There are voices in the room waking me from my hibernation. They aren’t arguing, but there is a strange excitement in their speech. My cardboard box lifts into the air, swings over a small distance before settling back down again. On something soft, not hard like the closet shelf.

Slowly, I lift the top of my box. Towering over me is my dad and for a moment I’m still with shock. The last time I saw him Mamaw had been rummaging through my box and left me out. That day, he had stood smiling, his hair long and dark brown and his blue eyes twinkling, as he presented his new wife, Vicki. Now his hair is mostly gray, and his face is creased at his eyes and mouth.

“Do you think she’d like it?”

“What is it?”

“The doll I bought for her fourth birthday. That mother of hers sent it back unopened.”

In Mamaw’s voice is deep, dark pain. The middle of me, that inner point within me that still understands bodily emotions despite being but wisps of Hannah’s earliest memories, sinks at that sound. It is some consolation that I can empathize with them, though I can no longer cry or speak or feel hot or cold.

The first time I noticed I had changed form I was sitting on his desk listening to him yell into the phone in a tone that scared me: They took Hannah from me. Rebecca is marrying again. No, I won’t give up my rights! I want to see my daughter!

At night he cried softly and during the day he yelled that people were sons of bitches. At first, I grasped at him, shouted at him, but he ignored me. I open my mouth to cry, but found I had no voice. And no tears. I ran, faster than ever before, to my room, and that’s when I saw nothing in the mirror. No face, no hands. Nothing. The air wavered slightly when I moved, but that was all.

I stayed there, in shock, hearing and noticing no more until the day he stuffed me into a cardboard box along with every photo of Hannah, her dolls and her doctor’s records. Then the lid closed, and darkness descended. His truck rumbled to life; and we set off to somewhere.

I don’t know how much time passed until I heard my father’s voice again.

“I need you to take this box.”

The lid was ajar, so I peeked out, my dad’s unshaved face my first view, then my Mamaw. The box trembled in his hands. Pictures toppled through me to the other side as Mamaw grabbed hold of the box, almost dropping it. The physical objects collided; order becoming chaos.

Then, with a plop, the box hit the bed, and everything shifted and bounced around again. But neither Mamaw nor Dad paid any attention. Not to the box or to me.

“She won’t let me visit her.” My dad’s voice had a strange choking sound to it, as though his throat was closing.

“You need to fight this,” Mamaw said. Her voice was angry. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she slapped them away. “Rebecca has no right to keep you from your daughter.”

Hannah was not there. And they could still not see me. Both were heavy blows, though I should have known. I didn’t want to hear anymore, but without hands I couldn’t cover my ears.

“Rebecca is starting over. New husband, new family.”

My dad sank onto the edge of the bed, tilting the box dangerously toward the edge. For a moment I forgot I didn’t have form and tried to cuddle up on his lap, but I slipped right through him. From inside my dad the world changes, as though I was looking through the giant Jell-O mold that Mamaw made every summer.

“I made such a mistake taking that job out in Montana, Mom,” Dad said, holding his face in his hands. “That’s what started this. I left Rebecca alone and she met a new man and now that man thinks he can take my place. Hannah already calls him dad. As though I don’t exist anymore.”

I wanted to shout, but without me Hannah wouldn’t know you as dad. I am her memories of you.

But I couldn’t shout or cry. Instead, I returned to the box defeated and poured myself into it. The papers and photos and toys were so mixed up there was little space for me, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Hannah was gone and to my dad, I am invisible.

And now, Dad is back, and my box is open again. A few times throughout the years I left the box on my own, but I always returned once I saw Hannah wasn’t there.

Without Hannah, there wasn’t much point of getting out of the box. After all, I was just air without her. Sometime back I decided I was the age that Hannah would be the day I would see her again. It made sense. I would have to grow at the same rate as her if we were to ever merge again. That gave me hope that one day we would be reunited.

Maybe today is the day.

