Memory Box

My commanding officer met me outside in the sandy space between the sleeping quarters and the offices. Her voice was uncharacteristically restrained and her body language subdued, as if she was tenuously containing something that was difficult to say and wasn’t quite prepared to say it. As we walked the short distance to her office I endured her small talk about life in the desert and answered with little mmhmms and yeses. In between, I was swallowing hard and fast, trying to choke off the anxiety that was currently trying to choke me.

Our walk ended in a brown paneled room adjacent to her office and we took our places across from each other in green vinyl club chairs. Almost immediately there was a soft rap at the door. As it opened, I recognized the familiar form of the chaplain. My mind began swirling and buzzing with anxiety and dissociation. I wondered if something that I had said to the chaplain had climbed the chain of command while trying to distance myself from worry.

I left the office alone and shellshocked. With papers gripped tightly in my left hand I shuffled back through the sand to my sleeping quarters; seeing nothing, hearing no one. I laid on my bunk and stared at the ceiling with a thousand-yard stare, mentally replaying what I could remember from the meeting. Two days later I boarded a supply plane that would take me in the direction of home.

After the obligatory meetings with the lawyers I arrived at the place I used to live with my mother and sister. A few of the things that had been bequeathed to me were scattered about the house that was now solely mine. It still contained the paraphernalia of daily living; towels, dishes, toiletries, and so on, but the majority of things had been sold or stored, according to the explicit directions I had left behind when last I was here for my mother’s funeral. Those were a hard few days. Endless hours of calls and visits which amounted to nothing more than my obligatory responses to someone’s requisite statements about her. She was sacrificial and patient. She was generous and kind. She was a good woman. In spite of all of the adjectives thrown around, I knew her simply as a provider of food and clothing. She wasn’t cold but she definitely wasn’t warm.

However, Emily was everything to me. She was 14 when I came along, which meant her childhood was mostly a mystery to me. As long as I had been alive, Em had been in a wheelchair. The tragic trajectory of juvenile onset Huntington's disease was obvious, but never discussed at length. Instead, we did the usual things that sisters do while she could still do them. We had our beauty routines and our late night chats during which we talked about this boy or that competition. She was supportive in everything I did, and I sought solace from her when any one of those things turned out badly. Between her and mother, she was the one I missed most when I left for the military.

Now, as I headed towards Em’s room I was in disbelief that she wouldn’t be there to greet me.I slid along the walls using them for support, anticipating but unprepared for the reality of loss that waited for me instead.

The emptiness of Em’s room was striking in contrast to my memories of her lively personality. There was nothing here left of Em; no pictures, no books, no personal effects. There was no wheelchair and there was no Em: just curtains, a lamp on a nightstand, a dresser and a neatly made bed. Surely she left something behind to say goodbye. I looked in the closet and then the dresser. Sadness and a desperate hope both grew within me as I pulled open the dresser’s last drawer and spotted something intentionally left behind.

There was a box wrapped as if it were a gift. A card, addressed to me, was resting between the jute twine and brown paper wrapping. I pulled the card out of place and saw a date from a year long since passed, followed by a dash and a heart drawn on the wrapping. It reminded me of a tombstone. I sat on the bed and fingered the twine and paper off of the box. Inside were various photos of me, of Em, and of the two of us together. The box was full of smiles, hugs, and funny faces. Each photo was a testament of happiness and my heart swelled with love for her. I flicked open the back flap of the envelope and pulled out a note written by Em. I expected sadness. I expected grief. I expected to feel the full weight of great loss as I read the last thing she ever wrote to me. I did not expect what was written inside.

My dearest Els,

The first few years of your life were a difficult time for me. As you grew older my love for you grew deeply and we became inseparable. I’m very proud of you and love you more than words can explain. I am so grateful for all of the time we shared and the life you brought between these walls as you shared your heart with me.

Things were not as they seemed and I had to keep a secret from you. Now that father and mother are gone I can share it safely. I’m sorry you have to go through this alone.

The secret is in the attic.

All my love - forever and ever,

Em

I unsteadily made my way up the equally unsteady attic ladder, silently speculating about what awaited me in this space that Em wouldn’t have been able to go. My eyes swept across the attic until they came to a stop on the secret she had left for me to discover.

