~
In the end, I have to drop it. I bring it up several times that day, but Alex either changes the subject or walks out of the room. He refuses categorically to call the police and I can’t get him to tell me why.
But I can’t stop thinking about the box. Questions whirl round and round in my head. Who would do this? Why? What does it mean? All this has rattled me. And I am scared now.
It’s clear in my mind that the parcel is linked to Alex’s older daughters Poppy and Violet. Poppies are in season right now, a quick internet search has informed me, but violets are springtime flowers. Perhaps that’s why the violets were artificial. I think the number of flowers – thirteen in total – is supposed to be unlucky. Is someone cursing us?
I think Alex should contact his ex-wife, but I know there’s no point suggesting that. Maybe I should try to find her myself. I’m also tempted to go to the police tomorrow when Alex goes back to work, but he has burnt the box and everything in it, so there’s no evidence now anyway. Except for the card. It’s still in my handbag.
I haven’t been able to tell Alex about the card. I’m not sure if I should. He’s obviously shutting this out and that seems to be his way of dealing with it. But every time I close my eyes, I see the words. Wake up and smell the dead flowers. It’s as if they’re stamped on the inside of my eyelids.
I can’t explain why, but I get the impression that the message is intended for me. Someone is warning me, telling me to open my eyes. I have to be more aware of what’s going on around me. Or more wary. I think that’s what it means. But I have no idea what I’m not seeing.
I need to keep my wits about me, which is another reason why there’s no way I’m taking the medication Doctor Irving has prescribed for me. The main reason, of course, is that there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not depressed. Freaked out at times, yes. Sad, homesick and lonely, yes. But depressed, certainly not. And I know what depression is. I’ve seen it. I know what it can do. They’ve got it wrong.
I don’t protest, though, when Alex goes to the chemist late that afternoon to pick up my prescription. And that evening, when he opens the bottle of pills and hands me one, I take it compliantly and put it on my tongue. Then I take a sip from the toothbrush glass, which Alex has filled with water from the tap.
I don’t want to make Alex angry by refusing to take the tablet. So, under his watchful eye, I pretend to swallow it. I can tell from the look on his face he’s very concerned about me.
‘I’m worried about you,’ Alex says, as if reading my thoughts, ‘so I’ve asked my mum to come round next week. She’ll help out with Chloe, give you a chance to rest.’
In my head, I swear. In the mirror, I smile at Alex. Then, on second thoughts, I decide it might be a good thing if my mother-in-law spends some time with Chloe. Perhaps I could go out on my own for a while and shop for some clothes that actually fit. Or I could meet up with Vicky at that gym she mentioned or go for a swim. I like the idea of a change of scenery. And I think a bit of sport would do me good now.
On the Monday, Sandy arrives before Alex leaves for work. I can hear them talking in the kitchen as I pad down the stairs and along the hallway in my slippers.
‘She’s suffering from post-natal depression,’ Alex says. ‘Can you keep an eye on her?’
I don’t like the idea of my mother-in-law watching over me.
‘Do you think Chloe’s safe when Kaitlyn’s on her own with her?’
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ Alex says, in a solemn voice I haven’t heard before. ‘Just keep an eye on her.’
This time I think he’s instructing her to look out for Chloe rather than spy on me.
‘You certainly know how to pick them, Alexander.’
I clear my throat loudly as I come into the kitchen. Then, as my mother-in-law’s words sink in, I wish I’d eavesdropped a little longer. What did Sandy mean by that?
‘Good morning, Sandy,’ I say. My tone is cool and I glare at her. I can’t help it.
Alex leaps up from his seat to make me some tea, and once he has done that, he makes a speedy departure for work.
By mid-morning, I’m fed up with making cups of tea and polite conversation. By mid-afternoon, I’m starting to go mad.
‘Why don’t I take Chloe out for a long walk and you can have a nap?’ Sandy asks when I sigh for at least the tenth time in five minutes.
I’m about to snap that I’m not tired, but then I think the better of it. It will do me good to have some ‘me time’, as Julie calls it. When she was staying, she kept saying how important it is for mothers of young children to pamper themselves now and then so they don’t lose their minds.
‘Are you sure, Sandy? I’ll come with you if you like.’ I don’t sound very enthusiastic.
Luckily, my mother-in-law insists, so I get the baby bag ready and a few minutes later I watch Sandy pushing the pram down the driveway in her impracticable heels.
I don’t know what to do with myself once Sandy and Chloe have left. I don’t feel like taking a nap – I’m wired, not tired. I consider doing some cleaning, but I can’t be bothered. The house isn’t quite as spotless as Alex would like, but it’s spick and span by anyone else’s standards.
As I’m sitting on the sofa cradling a mug of tea in my hands, my mind inevitably wanders to the box again. The dead flowers covered in dirt. The card with its confusing message. I remember the cardboard box in the guestroom and I picture Julie’s curious face when she asked months ago if we should open it. I rejected the idea at the time – we were looking for the necklace and it couldn’t possibly have found its way by accident into a sealed box, but ever since it cropped up in my dream the other day, I’m as keen to know what’s in there as Julie was.
Do I dare? How would I feel if Alex went through my things? My eyes are drawn to the whiskey I gave Alex for his birthday. The bottle is still in its box, unopened, on the coffee table. The sight of it and the memory it carries spur me into action. I set down my half-full mug of tea on the coffee table next to it and then I make my way into the kitchen and grab a pair of scissors before heading upstairs. My movements feel automatic and unconscious, as if I’m sleepwalking or being pulled along by my hand. I don’t resist.
