Do Not Open

The covers on the bed had not been pulled back and slept in for quite some time. There was a fine layer of dust on the nightstand and small bookshelf and the room had a stale smell to it. The closet was completely empty, save for a pair of old wire hangers and one lonely picture of a whitetail deer that was hung on the wall right above the light switch. Boxes sat along the wall right under the window opposite the door, labeled according to what was in each box. Some was “Max’s Stuff”, some was “Christmas Decorations,” but a single box was simply labeled, “Do Not Open.”

        Suddenly, the door opened, and the light flicked on. The woman looked around the room, assessing what she needed to do to prepare the room for a visitor. She scowled at the dust on the furniture and stripped the sheets and blankets from the bed to take down to her washer. She opened the blinds and cracked the windows, hoping to get some fresh air moving. She took the sheets downstairs and returned with a feather duster and the vacuum cleaner.

              The dust was wiped away and the carpet was freshly vacuumed. Sunshine flooded the room, making it feel more alive than it had in months. Once she was done, the woman put her hands on her hips and smiled slightly, satisfied with her work. She retrieved the blankets from the dryer and remade the bed. Once the covers were back on, she straightened the pillows and tucked in the sheets where they stuck out.

              She had not had a single guest at her home since her husband passed away just under a year ago. During the days following his death, it felt like she was being suffocated with affection, and finally she just could not take it anymore. She stopped returning calls and eventually calls just stopped coming in altogether. Her only visitor was the mailman who brought her junk mail and bills. She rather preferred the solitude if she was being honest.

              In her solitude, she did not need to explain why she still wore her husband’s old sweaters around the house. She did not need to justify her choice to eat mostly cereal and microwaveable meals instead of cooking for herself. She could make her own choices without worrying about what others thought of them. Mostly, she did not have to pretend to be happy when she just wanted to fall apart in peace.

              This was going to be different, however. Her son was coming home for the first time in over five years. When her husband had died, she reached out to him, hoping he would come home to say goodbye to his father, but he had not. He had not been on speaking terms with his father, which by extension meant that he was not on speaking terms with her either. 

              But now, he was coming home. To her. To make things right and catch up on five long missed years of life. Her eyes lingered on the “Do Not Open” box, and she went over and put the box in the closet. She hoped her son would not look in there, but if he did, she would be ready and willing to talk about its contents. It was about time he learned about his father.

              The closer the time got to two in the afternoon, the more anxious she got. What if he decided not to come? What if he was angry with her and did not want to stay? The what ifs raced through her head like wildfire. She poured herself a glass of wine and willed herself to relax. He was her son; everything would be fine.

              At two, there was a soft knock on the door. She called out to come on in, and in walked her son. Right behind him was a woman who was holding a small child in her arms. The child offered up a shy smile. Her heart felt like it could explode. A grandchild! This was a lovely surprise indeed. Her son smiled at her and held his arms open for her. They hugged for what felt like an eternity and tears streamed down her face as he snuggled her in close.

              They all sat around the kitchen table and shared the bottle of wine as they caught up with each other. The young boy played at their feet with his toy trucks and played quietly as her son filled her in on everything that had happened in the last five years.

              He and his wife had married about a year after the fight, and she had insisted that they invite his parents, but his pride had gotten in the way. To apologize, they had made her a beautiful photo album of all the pictures from that day. Not long after the wedding, they had tried for a child, but could not conceive until finally they welcomed their son into the world. He had just turned two and was the apple of their eye.

              Dinner came and went with more of the same friendly chatter. Her grandson wore more of his spaghetti than he ate, and his grandmother filled her phone with pictures. The house had not seen nearly this much laughter in years. It made her heart full to have her son back home. Her son and his wife offered to clean up after dinner, so the woman took her grandson into the living room and sat in the rocking chair with him. Pretty soon, he was fast asleep in her arms.

              Her son called to her from the doorway of the living room. She looked over at him and saw that he was holding the “Do Not Open” box. So, it seemed she did not hide it quite well enough, but it was okay. It was high time to discuss the contents with her son. His wife came in and took the boy from her arms and took him upstairs to bed, which left the woman alone with her son.

