The Memory Box by Eva Lesko Natiello

up the pace, moving swiftly through the house, into the kitchen. Where can they be? I open the back door and yell, “Girls!” No answer. I turn back into the kitchen. They were just here—
    In my socks, I slide across the wood floor toward the stairs. Smarty runs behind me, barking. I pass the kitchen table that has one of Lilly’s swim caps resting next to some nose plugs while I grab the railing to hoist myself up the first two steps.
    “Oh, my God,” I say out loud, “they’re at a swim meet.” I exhale so completely that my entire body slumps over until my hands grasp my buckled knees.
    I’m losing my mind … I must be. I said good-bye to them myself. They left five minutes–– shit– – thirty minutes ago.
    I feel the little sacks of salty liquid stacking up behind my eyes like sandbags meant to hold back floodwaters. I need help. I can’t go on like this. Andy’s coming home in less than twenty-four hours. He won’t even recognize me. How can I act normal? Look normal? I’m in over my head. This isn’t about problem solving. That might work if it were someone else’s life. Someone else’s secrets.
    If I had a hysterectomy, that would mean my girls are not mine.
    It’s incomprehensible that I’m thinking about this. This is nuts. How can the girls not be mine? I gave birth to them!
    I need to cross this off my list. Nip it in the bud. I’m not having Andy come home to me in this state. No way. This is easy. I did not have a hysterectomy. And I am the mother of my daughters. Jesus.
    I’m going to get them. Right now.
    Lilly will be furious, but this is more important. Isn’t it? The sanity of the mother? The mother is supposed to put the oxygen mask on herself first when the plane is crashing. Before she puts on her child’s. The flight attendant says so. The mother is the caregiver. It’s a known fact that she must be breathing to take care of her children.
    I need Lilly and Tessa with me. I’ll feel better having them near. We need to be together. Like some perverse interpretation of “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” I grab my car keys and handbag from the counter, and then a sweater from the mudroom, which I zip to my chin.
    On the way to the Y, I attempt to devise my plan of action. What am I going to do once I get the girls? I don’t have a single idea. The wheels in my mind gnash, and it’s not pretty. They’re fractured and rusty and broken and screeching. Though they try to catch at the right time, in the right place, they can’t. What’s the matter with me? I’m a natural-born strategist.
    I yank open the front door to the Y. The dense smell of chlorine thickens the air and seeps into my pores, weighing me down, slowing my jog through a long hall on a rubbery black floor that’s used to prevent the swimmers from slipping. The painted cinderblock walls boast photos of past swim teams dating back to the 1920s; the hall leads me straight to the big pool where the meets are held. I grab the railing and take the stairs down to where the team is seated. I pass the rows of bleachers where the other parents sit with legs crossed and hands clasped; moms are wearing quilted jackets in various tones of forest green and brown. It’s one of those September days when autumn attempts to prematurely evict summer, and everyone’s wearing their fall finest. You can smell the new suede of their boots and their big leather satchels. A very good-looking group. Swimming is a respectable sport; it attracts good kids and fine families.
    Looking at these people, I remember how important it was for me to immerse myself in the community—to get a fresh start in a new town. I was willing to go the extra mile to make good, solid friendships for me and Andy and the girls. When we got married, we decided not to raise our children in either of our hometowns. So after a good deal of research, we chose Farhaven. Neither of us knew anyone who lived here, and that was part of the appeal. Clean