The Keepsake Box

Charlotte smoked a cigarette on the balcony while I stuffed pieces of her life in boxes. Her promise to have it all packed before today was a ruse to rope me into helping her move to another apartment. After finishing her second cigarette, she staggard back inside, maneuvering herself around piles of stuff with rumpled hair and a half-buttoned sweater over a crumpled t-shirt, then joined me in the kitchen, where I was packing dishes. I couldn't take the lingering smell of the cigarette smoke, so I excused myself. I decided to work in the bedroom, which was in the same state as the rest of the apartment. Half-filled boxes were scattered about the room; the clothes in the dresser had yet to be touched. Just as I opened a drawer, my eye caught an object wrapped in parchment packed in one of the partially filled boxes on the dresser. Although it was covered, the rectangular shape gave its secret away. If my inkling was correct, it belonged to me, and how it was covered seemed suspect. Why would she leave it in an open box if she knew I was coming to help her pack? I supposed Charlotte was too careless to cover her infidelity. A torrent of emotions rushed through me as I apprehensively unwrapped the relic. Just as I thought it was my lost keepsake box. I would have been elated to have found it, but not in Charlotte's apartment. She knew I had been searching for it for the past month. How could she sink so low?

The reproach I often had with my sister was deserved, but I was tethered to her out of guilt; she grew up in my shadow. While I soared to heights in academics, she struggled with failing grades, but her vibrant personality and tenacity to try new things made up for these shortcomings. With these skills, she could be making a killing in a sales job or as a waitress in a high-end restaurant, yet she hopped from one low-paying job to another.

With the box in my hands, I sat still on the edge of her bed; my chest was getting tighter by the second. Charlotte's pretentious nature led her to want expensive things that were above her means. Before she moved into this luxury apartment, I warned her about the high rent.

"I'm not in a position to lend you money, Charlotte," I told her when she exuberantly revealed that she found a new place in The Gardens. I had money to lend her, but my position was that I needed to stop enabling her. I lent her plenty over the years, but it did nothing to make her more responsible. Sure enough, the day came when she asked for money. This time, I wouldn't give in. I stuck by my statement but agreed to help her move.

Charlotte stopped packing dishes and hollered from the kitchen. "Pricilla, come help me, please." That whiny lilt in her voice drove me batty. I wanted to scream, but before I confronted her about stealing from me, I would gain my composure. Yelling would give her cause to play the victim role- something she did when she knew she was wrong and something she did very well.

I fell prey to her emotional traps for years, but this time, I wouldn't concede. For what reason did Charlotte have my box? Jealousy! She was twelve when I received this gift- a mahogany box decorated with a flowery motif and the words Memories are Forever engraved beneath the relief. She expected to get one for her sixteenth birthday, but our mother gave her a heart locket necklace instead. I thought the necklace was special, but Charlotte felt slighted. She always wanted what I had.

A month ago, Charlotte was at my place when I emptied the jewelry from this box because I wanted to use it for its intended purpose but had yet to decide what I would keep in it. I clearly remember telling her my intentions and the guile look that came over her during that conversation.

"Pricilla, please, I need help lifting a box," she begged, her shrill voice echoing down the hallway.

"Charlotte, I'm packing your clothes. It can wait!" I commanded, the anger growing inside me.

"No!" she screamed. "What are you doing in my bedroom? I thought you said you were going to the bathroom?" she questioned.

Then, I heard steps pounding the hallway. My heart started pattering, and heat rose to my cheeks. By now, I was livid! Charlotte came to the doorway, her brows slanted and eyes bulging. She focused on the box.

Without pause, my tongue unleashed the tumult it had been holding back. "Why, Charlotte? Why did you steal my keepsake box? You've been jealous of this gift since I received it for my sweet sixteen. Mom got you a beautiful necklace for yours, but instead of appreciating it, you sulked because you didn't get a keepsake box. You're too ungrateful to appreciate anything you have or anything I do for you. You take advantage of me; I'm sick of bailing you out. When are you going to grow the hell up, Charlotte?"

Everything I had wanted to say for a long time rolled off my tongue, but not how I wanted to say it. I noticed Charlotte's eyes watering. I drew in a breath and slowly poured it out as my sister stood in front of me, silent and sullen, holding back an avalanche of hurt. This was typical. She wronged me, yet I was the one regretting my actions.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Yes, I did take the box without you knowing. I'm sorry."

Charlotte never said sorry without being forced. Her incredulous apology left me more incensed. "Sorry. That's all you have to say for yourself?"

"Do you want to hear my reason?"

This ought to be good, I thought, but honestly, there was nothing she could say. If she had asked to borrow it, I may have considered her request, but to steal from me was clearly a betrayal.

"No! I'm done with you!" I stood up to leave, but Charlotte impeded my hasty departure by blocking the doorway with her body. "Get out of my way," I yelled, clutching the box tightly.

"I wanted to surprise you for your birthday," she blurted.

"How is stealing from me a surprise?" I shouted.

"You said you didn't know what you wanted to keep in the box, so I put something special inside. Open it," she said firmly.

Suddenly, my anger waned, and my temperance returned because Charlotte seemed sincere. I placed my hand on the box while my sister loomed over me, smiling and anxiously waiting.

"Go on," she urged.

I lifted the lid; a beautiful, familiar melody played from a music box. Laying in the base was a framed picture of the two of us, standing side by side with our arms around each other. I took the picture out of the box and stared at it. "Charlotte, I'm…"

"Surprised?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry," I said contritely. "You had a music box installed!"

"Do you recognize the song?" she asked without hesitation.

"Beauty and the Beast. The picture—is that from the night you and I and Mom went to the musical?"

"Yes, Pricilla. That was a night that I'll never forget. You dressed me up, put makeup on me, and fixed my hair. I felt so beautiful."

By now, I had tears in my eyes. I felt terrible.

"Pricilla, over the years, you've helped me a lot! I wanted to tell you thank you."

Charlotte hugged me, and I held onto her. This time, I felt like she cared for me, and it felt good. I was seeing a different side of my sister.

"Thank you, Charlotte."

"Now take that home with you and add some more memories. I need to get back to packing. And when you stop crying, I need help with that box in the kitchen?"