“So do you think she’ll want it?” Mamaw asks again, her weight sinking onto the mattress, causing the box to fall sideways. Not used to bracing myself, I tumble from my perch on the pile of photos as the box tilts down.

“I don’t know, Mom. Give it to her. She’s old enough to tell you if she doesn’t want it.”

The calendar hanging on her wall says 2017. I calculate quickly: thirty-four years have passed since dad left me with Mamaw. Hannah would be thirty-seven now. Which makes me thirty-seven as well.

I smile at my cleverness and shimmy out as Mamaw smooths the doll’s hair, a strange glimmer in her eyes, like she might cry.

“I’m so happy Hannah is coming.”

I freeze. A thrill of excitement shivers through me. Hannah is coming! Mamaw rubs her arms as I approach her, but I don’t back away. Her face has a lot more wrinkles than I remember from the last time I came out, but I only care about her eyes, which have tears in them. She smiles at my dad as he hugs her.

It’s true then. Hannah is coming.

Too excited to return to my box, I leave Mamaw and dad and float into the middle of the trailer home. I want to find the perfect spot to greet Hannah from.

After years of letting time pass by without giving it another thought, I’m shivering with impatience. When will she come? When will she be there? No one can answer me because no one hears me.

I make my way through the small trailer. It’s the same as when I came years ago, though more worn down and faded. Outside Mamaw’s room is the main area divided into four spaces by a thin, partial wall in the shape of an X. The dining room, galley kitchen, mini fireplace room and then the living room. Off to the side of the living room are the other two small bedrooms where I hid out long ago waiting for little Hannah to show.

I thought for her certain she’d come back. Because she needed me. I was her earliest memories, after all. I can still remember us in baby form or walking in small child form. Talking and touching and eating. Since separated from Hannah I know nothing of her or her new memories.

The old memories aren’t enough. I want more. I want to be her again, to feel hot and cold. I want time to run its fingers through me, age me, caress me. Existing invisibly in a box isn’t living. She was experiencing life. I want to experience with her.

With excited determination, I settle in the basket of blankets. The perfect place to wait for Hannah.

“I got decorations!”

The exclamation wakes me from where I lay in the nest of blankets. I peek out. A short woman with raven-black hair enters the living room. Younger than Mamaw, but too old to be Hannah. Slowly, I untangle the nest of blankets, sliding along the wood-paneled wall until I’m close.

My dad enters and kisses her on the mouth. Ah, yes. His wife. The one he brought years ago to visit Mamaw. Vicki.

“Nice streamers,” says another man. My uncle Richard. He’s aged, but I still recognize him.

“Want a beer?” asks a woman who looks like my cousin Deborah.

Next to Deborah, quiet as always, is my aunt Betty. Short and stocky with spiky, silver hair.

They’ve all gathered. Along with some young adults I don’t know, though two look like they belong to Deborah. My uncle Richard is talking to the girl like he’s her father.

“How’s ninety feel, Mamaw?” asks Deborah, but I can’t hear Mamaw’s answer. People file in and out, eventually settling on the porch out back. Time passes.

And then the sound of tires rolling on the gravel driveway causes Mamaw to straighten up in her chair.

“She’s here.”

First two children come running into the trailer, shouting for their grandma. My dad’s wife emerges from the porch smiling as she holds up three large presents. Hannah enters the trailer-house with a squirming toddler on her hip. I stare in shock, never having considered she would have kids. I get closer. Blond hair, green eyes, and Dad’s nose.

It’s her.

My joy is too much. I fly in zigzags across the trailer. The toddler manages to wiggle down, leaving Hannah alone, spine rigid, in the doorway. Hannah glances around until Mamaw commands her to sit. She walks the five steps from front door to dining room table slowly, then reluctantly sits. Rigid, spine straight. She avoids eye contact. The children are occupied with greeting Hannah’s stepmom, the only person they know besides their grandpa, our dad, who’s outside with Richard.

