Family

Chapter 15

One Year Earlier

The air was thick in the box. The cool damp of the basement faded as the air had become warm and stuffy inside. I could see the light coming in from the seam around the door of the box, streaming in from outside the basement’s painted windows. Of course, I couldn’t see them, but since Mom had turned off the basement light, I knew it was daytime now. I had been in the box for over eighteen hours by my reckoning.

My back and legs were stiff. I was sitting, my knees bent in front of me, crammed sideways into the box and taking up every inch of space. The pressure of the metal against my back and my legs was tight because of how little room I had. I felt numb. I was sitting in my own filth and had been since yesterday. The smell would have been unbearable but I had been exposed to it for so long that now it was just another constant, like the tapping of the pipes overhead in the basement as water ran through them, or the thrumming of the air conditioner unit outside as it started to run every hour or so.

I leaned my head against the metal side, and smacked my lips together. I hadn’t had a drink of water since I was locked in, which meant I was due to get out soon, I hoped. Mom never left me without water for more than a day. I felt weak and my stomach roared with desire for food. I didn’t even care if I showered, I was so hungry and thirsty. I had sobbed myself to sleep in the darkness and I woke up frequently throughout the night, the discomfort to my neck and back causing me to awaken at unusual times. Once, I had a fit, the claustrophobia pressing in on me when it was totally dark, and I slammed my hand against the metal until it bled, but afterward I had broken down and started crying, and fell back asleep for a little while. When I woke up, I was calm again.

I heard something outside, faint tapping. I listened and realized it was footsteps on the stairs. I heard them leave the wood steps and pad onto the foam mats that covered the basement floor where we practiced martial arts. They halted outside the box and I held my breath, daring to hope it was over. I heard a screech of metal as the little slot above me opened, and I struggled to my feet, willing my legs to work after being crammed in a desperately uncomfortable position overnight.

The light streamed in from the aperture. I looked out and squinted my eyes shut. The light was so bright, it hurt my eyes like someone was sticking their fingers into them. I opened them slowly, little by little, over ten seconds and looked out. A shadowed face stood a few feet away, and I could see the disappointment even through my squint. I smacked my dry lips together, hoping for some moisture. “Hi, Mom,” I said.

She didn’t answer me at first, and I saw her hand reach toward me, the light catching something she was holding, glinting and shining through it. She brought it up to the window – a water bottle, filled. I reached up, desperate, banged my elbow on the side of the box, sending a shock of pain to my fingers, but I didn’t care. I grasped at it, pulled it from her and heard the satisfying crack as I broke the seal and twisted, my hands shaking as I did so. I brought it up to my lips and felt the cool water pour over them, cracked, and felt it caress my tongue, coating my mouth. It reminded me of a plant we’d had in the kitchen years ago, in a red clay pot – the dirt had dried out after a few days and when I poured water into it after remembering that I had to water it, it stayed on top of the dry soil for a few minutes before soaking in. My mouth felt that way, like the water was sitting in it, waiting to absorb through the tissue and re-hydrate everything, like that dry soil.

I swallowed and felt the cool water running down my throat, and chugged it, drinking hungrily. My stomach roared as the liquid fell into it, a pitiful sacrifice and not at all what the rulers of my belly wanted, but it would have to do for now. My skin was sticky everywhere, and my clothes clung to me. As the water cleansed that awful taste of bitterness off my tongue, it was replaced by the seeping smell of the box, of me.

“Have you had enough?” Mom leaned forward and rested her hand on the opening of the slit through which she passed me the water. I saw her eyes, intense, staring in at me.

I remained silent as I took the last drink. I felt sick in my stomach, pain and cramping from drinking it too fast after not having anything for so long. “Yes,” I whispered with a slight spray of spittle as I pulled the plastic ring of the bottle away from my mouth. “Yes.”

“I don’t expect we’re going to have any more problems with you doing your chores, then?” There was a tone of patient expectation, but it was harsh, and cold.

I felt resentment stir, tempting me to say something I would regret. “No,” I answered after a beat, and only a beat.

“All right,” she said, and I heard the pin slide out, unlocking the box. She stepped back and the door swung open from its own weight, on a slow arc. I took two steps and fell onto the mat, felt my knees give out and send my face against the canvas, where it rested. My legs stretched out and I enjoyed the feeling of open space, unfettered, uncramped, and I let myself rest, face down.

“When you’re done, get upstairs and shower, then fix yourself some breakfast.” I turned my face to look up at her from where I lay. She stared down at me, her arms still crossed. “I’m going to work. When I come home tonight, my bathroom had better be clean.” I still felt a dryness in my mouth, and I looked up at her. “Do you hear me?” she asked, and I shied my eyes away from her and nodded. “I can’t hear you nod your head,” she said, and I stared down at my sweatpants, stained from my hours trapped in the metal case behind me. “Answer me,” she said with rising urgency.

“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’ll clean it up.”

“Good.” She took a step away. I still didn’t look at her, but stayed on the mat, pressing my face against it, smelling the sweat of all our efforts, our workouts, on it, and loving that smell more than the overpowering one that radiated everywhere in the basement, from the box, from that hell. “Now clean yourself up. Only someone who’s totally pathetic would just lay around on the floor all day. Get up.” I heard her feet recede onto the stairs, heard them click against the wood steps, one by one, and I knew she wasn’t looking at me anymore.

I heard her feet overhead, heard her walk to the front door and open it, heard the tell-tale beep of the alarm, then heard the door shut again. I sighed, and I continued to lay there, my face pressed against the mat, and I didn’t get up for several more hours.