The Writer's Journal: A Short Story, Boxes

Writer’s Note: This is a short fiction piece I wrote 4/11/2012, edited 1/19/2020

Boxes

It’s been awhile since I’ve come to this graveyard. As I’ve grown older, getting around places has become a challenge, but today—I needed to be here today.

 My grandmother’s grave looked the same as the last time I’d been there. Her headstone was sunken in, the etched lettering was worn from years of harsh weather. I whispered, “hello”, as I took a seat on the cold, gray stone bench that was about five feet away from her plot. They had these benches scattered all over the graveyard for old visitors like me. A welcoming jester to sit, stay awhile, and if you stay long enough, they have the perfect resting spots, just down a ways. I sat there quietly, glancing down at my wrinkled hands and thinking about how much my life had evolved since her death.

*

I remember that day, the day I walked into her house, with a box of her favorite chocolate coconut candy in my hands. The television was blaring loudly, you could hear it the second you walked in the front door. She was lying on her couch, eyes closed. “Grandma, I’m here!” I shouted, but I got no response. As I continued into the living room, wondering if she could hear me or not, which wasn’t an unusual occurrence, I saw her laying on the couch. I approached, still holding her candy, and grabbed the remote off the floor where she had dropped it from her hands. I muted the sound of the television and set down the candy and remote on her T.V. tray. I turned and looked at her, her mouth was agape, she looked so peaceful. I leaned over and put my hand on her shoulder, “Grandma?” I’d done this many times before; she’d jerk and look up at me and smile. But this time was different, she didn’t move. I shook her lightly, “Grandma, wake up.” She didn’t move, her expression didn’t change.

At that point, my heart seemed to crawl up my throat as I shook her harder. Tears frantically trickled down my face, my body was shaky. I reached for the phone and everything else happened in a blur of teary vision.

Emergency service workers came into the house, assessed the situation, muttered among themselves, avoiding eye contact until one came and put himself between me and my vision of her, he started asking questions. His lips moved, forming words that never made it to my ears. His face held a wall; this was just daily routine for him.

Minutes later my boyfriend Malcolm and my parents were there, hugging me, pulling at me to move away from the living room so the EMT’s could take her away. My dad started asking me questions, questions I didn’t hear, nor did I want to hear. I could see how upset they all were but I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak.

She’s gone.

 That’s all my mind would process.

 My grandmother, the one who took me to the park nearly every week, taught me how to read, how to be polite to people, how to color in the lines, who I spent every single day after school with, who helped me with my homework when I needed it, who cut my sandwiches into four squares, took me on road trips, taught me how to whistle, the woman who put butter on my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, my grandma, my favorite person ever, she was gone. My heart wouldn’t leave my throat and part of me didn’t want it to or I would throw up.

“Emma, talk to me.” Malcolm would beg. But I’d just shake my head. “Come to the funeral, everyone in the family is expecting you to be there,” my mother would beg. But I wouldn’t get out of bed. Weeks started passing by and I’d simply eat, clean myself up, and then crawl back to my bed.  Nothing could break this cycle.

Somehow, during the worst time of my life, during my most selfish acts, Malcolm didn’t give up on me; he would come to see me every day, bring me food, sit quietly in the corner chair of my room, and wait for me to say something. At first we just sat around silently, he wouldn’t leave until I finished eating whatever it was he’d bring.

Then one day he forced me to go with him on a, “little trip,” he called it. I was reluctant, I hadn’t left the house in weeks, but he was determined. I began feeling sorry for him, for putting up with me. It was the middle of the summer, he could have been doing anything but this, sitting inside with me for days on end. It was hot outside, but I had shorts and a tank top on. My black flip flops dragged on the sidewalk as I got into his car. The leather seats were hot, and sticking to the back of my legs. He turned the A/C on, cranking it to high. I listed to the rattling sound as his old car struggled to pump cool air. I was secretly hoping this would be a short ride so I could go back inside, back to bed.

It was too late to jump out of the car when he pulled into the cemetery. I tried locking myself inside the car but he forced me out, dragging me from the front passenger seat as I was kicking and screaming. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to accept it. No one was around as he dragged me to that warm, gray stone bench close to her grave plot and forced me to sit there.

