Three Shoeboxes e-book

by Three Shoeboxes (epub)

  Okay, Mr. Hyde, Jen thought, feeling chilled by her husband’s drastic mood swing. At this point, she didn’t know whether or not to buy his casual demeanor. “Well then,” she replied, choosing optimism, “it’s a good thing Ross has you on the project.” She returned the grin. “From what I hear, thirty-eight-year-old newspaper boys are a dime a dozen.”

  Mac’s smile was even weaker than before, leaving her at a complete loss. What the heck? she thought, not knowing what to make of it. “Eat,” she told the kids, rushing them through dinner. While Mac stared off into nothingness, Jillian’s stare was burning a hole into the side of Jen’s head.

  ⧝

  Once the dishes had been dried, the family retired to the living room where they fell into their normal nightly routine. Jen picked up a book. Mac clicked on the TV. The kids played a board game until they could no longer interact peacefully.

  As the bickering got loud, Mac slid to the edge of his recliner. “That’s enough,” he barked, his tone as sharp and angry as earlier, “put it away!”

  The kids froze in place again.

  Taking a deep breath, he eased back into his chair. “If you think you can behave,” he said, softening his tone, “then you can watch TV with me and Mom. But if you can’t do that, then you can all go to bed. Am I understood?”

  Jen closed her book and gave the kids a look that said it all: It’s not a good night to test Dad. Although they quickly did as they were told, a short time passed before she stood. “I think we need to call it an early night, guys.”

  Grumbling under their breath, each stopped at their dad’s recliner to kiss him. “Good night, Dad,” they said.

  “Goodnight, guys,” Mac said, his attitude instantly flipping from cranky to cuddly, “I love you.”

  Jen made another mental note of the sudden swing. He’s even short with the kids now, she thought, studying his blank face, and that’s nothing like him.

  Bella, the last in the kissing line, grabbed his face. “Daddy, I hope you have a better day tomorrow,” she whispered, “‘cause I really love ya and I hate when you’re sad.”

  “Thank you, princess,” he said, looking ready for tears, “and I really love you, too.”

  Jen escorted their sweet daughter off to bed.

  ⧝

  Mac felt bad for snapping at Brady, but the onset of another attack had cornered him into a really bad place. I’ll make it up to him, he thought, and was already tucked in when Jen slid beneath the covers beside him.

  “Bad day?” she gently asked, placing her head on his chest.

  “Yup,” he said, enveloped in a darkness he’d never known. Although the horrid attacks had kicked off his nightmare, he was now mired in a constant state of frustration and anger and didn’t know who or what to blame.

  “Dr. Lawrence isn’t helping?”

  “She’s useless,” he said, the bile rising at the back of his throat.

  “If you think it’s a waste of time, Mac, then why are you still going?” she asked, innocently.

  “Because I’m still living in hell every day,” he snapped.

  Jen came off his chest and met his glare.

  “And if you gave a shit,” he barked, “you’d come with me and see what it’s like.” At last, he’d revealed a fraction of what he was feeling.

  “Of course I’ll come with you,” she said, sounding sorrowful. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to.”

  “And why would you?” he said, cutting her off. “You’d have to give a shit about me.” Something deep inside him knew this wasn’t true, but he also knew that he was suffering alone and, although it was illogical, he wondered why his wife wasn’t helping him.

  “That’s just not true, Mac, and you know it.”

  “Do I?” he said, trying not to sound desperate. “From what I can tell, everything else is a priority for you.”

  “What, like taking care of our kids?” she said defensively, but went silent just as soon as the words left her lips. “I want to go to therapy with you, hon,” she added, softening her tone, “I really do.”

  “You know what, don’t worry about it,” he said, turning his back to her, “Dr. Lawrence sucks anyway.” He felt so incredibly torn; although a part of him wanted to reach out to his wife for some much-needed support, the greater part of him feared that she would discover he wasn’t the man she thought he was. “Night,” he mumbled.

  “Goodnight,” she said, and wrapped her arm around his shoulder, squeezing it tight. “I’m here for you, Mac,” she whispered. “You don’t need to do this alone.”

  Mac never uttered a word and he never budged, unable to grab hold of the lifeline his wife had just thrown him. But I do, he thought.

  Chapter 5

  In the quiet of the late hours, Mac tried to get some sleep in his leather recliner. In the distance, he thought he could hear the moans of a boy in trouble—carried on the whistling wind. He listened closely and the moans grew louder. I have to help, he thought, but his legs were anchored and he couldn’t move. I have to… Suddenly, the moans turned to blood-curdling screams. “Help me,” the boy shrieked. “Please…I don’t want to die!” Still, Mac’s legs wouldn’t budge.

  ⧝

  Gasping for air, Mac was vaulted from the chair. For a few horrid moments, he nearly screamed out to Jen for help. Instead, he stood paralyzed, bent at the waist, terrified by a world of darkness that only he could sense. While it felt like bolts of electricity were ripping through him—one shock after the next—he fought to hold on, exerting more will than he’d ever mustered. I may not even make it to the hospital alive, he thought. The feeling that he was going to die washed over him like a heavy acid shower. He could feel his entire existence—his very essence—plunge into a freefall. While his sweaty, quaking hands gripped the telephone receiver, he tried desperately to catch his breath as he contemplated an ambulance ride. It’s probably just a panic attack, he heard the young E.R. doctor say in his head, followed by the giggles of nurses. He tried to slow both his heart rate and his thoughts. It’s no use, he realized. He could feel the damage scar his very core. I’m in trouble.