“How many years have passed since I saw you in Ohio?” Mamaw asks her.

“Five. You haven’t met that one yet.” Hannah points to the toddler with bright blue eyes, who disappears outside in a flurry of golden curls.

I try to stay still, but I’m too excited. She’s here. We’re together again. I just need to step closer perhaps or hug her. But when I try, my form passes through her.

I must calm myself, slow down. A deep breath and I approach her. I place my hand firmly on Hannah’s shoulder and finally it doesn’t fall through. I wait and when she stands, I straighten myself out, and then step, slowly and cautiously, into her shoes.

They’re warm. For the first time in years, I have feet. More eager now than before, I lean into her solid body. Knee to knee, chest to chest, nose to nose. It isn’t easy to wiggle into her. She’s as stiff and hard as iron. Immediately I’m constricted. Hannah’s chest is so tight I need to hail breath from deep in her lungs, our lungs, to catch a breath. She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy trying to take in everything within the room, her eyes wandering from corner to corner. She doesn’t remember anything about the trailer, which is normal since she hasn’t been her since she was two. Probably the age of the little girl she just let down.

I adjust my eyes to hers. Together we watch her little one on the carpet, interacting with Vicki. For the first time in decades, I can read Hannah’s thoughts. I should have memories of this place.

“Mom? Where are the glasses? I need water,” a little girl, possibly around six-years-old, asks.

Hannah’s lungs freeze and I’m afraid I might faint, but I strain to focus. She is trying not to snap or cry.

“I don’t know. Let’s look.” Hannah’s tone is falsely light.

“In the kitchen,” Mamaw directs. Hannah smiles at her, a rush of embarrassment heating her body.

“Isn’t this your grandma’s house?” the daughter whispers. My hand, inside of Hannah’s, tightens around the little fingers, but Hannah doesn’t say anything. I understand. How can she explain to her child that she didn’t grow up knowing her grandma?

Together we open cupboard doors but there are no glasses. She wonders at the audacity of  fake confidence she has for her daughter’s sake.

Betty appears and offers a clean cup from the pile of dishes. It’s still warm. Hannah gathers the little information she has and pinpoints the short woman as her aunt. Her dad’s sister. I want to applaud, but clapping my hands together, which are inside her hands, would look silly.

The daughter makes a face at the lukewarm water. Hannah can’t remember her own aunt’s name and no one has come to make introductions. Try as I might, my thoughts don’t transmit the information. As Betty grabs an ice cube, staring adoringly at the little girl, Hannah buckles to her shyness. She doesn’t ask Betty her name. She decides to listen for it instead.

“Thank you.” Hannah says. Her daughter wanders off.

Betty nods, then leaves to sit with Mamaw.

On her own, Hannah’s eyes roam each inch of the shabby trailer-house. Inside an adult human form everything appears smaller. From our shared eye, everything seems worn down. A trail is worn into the carpet from the porch door through the living room and into the kitchen. The beige couch is tattered and sagging. The only real color comes from the paintings and framed embroidery hanging on the wood-paneled walls.

We move beyond the brown couch where her three daughters are opening presents from Vicki. Our stepmom smiles and hands Hannah a small present. Hannah’s cheeks grow warm, as do mine. She didn’t bring any gifts except for the wrapped picture for Mamaw’s 90^th birthday.

Hannah carefully opens the gift while Vicki watches. Inside the wrapping paper is a short glass with a gecko etched into the side. Hannah loosens up with a smile. Dozens of thoughts and jokes run through her brain, starting with a memory of the first time she met dad and the margaritas they drank.

I’m shocked. In the memory Hannah is twenty-two.

“It’s for margaritas!” Hannah says, waving the glass in the air with a wide grin.

Vicki furrows her dark brows, then laughs.

“No! It’s for the candle. You didn’t open that small one.”