I cried uncontrollably as we sat there, looking at her headstone. The ground was still fresh from where they dug, I couldn’t look away from it through tear-soaked eyes. I missed her funeral, I couldn’t picture what the ground had looked like open, before they lowered her casket, but I cried as I imagined what it had been like.

After a while, I calmed down, and Malcolm held my hand. He asked me to tell him my favorite memories of her, as if he hadn’t heard these stories a million times before. I didn’t want to talk at first but he just sat there, silently waiting, stroking his thumb around the top of my hand. The heat from the beating sun wrapped around me like a warm embrace. My tears were dried up, and my heart felt lighter.

“My grandma would make these chocolate and banana milkshakes on really hot summer days, like today. She’d put the bendy straws in the large glass filled to the top and make me sit at the table so I wouldn’t spill it. But she was such a bad influence, we would drink half of the milkshake then have a contest on who could blow the most bubbles in their shakes. It was always a mess.”

“What else?” He asked, still stroking my hand.

We spent three hours that day sitting there as I was sharing my memories of her with him. By the time we left I was sunburned, but I was smiling.

*

            I couldn’t pull myself from looking down at the large sparkling ring in the tiny, soft black box. I knew Malcolm was waiting for me to answer, to show any form of response but I couldn’t move, let alone speak. The only thing going through my mind were the words my grandmother had said, “I will not be here to see you get married, but I know you'll find happiness in your life.” She had been gone for two years now.

She would have loved this ring.

I only noticed the tears when Malcolm moved to wipe them off my cheeks. He didn’t take the box and ring from my hand or say anything, he just silently waited and continued to brush away my tears. I sniffled after another minute of taking it all in, pulled the ring from the box and slipped it onto my left ring finger.

"It’s perfect," I said.

*

I stood against the door frame that connected the kitchen to the dining room, the phone in my right hand, my eyes fixed on the black and green checkered curtains that hung closed in front of the kitchen window.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted out in the middle of the conversation with my mom.

“Have you told Malcolm?” Her voice squeaked in excitement.

“Do I have to?” I laughed, keeping my eyes fixed on the curtains.

“I won’t tell anyone until you tell him, Emma,” she said softly, noticing my worry.

“Mom, I’m scared,” I admitted to her after being quite for nearly five minutes.

“It’s not like he’ll leave you. You’ve been married for three years now, you both have wanted this, right? Are you two going through something?” Her voice was filling with concern. Something always meant fighting to her.

“I know, I know. We’re fine, mom. It’s just…a baby, we aren’t ready for a baby.”

“It’ll be okay Emma. This is a good thing. Think of how happy your grandmother would be. Oh, I’m just so happy for you sweetheart. But look, I have to go now; your father is waiting for me and I don’t want him to get curious. Just tell Malcolm and until you figure out what you’re going to do, I’ll keep this between us.”

“Thanks mom, I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She hung up after that, leaving me to just stand there in my kitchen, gazing at the curtains. It was raining outside, I could hear the droplets speckle against the windows, it was so peaceful.

            Malcolm stepped through the front door an hour later; I was still waiting in the kitchen, now leaning against our counter top. I had spent this entire time running through the words to say to him, the plan of how to break the news. It never does go the way you plan it to.

“Hey, everything okay?” He asked as he carried food into the room.

 “Yeah, my mom called, said she wants to stop by sometime soon, I’m pregnant and the Donell’s across the street asked if we could watch their house this week while they’re on vacation.”

“What?”

“They’re going to the beach for the week; just want us to grab their mail for them.”

“No, no. You’re pregnant?”

His facial expression was priceless. I’d never seen anyone look so shocked, happy and pale all at once.

We were going to be parents.

*

We had a beautiful, healthy baby boy. Ever since the day Mason could walk, Malcolm had him playing with some sort of sports object. As he got older, those two would spend hours outside tossing a baseball or trying to get as many shots in the basketball hoop as they could. And every time there was a game on, they would be sitting on the couch in their matching jerseys and hats. Mason always looked like he was drowning in the over-sized jersey but he refused to wear anything else while the game was on. He had to be just like daddy. For his seventh birthday, Mason opened a large box from his grandparents, it was a large square glass case with a vintage baseball glove inside. After that party, no other sport meant as much as baseball to Mason.