Along one wall were brown paper wrapped boxes stacked neatly along long wooden shelves, marked with eerily equidistant handwritten black numerals. From the bottom left to the top right, the numbers ascended as if someone had kept count of the years that had passed. I immediately recognized many of the dates as birthdays and Christmases. I began to feel as if Em had sent me on a discovery mission in which I already knew that what was to be found at the end was something I wasn’t prepared to find.

I opened the first box marked with the earliest date. Inside was a photo of young Em, sans wheelchair, holding me as a newborn. I sat cross legged on the floor near the bottom shelf and opened the next few boxes, finding more photographs chronicling my life’s events. Just pictures of cakes, pictures of gifts, pictures of Em and I.

June 1, 1979. A photo of Em and I together at a kitchen table with a cake bearing one candle. The caption on the photo read simply: “1st birthday”.

December 25th, 1979. Another photo of Em and I, taken in front of a small Christmas tree and a small array of wrapped packages, captioned simply: “1st Christmas”.

June 1, 1980. Em and I pictured at a table in the backyard with a cake bearing two candles, captioned: “2nd birthday”.

December 25th, 1980. “2nd Christmas” written on a photo of Em and I sitting in front of the Christmas tree.

I opened more of the boxes and found similar photos of Em and I with different backgrounds. I pulled a box off the shelf that was dated August 19th, 1982. Inside I found a photo of Em and I marking my first day of elementary school. I began to wonder why I hadn’t seen any photos of mother and I, but felt no real loss at the lack of documentation. I surmised that mother must have been the one taking the photographs. After all, this was Em’s secret. I continued opening boxes, viewing pictures of smiling sisters, unable to see anything worthy of being kept secret.

April 3rd, 1986. A photograph and a note written in Em’s handwriting. This picture showed a man that I had no memory of captioned: “Your father”. The note said simply, “He is gone. Things will be better now.” I held the photo for a few minutes and scanned my memories for Father’s face, but could not find it. There had been no “father” in the house and I felt nothing at the loss of him.

I continued with the boxes, noting the passing of time through the evolution of the number of candles on the cake and the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I was reminded of trophies, prom gowns, and the taking of my oath as a soldier. In every photo, Em’s face beamed with a seemingly otherworldly love and happiness that transcended the condition of her failing body.

Finally I came to the last box which bore the date of Mother's death. Aside from the fact that there was an area in the attic dedicated to the memory of Em and I, I had yet to see any secrets. I opened it.There was a note inside with Em’s handwriting on the front. “This can change everything or it can change nothing.”

Ells,

You’re a beautiful human being; brave and tough, loving and compassionate. I’m proud of you and love you. Nothing will ever change that. I can imagine you sitting there on the attic floor, surrounded by boxes and photos, wondering exactly what the message is. It’s one I’ve been waiting to deliver for a long time. Still, it isn’t easy.

You grew up without a father and I know that must have been hard at times, but it really was for the best. I hate thinking about it to this day but, Mother had to throw him out of the house about six months before you were born. I was 14 at the time. I can imagine how hard it must have been for her, losing one love to preserve another.

I can imagine it because I am a mother. Your mother, Els. While Father was alive, I just couldn’t bear the constant reminder of what he had done to me. Mother, seeing my difficulty and harboring a sense of responsibility, did her best to care for you while I was unable. She sacrificed to take care of both you and me. Father died and soon after I could see past him when I looked at you. We didn’t think you would be able to understand, and I had my own challenges, so Mother and I agreed it was best to raise you as if you were her child.

I just needed you to know that your mother loved you. I was always there Els. Please forgive me.

This doesn’t have to change you.

Forever,

Em

I reread the letter twice more as I sat on the attic floor. Gut punched, I laid down to think about my new past as the sun dropped below the horizon. I felt the loss of my sister, and then grieved the loss of my mother as the stars began to shine. I slept a fitful sleep, interrupted by conflicting thoughts. By the time the sun broke through the attic’s eastern window, I had decided: My mother loved me and was proud of me. Nothing needed to change.