Dad, ducking in through the screen door, is laughing. Hannah grimaces, sweat bubbling on her skin. The sensation distracts me until Dad reaches out one arm and pulls Hannah and me to his side. For the first time since I was three, I don’t sink through him. His arm is warm and strong. I want to demand he hold me on his knee like he used to when I was a child. Hannah’s thoughts and mine match up. We hold out the other arm for a full hug, but dad steps away, oblivious to our wants.

I choke back tears and Hannah swallows hard. Unsure if my emotions will force themselves onto her, I take a deep breath to calm myself.

“Why don’t you have a beer?” Dad asks, his voice much calmer than Hannah’s nerves.

The beers aren’t mine. The words run through her head like a ticker tape, but she doesn’t say them. A man I don’t know follows Dad inside. His dry lips press into ours. Her husband. I try not to recoil.

“I’m getting a beer from the fridge. Want one?” her husband asks.

We follow him into the tiny kitchen. She recoils at there being only four beers left.

“It’s fine,” he says, grabbing two. “I’ll go get more.”

Don’t leave me alone. But he walks out of the kitchen, unaware her hands have started shaking. My own fury threatens to burst out, but Hannah pushes it away with a deep breath. The young adults enter the trailer again, but they don’t introduce themselves.

“We got candles for the cake!” shouts the young woman. Hannah makes the connection that she is her uncle Richard’s daughter. Bravo.

“Lailani chose it, so don’t blame me,” says the slightly taller boy.

“Shut up, Nate. It’s a fine cake.”

“It’s vanilla with vanilla.” The other boy with freckles rolls his eyes.

Their cajoling continues as Hannah files away the names Lailani and Nate and listens for the younger boy’s name. The young cousins acknowledge Betty who saunters in, hands on hips.

“What do you think, Aunt Betty?”

Hannah wonders if her exit would make their ignoring her obvious.

“Hey, Mom. Do you like the cake?”

Deborah appears, smiling. She makes a beeline for Hannah and me, giving her son a nod before linking her arm through Hannah’s and pulling her toward the porch.

“Come outside with me. I want to ask you a hundred questions.”

Texan heat envelops Hannah when we step outside. Her skin absorbs it until the heat touches me, too. Mamaw’s porch is as big as the living room and overlooks a man-made pond. The lowering sun glows orange over the murky water, both inviting in the heat and ominous in its filth.

“Remember teaching me to swim in that lake?” Deborah asks Richard, who laughs. Hannah flinches, but only on the inside. I see her memory of learning to swim with lessons at the YMCA in Kansas while visiting her other grandma. In the memory she is small and so shy she refuses to open the door to the pool because she’s late for class. She opens her mouth to tell this memory but decides against it.

Without that story to tell, she is left to only listen.

Deborah sits on the floor of the porch, but dad pats the seat next to him on the bench. We sit down. Unlike other fathers and daughters, we don’t snuggle in next to each other, we don’t touch at all. He’s almost motionless while Hannah sits up straight, her spine rigid. We’re too aware of the other’s presence, of how the years have passed. All I wanted for so long was to feel my dad’s hug. Now I finally can, but Hannah can’t.

Her husband comes back from the store with beer. Their youngest throws herself onto Hannah’s lap, her curls tickling our skin. Small, soft, innocent. The little one crawls from our lap to her grandpa’s lap with a confidence Hannah and I lack. She is not shy in her desire for a hug from grandpa.

Hannah’s grief weighs heavily on her body, too heavy for me to carry. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, merging with her, but for the first time I wonder if I shouldn’t have. I thought if we were reunited, everything would be right again. With a body I could hug and be touched; speak and be heard. I thought I would receive her memories. I thought that little by little she would absorb me. Until we become one.

The grief and loss over the years we can’t get back, the touches we can’t muster the courage to ask for—it’s too much. It weighs me down. I’m dying inside of her, I fear.

And panic takes hold.

But before I can leave her body the call for dinner is shouted and Hannah’s body relaxes. And I convince myself to stay just a little longer.