              Her husband had been a complicated man. Born into a poor farm family, he always had to fight and work hard for anything he got in life. When he turned eighteen, he had been drafted into a war on the other side of the world to fight people he had no reason to fight. The things he had seen and done over there made him a changed man when he got home, which made it difficult for him to adjust to home life. There were no resources for him and all the other soldiers like him when they got home, which left them and their families to try and pick up the pieces.

              Because of this, her husband was tough and hard to love at times. This in turn made him a stern and sometimes difficult father to grow up with as well. He would butt heads with his son at almost every turn. The night before their son left for college had been the final straw. He had been accepted into film school, something he had been dreaming of his entire life, and his father saw it as nothing but a waste of time and money. They fought and harsh words were said. In the end, her husband pulled financial backing from their son because he did not support the boy’s dreams, and the son vowed to never speak to his father again.

              When her husband got sick, she tried to call her son several times. Each time, she was sent to voicemail. She pleaded with her son in these messages, begging him to call back and at least speak to her if not his father. She was heartbroken each time he did not answer, but she understood. She took on the role of caretaker alone, absorbing all the pain and stress and not missing a beat.

              One day, just before her husband passed, he told her to go find the box her son now held in his hands. He told her that one day, when the time was right, she should open the box. He said it would help her understand him, even if she couldn’t forgive him for what he had done to her and their son. She figured now was the right time to open the box; her son deserved answers just as much as she did.

              She nodded at her son, giving him the okay to open it. The small shoebox contained mostly letters, but also had some pictures and a couple newspaper clippings. There also were some military medals and a set of dog tags. They looked through the photos first. In most of them, there were five young men all dressed in their gear doing various activities through camp. She found her husband right away, leaned up against a shovel and smirking like he always did. She saw him again and again, each picture more of the same; a group of friends just hanging out together.

              Then came the letters. Some of them were letters he wrote to her but never sent, telling her about things that he had done that day that he knew he would never actually be able to send to her. He talked of one village that his regiment came across where they were ambushed and forced to burn the whole thing to the ground, killing many innocent women and children. The screams haunted him he said, he could never get away from them.

              Another letter was written by the wife of a soldier he was with at the time of another raid. She had wanted to thank him for attempting to save her husband’s life. He had been shot right in the chest during an ambush in the jungle, and her husband had carried him out of the jungle on his back, stopping to check on him as they went. The man died during the trek and there was nothing that could have been done to save him, but she knew that her husband would have carried the guilt of that loss around on his shoulders all the same.

              More letters from some of his war buddies were in there as well. They detailed how hard adjusting to civilian life had been for them. Many had gotten divorced, some were suffering from drug or alcohol addiction, and one lost everything he owned to a gambling addiction. None of them could reconcile what they did, which cost them their home lives.

              The final letter was at the very bottom of the box. It was addressed to their son. He opened the letter, and as he read, tears fell from his eyes. His father wanted to write to him to apologize; he should have never doubted his son and should have never turned his back on him. Her son read the letter repeatedly, letting the words sink in as he did. This was all he wanted all those years, to know that he made his father proud and here it was in writing.

              The rest of the visit was spent playing at the park, going to the zoo, and getting as much ice cream as they could stand. The woman showed her daughter in law all her baking tips and they both planted flowers in the garden together out back. Her son spent time tracking down as many of his father’s old platoon members as he could and caught up with them. Most of them had known his father passed away and sent their condolences, which he gladly accepted and passed along to his mother.

              When it was time for them to go, she made her son promise to visit again soon. They hugged and cried and said goodbye more times than any of them could count. As she watched them drive away, she felt better than she had in years.  She went up to the guest room and sat down on the bed, shoebox in hand. Her son had taken a few of the pictures, his letter, and his father’s medals but the photo of him leaning on the shovel giving the camera a smirk remained. She held it to her chest and smiled. This was the man she had loved and married, and that shoebox had given him back to her. That shoebox had given everything back to her.

              She opened the blinds to let the sunshine in again. She straightened the cover and sheets on the bed and put the throw pillows back at the head of the bed. Instead of tucking the box back into the closet, she took it with her as she left the room. The box and its contents would never be hidden away again.