Moments later, I find myself kneeling in front of the open box, hesitating. Last time I didn’t trust Alex, I made things worse by going through his phone and jumping to the wrong conclusion about a text message that turned out to be perfectly innocuous.
You really don’t trust me at all, do you? It’s so like his voice, I almost believe my husband is on his knees next to me. I shudder.
He’s the one who accused me of chatting up Tom.
But I’m the one snooping on my spouse.
I’ve no inkling of what could be in there. What if I discover something I don’t want to know? I might be better off not going through with this. But that parcel has reminded me of this box and now I have to find out what’s inside.
I feel bad about not trusting Alex, but he has told me so many lies that I can no longer see the truth. I’ve been blind, or blinded. I need to open my eyes – and therefore this box. Inside there might just be one more piece that’s missing from the puzzle my life is becoming. If I don’t open it, I may not ever see the bigger picture.
All this wavering is getting my adrenalin going, but it’s also giving me pins and needles in my calves. I’m not really in two minds about opening this box; deep down I know I’m going to open it. I also know it will probably turn out to be nothing. I’m building this up out of all proportion, but I’m in for a huge anticlimax. At least, I hope I am.
The very first thing I pull out of the box is a book entitled First to the Finish Line: My Incredible Journey from Injury to Ironman. It has a photo of a triathlete in action on the cover. Thumbing through it, I notice there’s a handwritten dedication at the front of the book.
To Alex.
With all my love, always.
Nicola. X
My heart misses a beat or two. Then I reason with myself. The spine of the book is quite worn and I’m pretty sure this box was taped up long before I got here. I’ve never heard of Nicola. She must be one of Alex’s ex-girlfriends from before he married me.
Under the book are lots of trophies. I inspect each of them in turn. Unsurprisingly, they’re all for triathlons. Under the cups are medals with pictures of swimmers, cyclists and runners embossed on them. I’m surprised Alex doesn’t have them on display. He likes to extol his athletic prowess at every opportunity, and I think he’s quite right to be proud of his sporting results.
But then, on closer examination, I notice the athletes on the medals are female. Do these belong to Nicola? Or to another of Alex’s ex-girlfriends? The jealous thoughts just keep coming. He must have lived with this woman at one point if he still has her trophies. I imagine he packed them away when they split up. Whoever she was. It can’t have been Melanie. I’ve heard him criticise his ex-wife many times for being ‘intellectual rather than athletic’. His words.
Wondering if the whole box contains mementos of Alex’s past flames, or belongings one of them has left behind, I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly before carrying on. The next thing I take out is a pair of handcuffs. With black fur. For fuck’s sake! I’m starting to feel sick now. I need to stop now. I don’t want to know any more.
But I push my hand into the box again and rummage around to see what else it contains. There’s nothing else. I peer into the empty box and then I do a double take. There is something left – a large white envelope at the bottom of the box. Opening it, I find a photo, its colour faded with age.
I turn the photo around so it’s the right way up. I feel my mouth and my eyes opening wider and wider as I take in the picture. It shows a young boy, aged eight or nine, lying across a wooden chair, his jeans and his pants around his ankles. Next to him, a man stands over him, a belt in his hand.
The boy is Alex. Tears spring to my eyes. He told me his father used to beat him with the belt from his trousers. Even as my heart thuds against my ribcage, I force myself to look at the photo. The room isn’t furnished. It’s not inside a house but more like inside a garage. I can make out shelves in the background, but the quality has suffered over time and it probably wasn’t a good photo to begin with. It looks as if the photographer took this without a flash.
The photographer. A disturbing thought strikes me. Who took the photo? It couldn’t have been Alex’s own mother, could it? Was she complicit in this with her husband? And then an even more unsettling thought. She’s alone with Chloe. Oh, dear God, she may have physically abused her own son and now she’s with my daughter.
I try to get hold of Sandy, but she isn’t answering her mobile. I ring again. Then, throwing my phone onto the bed, I hear a growl escape my mouth. It sounds like a mixture of frustration and fear.
My hands shaking, I start throwing everything back into the box. Book, trophies, medals, handcuffs, the works. Well, nearly everything. As I go to put the photo back into the envelope, I look at it again. My attention is drawn to the orange digital date stamp in the bottom right-hand corner: 08.09.1987. The eighth of September 1987. Ten. Alex had just turned ten years old when this photo was taken. I decide to keep it and I close up the box with everything else in it.
You can tell the box has been opened. The parcel tape won’t stick back down properly. I’ll have to buy some tape and do a better job later. As I’m pushing the box back into the wardrobe, I scan the room for my phone. There it is, on the bed, where I tossed it. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I call my mother-in-law’s mobile once more. But there’s still no reply.
Making my way back downstairs, I look at my watch. Sandy and Chloe have been gone for three hours now. Three hours is a long time. What if Sandy has a quick temper like Alex? Chloe cries all the time. What if my mother-in-law can’t handle that?
To fight my rising panic, I try to think things through. I don’t know if Sandy took the photo. And even if she did, it doesn’t mean Chloe is in danger. I tell myself Chloe will be fine and no harm will come to her with Sandy.
All I can do now is wait. And try not to fret. But by the time another hour has gone by, I’ve chewed off all my fingernails and twirled my hair into knots. I’m not sure what to make of the photo I’ve just discovered.
Have I opened up a can of worms? Or Pandora’s box? When all the evils flew out of Pandora’s box, only Hope was left inside.
I hope to God Chloe is OK.