. What’s done is done, and the things I can change are still in the future.
If I want to feel uneasy, I should forget about what I’m hearing downstairs and focus on this shoebox.
I don’t think Mackenzie knows this box is here. There’s nothing damning inside, but it still feels so private — not because its contents are bad, but because they’re so very good. It’s a specific kind of good, planted firmly in the past.
These are fond memories that will never delight my present again.
Being reminded of what’s in here brings me equal amounts of pleasure and sorrow. I remember how good I felt back then, when I was innocent, when I thought I was in love and didn’t have a care in the world. But the contrast of those days against today makes me want to cry.
Here I am, in a set of carnival photo booth snapshots, with Grady behind and under me. To me, this is how he will always be: seventeen, rugged, disobedient, usually wearing that black leather jacket that made him look like he was in a biker gang. Grady with the facial hair he refused to shave no matter how much it got under Mr. Graubner’s skin.
Looking at the strip of photographs, I can almost recall the simple, carefree joy of the evening they were taken. Before my life changed. Back when I was just a girl. Back when the only thing I had to worry about was my boyfriend’s affection, which was no worry at all. Back when I didn’t wonder about my future because I knew there would be a future with him.
There are more photos farther down because Mom had that little photo printer and I liked having something tangible to hold. Today, I wish I’d simply kept them on my camera. As files, they wouldn’t hurt as much. Touching each one now, I can see happiness once felt. I can see the love I used to swear Grady had for me. I can see the dumb blindness in my teenage eyes — a stupid naiveté about life’s harsher realities. I look, to my adult self, like a deer in headlights. A car is about to hit me head on, but the teenage me will never see it coming.
Holding the photos now, I see time’s passage in a way that doesn’t occur with digital pictures.
These edges are worn, some curled up.
The ink in Mom’s printer must not have been top notch because they’re all a bit faded.
It’s like time itself has crossed these memories, crushing them under its tromping feet.
I dig deeper.
I find the locket at the bottom.
I want to cry. I remember the day he gave this to me. Grady was never obvious with his affection, and often thoughtless. He wasn’t big on gifts, and his taste seldom suited mine. There’s almost nothing he ever gave me that has or had value, either in dollars or emotional currency. But this … this is one he got right.
I hold it up by the chain. It’s a simple thing, silver, probably an antique. Only now do I realize Grady never told me where he got it. I was an idiot, easy to impress, and I probably assumed he picked it up at one of those tacky little charm shops at the mall. But now, with my adult fingers, I can see that it’s not cheap, clearly made to last. Maybe it came from a relative. Hell, he might have stolen it. But to me, now and back then, it’s always been beautiful.
The locket was empty when he dropped it in my hands. But being the silly, ridiculous, lovestruck little girl I can’t believe I used to be, I cut out two photos and placed them inside. One of him and one of me.
I open the locket. And there we are: side by side, as if meant to be together forever.
It’s more than I can take. I don’t know if it’s the perfect storm of stress I’ve been in lately, or if I’m crushed by the weight of curdled potential and squandered opportunities. But my fingers shake as I ease the precious thing closed, and two tears patter onto the bedspread that sometimes covers my daughter while she sleeps.
I don’t know when Grady will show up, back in town.
I don’t know whether I love him or hate him.
I only know that whatever happens, it’s not something I’m prepared to face, now or ever.