The last box

The phone rang. I was ready, morning paper, coffee cup in hand, a deep breath and I accepted the call.

My Ex, Catherine, called every Christmas day, same time, 8:35 sharp. Always one to follow routine. I knew the exact point in her morning as if I was there. She would have done her morning yoga video, red mat in the living room, in front of the large screen TV. The one she hated. Every holiday we argued about how it was too big, wrong wall. The house was hers now, apparently the TV wasn't too big after all. The turkey would be in the oven, Costco pies on the kitchen island. So clear in my head, I had lived it for over 20 years.

"Hello, Hello?"

The face-time video was of an empty room.

"Cat? Cat, where are you?"

"Robert, it's me."

"Who is this?"

"Sorry if I startled you."

"No, Who, I, wait... Neeta? You're not Catherine. Did you mean to call me?"

"Yes."

"I mean, it's good to see you. It's been what, 15 years? Where are you these days? I heard you took a job in Boston, some pharmaceutical company. Sorry I haven't kept track on LinkedIn. I'd love to catch up, but I'm expecting another call."

"This won't take long. Catherine knows I'm calling."

"Oh."

"She gave me your number and address. I have sent you a box. I wanted to give you a, well, some context to the contents."

My apartment kitchen is small, a small Christmas tree, a couple of ornaments, a string of lights, purchased at the local Ace Hardware store. The rest of the holiday decorations still in boxes on the counter. I knew exactly where Catherine would hang them, place them. Here, now, I didn't know where they would go. After the divorce, the separation, Catherine had evenly divided everything into separate boxes. She insisted I take mine. 20 years of memories.

I took my box out these last few Christmas holidays, the only box under the tree. Maybe this year we would feel healthy enough to open it.

"You said you sent it already?"

"Hold on, I just received a bunch from Amazon. Let me check."

"Good, I'll wait."

"Here it is. I don't understand. Why would you send me something? I mean, it isn't something from work, is it? Old books, or something?"

"Robert, remember our last party, the New Years in San Diego, after the big sale, we all went out."

"Yeah... It was a good night, I mean it was wonderful. I remember you left the company two months later. Soon after, why? I always meant to talk about it, that. You know, but we never really had the chance."

"Don't open the box yet."

"Why?"

"I want to tell you the story. Then you can."

"Story?"

"I left because I wanted to be with family. I needed to be with family."

"I don't understand, you were always so independent, strong. Hell, you moved out West, on your own!"

"Not when you're single and pregnant."

"Pregnant?"

"You had a daughter, Robert. Her name was Emily."

"I, I'm not following. You're saying you were pregnant, San Diego, that's why you left? Wow! Why didn't you tell me? I mean, I was married, but I mean, I could have helped."

"I really like you Robert, but I don't and didn't love you. I didn't need your help. I was in need of my family who supported me."

Every Christmas, Catherine would make a wish and then pull me into the bedroom. We would spend all Christmas and New Years trying to make that wish come true, but it wasn't meant to be. The one ritual we stopped practicing. We didn't talk about. When I tried, she would be quick to check her watch, pull out her Yoga mat, or take the garbage out. We should have talked about it.

"I'm confused. You said I had a daughter?"

"She died last week of Leukemia. She put up a hell of a fight, we thought we had it beat in the summer, but it came back with a vengeance. I'm at St Judes now"

"I'm so sorry... I don't know what to say. When is the funeral?"

"I need to go, sorry. You should open the box; she was someone to know. Take care Robert."

On the counter, two boxes, Neeta's box and Catherine's box.

Just prior to the divorce, I started to dread everything about the holiday. What to buy, the forced smiles, the thank you nods. I would catch Catherine staring at me sometimes, a question that never got asked. A certain sadness in her eyes.

The box was heavy; I took the knife cut through the tape. On the top was a picture of Neeta and Emily at the entrance to the Franklin Park Zoo. Both dark skinned, Emily a full head of curly hair. A box of popcorn in her hand. Neeta was pointing at something in the distance. Under the picture was a scrap book. A baby booty, a swath of hair. A picture of her first haircut. School pictures, kindergarten, 1st grade, 2nd grade. Middle school band. A large drum and drum sticks in hand, a huge smile. Towards the back, pictures of the hospital. Family photos, grandma and grandpa. More pictures of Emily with and without hair. The rest of the box contained school art projects, a clay turtle, a small wooden birdhouse, on the front written in marker the words, "Live Here!" At the very bottom was a letter addressed to me. It read, "Hello Robert. My name is Emily. I'm 16 years old as of July. My mom told me about you. She said you were good with computers. I like computers too. My mom bought me a laptop where I keep track of all my classes, I need to take to be a veterinarian when I graduate. I love animals. Do you love animals? Mom couldn't remember. I have two cats, a flop-ear rabbit and a Crested Gecko. I've been in the hospital a lot lately, and I'm worried I'll be behind in school. They say I should be able to leave soon. I hope so. Mom said we'll come visit you when I'm better. Maybe after Christmas. Things always seem better after the new year."

I pulled up Catherine's number, sat back down at the kitchen table with my paper and coffee and dialed her number. I knew she would hate the interruption.