*

            Mason was ten when he broke his right arm falling out of a tree. I wasn’t home at the time of the accident, but Malcolm was. He said the boy didn’t shed a tear until I showed up at the emergency room. The broken arm slowed him down a little but he didn’t stop playing around. He loved sports more than he loved anything else in the world. As he continued to heal, he setup cardboard boxes in the basement to practice pitching with his left hand. By the time they were letting him take days off of wearing a sling, he had mastered a mean curve ball that even Malcolm couldn’t swing against.

*

            We became one of those parents at the children’s games that always cheered a little louder than the rest and always pointed out our son with huge grins on our faces. We had custom jerseys made up with his number on it that said MOM on mine, and DAD on Malcolm’s. We were those parents and proud of it. Before we knew it, before we could really accept it, we became the parents of a college baseball player. Wearing those same jerseys, but at home now, because we couldn’t afford to go to every game anymore. We had so much hope and pride for our baby boy, but moving him halfway across the country to follow his college baseball career was the hardest part. Mason lived out of three boxes for six months before he finally let me unpack them at his dorm in Texas.

*

“Mom, I think I want to marry this girl,” was the first thing he said when I asked Mason how things were going with his girlfriend of six years. He was standing in our kitchen, leaning on the counter. The same counter I leaned on as I had told Malcolm I was pregnant those 26 years ago. I smiled at him and continued to eat the chocolates from the box he had brought me.

“What do you think dad will say?” he asked me.

“That you’re stupid,” I joked.

“No, mom, seriously, what do you think he’ll say?”

I stopped eating the candies and put the lid on them.

 “Your father will be proud of you, just as he has been all these years. But I think he’d rather see you never have to worry about another person’s needs so you can focus on your career.”

“Baseball can’t be my life forever, mom.”

“I know but you’re a professional player Mason, that doesn’t happen to everyone.”

“Getting married won’t take that away from me.”

“One of these days you’ll have to choose though.”

“I guess you’re right.”

*

Both of my parents died two years apart, starting a year after Mason had proposed. Malcolm helped me through that loss just as he did with my grandmother, sitting at that same stone bench, sharing stories of them this time.

 Mason’s daughter Abby was born four years later, which was the beginning of the end for Mason’s professional career. He wanted to settle down roots for his family, back East, closer to us. Little Abby was this eight-pound, six-ounce bundle of energy. After she turned two, her fiery red hair was more predominate, she was a miniature version of her mother. She grew into a beautiful handful for Mason and his wife. For me and Malcolm, Little Abby gave us a piece of the world only a grandparent could be gifted. One filled with unwavering love, inspiration, hope. Her imagination was wild, abundant and enchanting.

 Malcolm spoiled her with candy every time she came over and I would take her to the park just like my grandmother had done with me.

*

Abby was now seven, and still as tenacious as ever. Mason had now gone into sports announcing for a local radio station.

 It was a month after Abby’s birthday that Malcolm got sick. At first, we thought he had just come down with the flu. But that turned into a week’s stay in the hospital; doctors running tests, tubes poking out of his arms. Then those tubes doubled and more tests were being run. I started to hate that off yellow wallpaper in his small, rectangular room, the rattling sound the heater made, the way the blinds fluttered whenever a good gust of air hit them. Four weeks turned into eight, turning into twelve. “We still have more tests to run,” the doctors would say. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” the nurses would suggest. That dark red chair next to his bed became my designated spot while he was there. He slept a lot but when he wasn’t asleep he’d get me to tell him stories of our life. It seemed to comfort him but maybe he was doing it for me. I think he knew.

*

A cool breeze picked up, rustling the leaves and making me pull my sweater around me tighter. My bones were sore; I’d been sitting still on this bench for too long. I could see Mason walking towards me, bundled up in a large jacket and scarf. He looked so much like his father. Speckles of gray hair peppered the top of his head, it stood out in the sunlight. I never noticed how much of it he had now, my baby boy.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said as he got closer.

 I didn’t say anything to him as he sat down next to me.

            “The hospital called me, they said you were there when dad…they said you just up and left.”

            “I needed to come here.”

I didn’t look Mason in the eyes, I just glanced at him. I could see the heartache in his face, his confusion.

            “Whenever someone close to me died, your father would bring me here and make me tell him every story I have remembered of the person that died.”

            “Why?”

            “Because sometimes our memories are all we have of people and one day we all have to find a comfort in that.” 

I reached over and took his hand in mine.

“Tell me a story”, I asked him.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading.

Until next time,

M.E.