  Then, five eternal minutes later, it was over. Exhausted, he collapsed back into his chair. Though he might have been afraid to close his eyes again—for fear of being awakened the same brutal way—he felt a strange pride that he’d never made the call. Jen has enough to worry about with the kids, he thought, wiping his eyes. At least she and the kids don’t have to suffer because of it. He felt grateful for that.

  Mac sat alone in the darkness for hours. Although there were so many unanswered questions, he now understood that this nightmare was going to play out the next day and each day after that. And the symptoms are going to grow more powerful, he realized, until I can no longer bear them. Like a predator in the darkest night, fear stalked nearby. Hours of blissful slumber had been replaced by the most demented reality. The nightly attacks were a rough, intense experience, testing him each time to his limits and beyond. While the rest of the world peacefully snored away, he feared blinking for too long. Living was starting to give way to basic survival, while any terrifying dreams he now experienced were replays of his actual life.

  Am I losing my mind? he wondered.

  ⧝

  Jen stepped into the living room to find Mac out cold in his recliner. She looked at the wall clock. Great, she thought, shaking him. “Why did you sleep out here last night, Mac?” she asked, as he struggled to open his eyes. “You realize you’re already late for work, right?”

  Mac flew up from the recliner. “Oh shit…” He hurried off to their bedroom to get changed.

  Jen followed him, staying in the hallway. “We need to talk about me returning to work, Mac,” she said through the closed door. “I was trying to tell you over dinner that I saw Abigail Rose yesterday.”

  “I don’t have time for this right now, Jen
,” he yelled through the door. “I need to get to work.”

  “But I really need to talk,” she said.

  “Then talk.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Abigail Rose’s offer and…”

  “What offer?”

  “She suggested I come back and work for the newspaper.”

  “Just what I need right now,” he muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  Mac emerged from the bedroom, half-dressed for work. “Jen, I have to get to the office.” He adjusted his tie. “We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, thinking, No more excuses.

  After the front door slammed shut. Jen started in on her morning chores. Within the hour, the kids had destroyed the breakfast table before their voices spilled through the screen door out into the back yard. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Jen stared at the phone as if she were expecting it to ring. Am I really ready to go back, Abigail Rose? she thought, and looked up to find Jillian standing before her.

  “What the hell’s wrong with Dad?” the teenager asked.

  “Watch your mouth,” Jen said.

  “Well, is there,” Jillian asked, “something wrong with him?”

  “Why do you ask?” Given her husband’s recent behavior, the question seemed silly as soon as she asked it.

  Jillian shrugged, clearly struggling to articulate the change she was witnessing in her father. “I don’t know,” she said, “something’s not right with him.”

  “I think he’s just been swamped at work,” Jen said, the suggestion as much for herself as for her daughter. Though I hope the anxiety isn’t anything more than work stress, she thought.

  “Maybe,” Jillian said.

  “You can talk to him about it, you know. I’m sure he’d be happy to know that you’re concerned about him.”

  “Whatever,” Jillian said, indicating that she was through with the conversation.

  Jen sighed. “Are you sure you don’t mind watching Bella and Brady for a few hours while I have lunch with Grandma and Auntie Diane?” Jen asked. “I can just as easily cancel and…”

  “Go,” Jillian said. “I told you, we’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The teenager nodded. “No worries. I’ll take care of the monsters.”

  ⧝

  At the abandoned park across from the lake, Mac took a seat on a green wooden bench. For the first time in his life, he felt lost—and alone. His entire world was starting to unravel. Lifting his cell phone, he punched in a few numbers. “Good morning, Barbara. It’s Mac. Would you please let Ross know that I won’t be in today. Seems my little one’s given me a touch of the bug.” He listened. “Right. I’ll call him later. Bye.”

  ⧝

  Set adrift on the lake in the family’s small sailboat, Mac pulled out a pint of vodka and took a long drink. My life’s anything but a dream, he thought, tears threatening to break down his cheeks.

  No matter how hard he fought against it, Mac’s internal battles had gotten even worse until they actually began melting into his daylight hours. More vicious than any adversary, the rubbery legs, lightheadedness, cold sweats and nausea commanded most of his waking moments. And even when I’m in the middle of one of these attacks, I’m more afraid of the next one to come.

  He was becoming too intimate with the absolute horror of it all. The physical and mental toll is excruciating, he thought, this constant feeling of doom and gloom, of utter despair. Each sudden impact was all consuming. It seeped into every aspect of his life and threatened to ruin him socially, career-wise, and financially. He tried to sever the feelings by drinking. It helps momentarily, he thought, even if it does come back to bite me hard the next day. For a while, Mac lay in the fetal position, realizing that even being on the water felt like hell now. There’s no escaping this nightmare, he thought, there’s no reprieve.

