I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here holding this box.

I hear my family talking around me, but I can’t make out what they are saying. I blink and the ugliest wallpaper I’ve ever seen comes into focus. I always meant to change that. I feel the smooth cardboard against my skin, the hard edge of its corner pressing into the soft inside of my forearm. Fill the box. That is all you have to do. Fill the last box.

“Andrea, what are you doing?” My mom storms into the kitchen. On a mission to protect her baby girl, she is determined to take everything that is rightfully mine. I look at her but don’t move, my eyes follow as she goes from cabinet to cabinet in search of “my” things. She is in that frenzied protective mode that happens anytime she finds that I’ve been hurt. I stare at her determined eyes and the hard set of her mouth. Her jaw is clenched. If she had hackles they would be raised.

I know she means well, and I feel so much love from her; I see it in her white knuckles and hear it in her storming steps. “But I don’t really want anything,” I say to myself, knowing if she heard me she would just ignore me. She is filling a large box with the contents of our cabinets: a blender, steak knives, the pizza stone we got as a wedding present. She begins to wrap glasses in newspaper when she turns and notices I am still standing in the same spot. “Dear, what are you doing? Bring your box over here.” I stare for a second as I focus on moving my legs.

“Andrea?” she waves her hand in front of my eyes. My gaze finds hers. Patting the counter she says, “Sit the box here, honey.” I slowly take a step toward the counter, not positive that there actually is a floor to step on. There is floor. Just one more step, I tell myself. When I reach the cabinets my mom pulls lightly at the box until it is resting on the counter. The weight of the box no longer in my arms they feel weightless. Air touches the tender spots where I was gripping the box so tightly.

My mom begins placing glasses in the box. Then she stops and stares at me.

“You’re a mess,” she says lovingly as she lifts hair from the sweaty sticky nape of my neck. She rolls the hair into a bun and fans me.

“Don’t you have a hair tie?”

I shake my head. “They’re all in a box somewhere.” Her cool fingers touch my face.

“You’re burning up!” she says as her palm and then wrist rest on my forehead. I did have to pick the hottest day of the year to do this. Fourth of July weekend was just the easiest for everyone. My Dad and youngest brother Chad didn’t have to take time off from work to drive up here. Plus everyone gets to be together and have a cook out. Cook out? Can I stomach a hot dog? Hot dogs are normally one of my favorite things about Independence Day. Funny how I end up leaving him on Independence Day, like the woman in that country song. I follow the cheesy correlation between the day and what I am doing. But unlike some cheesy music video where I confront him and leave while he tries to stop me, I’m slinking off while he is out to sea. He doesn’t even know I am leaving yet. How can I do this?

“I bet you have a headache,” my mom says. “You always get a headache when you cry.” She kisses my forehead. “It will be alright.” It doesn’t feel like it will ever be alright.

“You should take something for your headache,” she says as she rubs my back. “You keep packing these glasses. I’m going to go check the other rooms.”

Alone in the kitchen again my mind begins to race. How can I leave him while he is gone? I promised to never leave him, especially while he is gone. It’s every Navy husband’s worst fear, a fear that I spent years assuring him would never happen. Why am I leaving him while he is gone? I’m just not brave enough. Why am I leaving him? It’s not that bad. It’s not like he beats me. I bet thousands of women would love to have it this good. So what if he has a temper? He has a stressful job. And when he says mean things to me in front of friends it’s only because he cares and doesn’t want me to embarrass myself. Yes, he controls all the money but that’s because I’m too irresponsible to be trusted to pay the bills. He pays all the bills and pays for all the fun things we do. I never have to worry about any of those stresses. This is insane. What am I thinking? I haven’t paid a bill in over five years, I just hand over my paycheck.

My eye catches the shiny silver side of the toaster. If I take the toaster he’ll have to buy another. How often do I use the toaster? Probably twice a week. Maybe I should buy a new toaster. Oh, I could do that. Something pretty that he would never let me have. I never understood the big deal. It’s not like I wanted a pink toaster. Just a plain toaster, but instead of one with hard edges and sharp lines I wanted a rounded feminine toaster, with a polished stainless steel finish.

“You don’t even know what you are talking about.’ Sharp lines,’” he mocks me. “We’re getting this one!” he barks, picking up the cheaper flimsy one with a white plastic lever that will break in a few months.

What happens if I buy a new toaster and we get back together? Who in the world needs two toasters, it’s just us? That is crazy. I shouldn’t get one until I’m sure. But maybe if we did get back together we could make lots of toast. Yes, that’s it. He’ll be so happy to have me back that he’ll decide to cook me breakfast. I’ll make the toast, and all four pieces will be warm and I’ll butter it and hand him a piece and he’ll say, “Good toast sweetie.” Then we’ll kiss. I smile, enjoying my reverie. He fed me toast one time. When I had that hangover and I was bound to the couch, sweaty and nauseous. “Here babe, eat this,” he said “It will settle your stomach.” He can be so caring, sometimes. Only he doesn’t like to eat at home anymore.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/17989497@N00/753680867/

“There’s no atmosphere,” he says.

“Who needs atmosphere to eat toast and eggs?” I asked.

“Of course you don’t understand sweet tits. You’re a bore.”

As I recall these moments I can feel my face flushing just as it does every time he calls me that name. A nice mixture of embarrassment and rage, leaving my cheeks scarlet and my neck on fire.

“Why do you insist on calling me that, when you know how much I hate it?”

“Because, I like to rile you up, besides those sweet tits are the things I like best about you.”

My mind flashes back to the time I naively begged for his approval. Thinking he had to love some other part of me. That if I could just find that part, surely I could worm my way into his heart. I waited patiently at first. You’re funny. Come on just say it; you’re funny. Or you’re nice. Something. Anything.

“No really, your tits, that’s it.” He replied.

“Oh come on stop playing.” I jested.

“I’m serious Andrea your tits. Now stop bugging me, the Red Sox are on.”