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Getting up from the couch, I cautiously approach the door, as if the person on the other side will hear me and try to break in. I know there’s a reason why I’m so afraid, but I refuse to let the thought surface.
When I reach the speaker and screen attached to the alarm, I pressed a button. “Can I help you?” I ask, my voice wobbling as I speak.
On the screen, the man looks down at his clipboard. He must have noticed the camera above the door, because he tilts his head back and looks into its lens. “I have a delivery for Caterina St. James.”
“You can leave it on the porch,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry, Miss, but I need a signature.”
I huff out a breath, fearing this might happen. “Would you mind slipping the clipboard through the mail slot? I don’t open the door to strangers.”
His eyes flash with irritation on the screen. I couldn’t care less about whether he likes it or not. He can leave and take the package with him. I’m not expecting anything from anyone, so whatever’s in the box, I’m sure I won’t miss it.
“Fine,” he finally grumbles.
When the edge of the clipboard appears in the slot, I pull it the rest of the way through. On the top of the paper, the logo of the company is displayed along with their contact information. Below that is the size of the box and the address where it came from. A post office box with no name.
I scribble my name on the signature line and shove the clipboard back through the slot.
I press the intercom button again. “Thanks. Just leave it outside.”
After setting the box on the porch, the man spins away and walks down the steps. I wait until I hear an engine start and rev as he pulls away. After punching the alarm code, I open the door and grab the square box laying on the welcome mat. It’s surprisingly light and small.
I reset the alarm and carry the box into the kitchen. Grabbing scissors from a drawer, I cut the tape. I don’t know why, but my hands tremble as I pull back the flaps. There’s a bunch of packing peanuts, so I grab handfuls and toss them on the counter. The first thing I see is something pink. I dig out more peanuts and white frilly lace comes into view.
A hollow feeling forms in my stomach as I reveal more of the box’s contents. My hands are still shaking as I pull out a pink shirt with lace around the bottom hem. Another pink piece of material lays beneath it. I don’t need to pull it out to know it’s a pair of sleep shorts. The outfit is small, a size suitable for a young girl. The top has red splatters, like drops of blood, on the front.
When I throw the shirt back into the box, a cry rips through my lips.
Screams fill my ears, and I slap my hands over them, trying to block them out. As images of violence, blood, and pain float through my mind, I slam my eyes shut, trying to force them away.
Painful and anguished cries of a girl. Her broken body lying on the floor unmoving.
A toddler’s scream of fear. Blood puddled beneath his mangled body.
A woman’s plea to save them both and her wails of grief when she couldn’t.
I can’t let them in.
I can’t remember.
I don’t want to remember.
To remember is to relive it all over again.
A return to the past means revisiting the horrors and carnage, and experiencing the hurt of loss and helplessness. To remember that I wasn’t strong enough to save them. To watch the brutality with devastation and to wish for death to come for me next.
I back away from the box and my back hits the counter so hard it jars me. The edge scrapes across my skin as I slide down until my butt hits the floor. I draw my knees to my chest. My hands still cover my ears and my eyes are squeezed shut as I scream, hoping the noise will drown out the cries in my head.
I scream so loud and so long that my throat goes raw and I sway to the side with dizziness. Another wail of grief erupts from my mouth.
My babies.
They’re gone.
Not just gone, but taken in the most brutal way a child can be taken from a parent.
I couldn’t save them. I let what happened to them happen because I wasn’t strong enough to stop it. I was weak and unable to protect them as a mother should.
