The Wife Between Us(67)
“How old were you in these?” I’d asked.
“About ten or eleven. Maureen took them.”
“Can I have one?” I loved the intent expression on Richard’s face, the way his little nose was wrinkled up in concentration.
He laughed. “I was going through a dorky phase. I’ll find you a better picture.”
But he hadn’t, not on that day. We’d been in a rush to meet George and Hillary for brunch, so Richard put the pictures back atop a pile of identical yellow envelopes and clicked the padlock into place, and we ascended in the elevator to the lobby.
Maybe he’d stored his parents’ wedding photo in that bin. As I stepped into the elevator, I told myself I was merely curious.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if my subconscious was guiding me. If it was urging me to learn more about my husband on a night when he had no idea where I actually was. On a night when he was as physically far away from me as possible.
Even in the daytime, the basement was a dismal place, the underbelly of the elegant structure atop it. Overhead lightbulbs illuminated the area and it was clean, but the walls were dishwater gray and the individual units were separated by thick grids of wire fencing. It looked like a prison for the belongings people didn’t require for everyday use.
Richard used the combination of Maureen’s birthday. It was the same temporary code he always installed in the safes in our hotel rooms whenever we traveled, so I knew it well. I spun the dial, the metal padlock cool and dense in my palm, and it fell open.
I stepped inside. The units on either side were filled with a mishmash of objects—furniture, skis, a plastic Christmas tree. But Richard’s was characteristically tidy. Other than the pair of green sleds we’d used on our second date, the unit held only a half dozen identical big blue bins, stacked in pairs, lining a wall.
I knelt down, the concrete floor rough against my knees, and opened the first one. School yearbooks, a baseball trophy with the gold paint peeling off the player, a folder with a few report cards—he’d struggled with cursive and had been a quiet student, his second-grade teacher reported—and a stack of old birthday cards, all signed by Maureen. I opened one with Snoopy holding a balloon on the cover. To my little brother, she’d written. You’re a superstar! This is going to be your best year yet. I love you. I wondered where the cards from his parents were. I began to work my way through the bins, setting aside the envelopes of photos I wanted to take upstairs and linger over. But I was careful not to remove too much, and to remember exactly where every item had been so I could return it all in the morning.
The third bin held a pile of old tax documents and warranties, a deed to Richard’s previous apartment, the titles to his cars, and other paperwork. I replaced it all and reached for the lid of the next bin.
I heard a rumbling sound in the distance, like heavy mechanical gears shifting into motion.
Someone was calling the elevator.
I froze, listening for the sound of the doors opening around the corner from where I crouched. But no one came.
Probably just a resident who was traveling from the lobby to his or her apartment, I realized.
I knew I should go back upstairs, and not only because the new doorman might mention to Richard that I’d been here.
But I felt compelled to continue.
When I pulled the lid off the fourth bin, I saw a large flat object wrapped in thick layers of newspaper. I peeled back the protective covering, revealing the faces of Richard’s parents.
Why had he moved it down here? I wondered.
I studied his father’s lanky build and full lips, his mother’s piercing eyes that Richard had inherited, and her dark hair curling around her shoulders. The date of their marriage was written in ornate script at the bottom.
Richard’s father’s arm was around his wife’s waist. I’d assumed Richard’s parents had had a happy marriage, but the wedding photo was so posed it didn’t provide any insight. In the absence of any real information, my mind had filled in the blanks, creating the picture I had wanted to see.
Richard had never told me much more about his parents. When I asked, he always said it was too painful to think about them. Maureen seemed to subscribe to the same unspoken rule of focusing on the present with Richard, instead of their shared past. Maybe they talked more about their childhood when they were alone on their annual ski trips or when Richard went to Boston on business and met her for dinner. But when Maureen came to visit us, our conversations always revolved around his work and hers, their running regimes, travel plans, and world events.
Talking about my father made me still feel connected to him, but I’d been able to say good-bye to him, and to tell him I loved him in his final moments. I understood why Richard and Maureen might want to block the memories of the sudden, violent deaths of their parents in the car accident.
When it came to the darkest and most painful pieces of my own past, I also edited a few of the details while sharing the stories with my husband. I’d shaped my narrative carefully, leaving out the bits I knew he might find sordid. Even after Richard discovered I’d gotten pregnant in college, I never revealed that the professor was married. I didn’t want him to think I’d been foolish, that I was somehow to blame. And I hadn’t been truthful about how my pregnancy ended.
As I knelt in the storage unit, I considered whether that had been a mistake. I recognized marriage didn’t guarantee a storybook ending, the happily ever after stretching past the final page, the words echoing into infinity. But wasn’t this most intimate relationship supposed to be a safe place, where another person knew your secrets and faults and loved you anyway?