  ⧝

  Jen met her mom and sister at the neighborhood bar and grille. While Jen and Diane considered the fresh fish, Sue concentrated on the drink menu.

  “The blackened salmon looks good,” Diane suggested.

  “And so do the margaritas,” Sue added.

  Jen snickered louder than she’d intended.

  Sue’s head flew up from the menu. Without uttering a word, she studied her daughter’s face. “You want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Jen shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing,” Sue said.

  Diane placed her menu on the table, more interested in the conversation.

  “I really shouldn’t complain,” Jen said. “It’s just that…”

  “Just that what?” Sue prodded.

  Jen took a deep breath. “Mac’s been so different the last few weeks,” she confessed, shaking her head. “He hasn’t been his usual funny and attentive self. Even the kids are starting to pick up on it.”

  “Really?” Sue asked, surprised.

  Jen nodded. “He doesn’t want anyone to know, but…”

  “But?” Diane asked, leaning in to get the scoop.

  Jen’s glared at her sister. “You swear you won’t say a word?”

  “I swear.”

  Jen looked at her mother.

  Sue held her middle three fingers into the air. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Mac’s been having panic attacks and started seeing a therapist.”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” Sue said, “I suffered from panic attacks years ago. There’s nothing worse.”

  “Any idea why?” Diane asked, appearing concerned.

  Jen half-shrugged. “He thinks it’s work stress.” Her eyes welled up. “I feel so bad. I wish I knew how to help him.”

  “Just be there for him, Jen,” her mother said. “Trust me, there’s not much more you can do.”

  Jen nodded. “It’s definitely been a little darker at the house, walking around on egg shells when Mac’s in one of his moods. I’ve tried talking to him about me returning to work this fall, but…”

  “I thought you guys had a plan?” Sue said.

  “We do…or did anyway,” Jen said. “The plan was to have me back on the newsroom floor once Brady started school full time. As you know, we ended up waiting another year, but the plan was, once the kids hopped on the school bus this year…” She shook her head again. “I’ve tried talking to Mac a couple times about it, but I think he’s avoiding the subject.”

  “Screw that,” Diane blurted.

  “It’s odd,” Jen continued, ignoring her sister. “Mac’s always supported the dream completely. In fact, it was originally his idea.” She half-shrugged. “I know he’s had a lot of pressure at work lately. Maybe it’s just…”

  “Typical man,” Diane interrupted, “completely self-absorbed.”

  “He’s suffering from panic attacks, for Pete’s sake,” Sue snapped back.

  “Mac’s an incredible husband,” Jen quickly added before taking another deep breath. “He’s just a little distracted right now.”

  Sue placed her hand on Jen’s forearm. “I agree. Mac’s a good man and, even if you tried, you couldn’t have picked a better father for my grandchildren.” She nodded. “And that’s coming from someone who isn’t very fond of the opposite sex right now.”

  Jen nodded, feeling better.

  “As long as there’s communication, respect and trust, love can find its way out of any problem,” Sue added before giving Jen’s arm a good squeeze. “Talk to him sooner than later, though,” she suggested, lowering her tone. “It’s important that you guys stick to the plan, or I promise that you’ll end up resenting him for it.”

  “Yeah, you need to make sure your husband’s life doesn’t completely consume yours,” Diane said. “To hell with any man who thinks he can just…”

  “
Give it a rest, Diane,” Jen snapped.

  Diane was often wrong, but never in doubt. Although she went silent, she could only remain in that space for a moment. “Just don’t let Mac’s problems pull you under,” she added in a quieter tone.

  Jen shook her head. “You really do need to get laid, Diane,” she said.

  While Diane’s mouth hung open, Sue laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.

  The waitress arrived at the table. “Do you ladies know what you want for drinks?” she asked.

  With a huff, Diane picked up her menu, concealing her scowling face behind it.

  Finally composing herself, Sue asked, “What kind of tequila do you use in the house margaritas?”

  ⧝

  Without truly knowing how he got there, Mac was perched on a barstool at the Progressive Club, just two streets up from the park. Although the lack of light in the seedy bar took his eyes a few minutes to adjust, the strong smells punched Mac right on the nose. It was like stepping into a giant ashtray that had been filled with stale beer. Pat Ruggiero, a mountain of a man with bear paws for hands and thick glasses that made his eyes look like they belonged to a walleye, was taking inventory behind his pock-marked bar. Peering up from his bottles, he shook his head at Mac, who was already wrestling with his fourth drink. Mac’s upper body was nearly lying on the bar, as he gulped as much vodka as was necessary to take a break from the horrific attacks.

  “Drinking for effect, I see,” Pat commented in his baritone voice.

  Mac slammed his empty glass on the bar, making Pat’s eyes grow even larger from behind his spectacles. “I’ll take another,” Mac slurred.

  “Someone’s having a good day, huh?” the big man said, pouring another drink.

  “I really don’t want to talk about it,” Mac said.

  “Good,” Pat said without missing a beat, “because I really don’t want to hear about it.” He half-shrugged. “It ain’t that kind of joint, you know?”