The Box I Can't Bring Myself to Open

When I came home, my wife's car was in the driveway, but she was nowhere in sight. The door to our son's room was closed, and the baby monitor was off. I called her name, but she didn't respond. The stroller was folded by the door. Still, it was possible they weren't home. I kept telling myself it was possible. I could've opened the bedroom door to be sure. But then, I couldn't.

Looking back, I had missed many opportunities to step up. She was always the one getting up with the baby. Each morning when I awoke, puzzling at my eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, she told me she'd been up anyway. She couldn't sleep, not with everything that was going on in the world. Not with all the people out there that would try to hurt our child if given the chance. I tried to comfort her, but I didn't take it that seriously. All new moms are anxious, right?

The 9mm was in the gun safe in our bedroom. We didn't keep it loaded. I'm not an idiot. The lid on the gun safe was closed and locked, as it should've been. I could've opened it to check, to make sure it was in there. But then, I couldn't.

The lack of sleep wore her down. More and more often, I came home to find her sobbing. She could never tell me what was wrong, not really, not specifically. She'd hold our son tight against her chest and whisper that she couldn't protect him, but I told her we were safe; this was a good neighborhood. Maybe I am an idiot.

I didn't open the door. She could've walked to a neighbor's house with him. We hadn't met any of our neighbors yet, but maybe she just did. I hadn't seen or heard any other children around since we bought the house. The realtor had told us that most of the homes on this block were still occupied by the original owners, but as they moved to retirement communities, more young families like ours would start moving in. A kindly grandmother could've introduced herself and invited them over. Someone, perhaps, who could someday help fill the void left by her own mother, with whom she'd gone no-contact. That could happen.

I'd told her we should get a nanny so she could rest more. I was trying. But she didn't trust any of the nannies we interviewed. She didn't trust anyone anymore. Including, maybe, me. When she wouldn't go for a romantic night out, I tried to get her to call a friend, saying I'd stay with our son. She still refused.

I called her cell. Straight to voicemail. She wasn't addicted to her phone like so many people our age. When we were dating, she would turn her phone off for hours, sometimes even leaving it at home, on purpose. I had loved that about her. I wanted a mother like that for my child, one who would be fully present and squealing with joy at his first steps, not distracted by memes or busy taking pictures for everyone else. Sure, we'd talked about the need for her to be reachable now that we had a kid, but it wasn't surprising that her phone was off. It meant nothing.

Maybe there were things I shouldn't have brushed off. But at the time, it seemed to go from normal to frightening overnight. I didn't have time to react. Out of nowhere she was screaming at me. I thought I should give her space to let her calm down; clearly my being there was stressing her out. I went to work that morning.

My hand was frozen on the doorknob. My brain grasped for something useful and came up with a stupid high school memory. Walking out of physics class with my friends. Laughing and rolling our eyes at our teacher, a short, impatient German man who sucked at teaching even basic concepts and had just attempted to explain Schroedinger's Cat. We mocked his accent and phrasing. "Eez alive oond dead, both, oontil you open ze container!" We fell all over ourselves laughing. Was it the left half that was dead and the right half alive? Could we try to get a live front half and a dead back half so we wouldn't have to scoop the litter box? He'd turned red when we said these things, and flecks of spit came out of his mouth as he raised his voice. "Only oontil you open ze container! Zen it eez eezer alive or dead!"

I ran from the house. I got back in my car. I called my wife again and left a forced cheerful voice message saying I had to work late. I drove around, my heart racing, trying to figure it out. I was leaving a message like everything was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was fine and not fine.

We all had our demons. I was scared too. Scared I didn't have what it took; scared I'd be like my dad. Normal stuff. People manage.

The sun slipped below the horizon. This was crazy. What if she needed help? I called my wife. Told her voicemail I was heading home and was hoping to hear from her soon. Turned back toward the house. Turned back again.

I was going too fast. My headlights were still off. There was a bend in the road and then a fire hydrant on the corner. My car hopped the curb and slammed into the fire hydrant. Not hard enough to hurt me; I had my seatbelt on and the airbags deployed. But the car wasn't going anywhere.

I called my wife again and told her voicemail I was worried. Then I called the police and told them I'd been in an accident and my wife wasn't answering her phone at home, where she was alone with our son. They said they'd send someone out to check on her.

I crossed the street toward the familiar neon signs. The prices were higher than I remembered. Not high enough to deter me, though. The next thing I remember is waking up in my backseat, confused for a moment about where I was and why. My phone was buzzing, but then stopped. One missed call. Not my wife's number. I shut it off when I heard the message begin with "Good evening, this is Officer—" I took another swig. Another. I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears. My wife would be so mad at me, coming home like this. I couldn't come home like this.

Once my head started to clear, I started walking. Away. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know how long I can keep this up. I only know that as long as I don't open the box, that cat is still half-alive.