The Box

Scratch marks trailed from the front door to the living room. It had arrived earlier and neither of us dared to open it. “You know, it couldn’t be anything bad.” My husband’s voice sounded unsure, always unsure. We both stared at the wooden box. No labels, no return address, no hint as to where it came from. “We should just open it.” He mindlessly inched away from it. I saw him shifting on his feet, each shift resulting in more distance.

“If you really want it opened, open it.” Only an hour ago he was on his way to work when the drone dropped it at our door. He insisted on staying. Maybe afraid that I had bought something without his knowledge, but here we are locked into a stalemate. Neither willing to move, yet neither backing down. This is what we get for avoiding conflict for the last four years, neither saying what they want, but implying.

He looked at his watch. The minutes ticking by, surely, he was late for work. “We really should open it. Was it labeled with your name, or mine?” Again, avoiding what he wants. Clearly, he doesn’t want to open it, but he doesn’t want to ask me either. Will I open it without him asking? No. It will only give him something to talk to our therapist about. I can hear the conversation now as he talks about me assuming things. As he tells the therapist how I do things without consulting him first. I hear the sarcasm as he talks about us ‘being a team.’

“It didn’t have a name on it.” I tried to mask my irritation, obviously failing on that front. He inhaled sharply and exhaled with a heave. I know I should have gentle responses, at least that’s what our therapist tells me. She also tells him to be upfront with what he wants, but he doesn’t, so why should I? Marriage is about give and take, but there isn’t a whole lot of that going on right now. He never volunteers anything, and when I do, I’m nagging.

“What if we shake it?” Why does he continue to use that word, we. If he would say what he was implying the box would already be open and we would be on our way to a productive day. Why is he even here? The clock says he’s thirty minutes late now.

He shifts his feet again.

Is he really that unsure? It’s a box. I inhale, holding my breath, and slowly releasing. Something had to give. “And what if it’s breakable?” My body not responding to the irritation. My hand desperately wanting to pinch the bridge of my nose, but again ammunition I don’t want to provide for him. He looked disappointed. Every answer I give not the one he desires. How am I supposed to know what he doesn’t share? Whoever sent this blasted box better have had a good reason. The morning derailed over this thing. The box looked new. “Did one of your buddies decide to be funny?”

I wanted him to respond, I wanted him to engage whether it was pleasant or not. I wanted him to say something he meant.

“Why would they send an unlabeled box? It would at least have a funny label.” Defensive, I could work with that. I just need to keep poking that spot and maybe he’ll ask me to open it or say that I manipulated him. I sigh. No matter what I do it can be twisted to make me look bad. How did we get this way? We were happy, right? I remember laughing during the honeymoon. We were giddy at our wedding. The first two years were fun, weren’t they? So how did we arrive here?

“Was just curious.” Why did I lie? I wanted a rise, now I’m defusing. I’m just as guilty as him. I want something, but I don’t want to say it. I want him to know how I’m feeling, I just don’t want to tell him. He should know how I’m feeling, right? We’ve been together eight years; he should know these things. Why don’t I? If he should know what I feel without saying, why can’t I? I looked at him, trying to read him, coming up blank. “What should we do?”

He snapped his head towards me. “What did you say?” Was it really that shocking? He was no longer focused on the box but searching me. I can’t remember the last time I asked him a question like this. He isn’t shifting his feet anymore. He turned to face me.

I found myself repeating the question. “What do you think we should do?” Why is my heart racing? Am I afraid of what’s inside the box? No. Am I nervous about him opening it? No. Afraid of putting the decision in his hands? My palms got clammy. Yup, that must be it, but why? It’s such a small thing, a box. Here I am standing here feeling anxious about him deciding who opens the mystery box.

I braced for the snarky comment. He looked back at the box. “I lost my job last month.” We started fighting more last month. I remember feeling like he was hiding something. My shoulders slumped over. I was paranoid, every day he came home I questioned him like he committed a crime. I was certain he was cheating, but I had no idea I was stopping him from sharing this.

“I didn’t know.” I stared at the box. How was I supposed to respond? Angry? I was angry, but I also felt ashamed.

“I think you should open the box.” He stepped beside me, gently intertwining his fingers in mine. This feels like a long-lost memory of us. Everything felt normal.

“Together?” I searched his face, hoping, praying that he would say yes. Hoping the world would feel less lonely if he agreed. How was I so stubborn? Why was he so unyielding? All this time we could have been okay, but instead driving more space in between.

“Yes.” We stepped forward together. He grabbed the butter knife that lay on the table. I held the box in place as he wedged off the cover. “Together.” I nodded my head. He grabbed one side of the cover and I the other. A little note rested on top of a bunch of gardening supplies.

“Mrs. Faunce, I hope you find all the requested tools as desired. If you have any other needs, please reach out to A Greener Earth Inc.”

We both laughed heartedly at the note. “Should I run this next door to Mrs. Faunce?” A smile plastered across my face. My husband stared lovingly at me and nodded his head.