Dinner is a noisy affair, but I concentrate on Hannah and how we can merge fully as one. I learn more about her, about the beliefs that shape her reactions and thoughts. Like how she hates eating around other people and in order to avoid it, she peppers Mamaw with questions. How many sisters and brothers did Mamaw have? Where did she grow up? How did she meet grandpa? When did he die?

Mamaw seems happy, as most old people are, to recall the past. And Hannah listens. Her questions aren’t just distractions. She is genuinely interested in her family history. I try to listen as well, but the young people are so noisy. They don’t care about their family history, or perhaps more likely, they already know the stories. Hannah tries not to judge them, and I admire her for it. I try to not judge them, too.

Once they are done eating, Leilani and Nate and the other nameless boy shoo everyone from the small dining room to prep it for the birthday celebration. Mamaw complains but exits to the porch where a nice breeze is finally cooling down the Texan evening. On the porch, Hannah’s husband and dad get into a political conversation. Her anxiety spikes. Political conversations are no good for a family get-together. She cringes each time their views collide. I try to point out to Hannah that they seem okay disagreeing, but she can’t see it.

“Time for cake!” yells Lailani, laughing. “Come now! Hurry!”

The ninety candles are already melting the icing as we tumble in. Lailani starts singing Happy Birthday. I try to sing loudly but Hannah does little more than mouth the words. Mamaw laughs and claps, her glee folding her cheeks in like an accordion.

“Remember when Nate was little, and he ate the candles?”

Another memory Hannah should, but doesn’t, have. I fidget, trying to create more room for myself as her insides compress. Hannah takes a tiny step backward straight into the piano, the sharp corner bruising her hip. She grits her teeth and says nothing. Not even a small wince.

Hannah pastes on a smile.

Her little ones, I can’t think of them as mine, press their empty plates smeared with frosting into our hands. Hannah’s fork slides through the sugary substance but doesn’t eat it. Instead, she tosses everything into the trash. There’s a scurry inside her chest that she can’t quite get hold of as the family recounts old family tales. With each one they laugh harder.

With every story she fills with more agitation, reducing my ability to move. Afraid I’ll be crushed, I wiggle to one side and pop out of her body. The abrupt change surprises me. I consider reentering, but to what end? The weighty decision is heavy, pushing me down. I crawl into the blankets to watch and think. From there Hannah is smaller somehow, like a deflated balloon. Perhaps the events of the day have not lived up to her expectations either. It isn’t right that she never recognized me. I must have done something wrong.

A cool breeze dries the perspiration left on my spirit form but doesn’t touch the beads on her upper lip. She wipes them off herself, then jerks into motion, busying herself with picking up the paper plates.

As the evening dips into night, my eyes stay locked on her as she watches, smiles, trying to stay engaged in the moment. If the family were to peer closer, they’d see a deep, longing, a sadness. I look closer.

It’s more than sadness, it’s bewilderment. That years cannot be made up, unmade memories cannot be repaired, and time lost with Dad cannot be bridged. That is what keeps us apart. Becoming one would not fill the Hannah-shaped hole in the family stories. That opportunity is gone.

As the night wears on, my strength to concentrate, to think, starts to vanish. Soon I can do nothing but watch. I am disappearing.

I do not know how long I watch her. Standing in the middle of formed memories that have no room for another person. Not for her. Not for me.

Until slowly, without alarm, the view disappears.

Kat Caldwell is a fiction writer, a short story writer. She writes both historical and contemporary fiction, sometimes dabbling in magical realism when life needs an extra sparkle. She is the creator of the Pencils&Lipstick podcast where she talks to authors and professionals in the writing field. In between conducting interviews for her podcast and writing, you can find Kat traveling the world, reading, or volunteering with her church—always with a cup of cold brew close by.  

You can find out more about Kat on her website https://katcaldwell.com and follow her on Instagram @katcaldwell.author on Facebook @katcaldwellauthor and on TikTok at @katcaldwell.author