The Hope Chest

I hadn't thought about the hope chest in years but as I cleaned out the rabbit hutch and poured fresh cedar chips, the smell suddenly took me back to a summer afternoon in my parents bedroom. I could see every detail down to the nautical patterned bedspreads and the dust bunnies

The chest sat against the wall in my parents' room, usually covered in piles of linens and forgotten drycleaning. The first summer I stayed home from Nova Scotia, my daddy launched a full scale cleaning effort and he began in his own room. Curtains were pulled down, blinds removed and thrown in a bathtub of bleach, every pane of glass was scrubbed and polished inside and out. Dresser drawers were emptied onto the bed, their contents sorted and replaced neatly folded. We stripped the beds and laundered everything - sometimes twice - jewelry boxes and book shelves were gone through, the floor was swept and mopped. The hope chest stood untouched until the last.

It was a traditional piece, full sized and lined with sweet smelling cedar. It should have contained the things a mother passes to a daughter when she becomes a bride, things that represented the promise of a new life - embroidered linens and towels, crystal glassware, a wedding dress. And it did. We lifted these things out with care, gently placing them on the bed, my daddy often smiling and telling me what he remembered about them. I felt a slightly eerie sense of intruding into something private and intimate, until we came the empty bottles - the labels peeling off, some with caps, some not - gin bottles, vodka bottles, bourbon bottles, scotch bottles. And stacked neatly in one corner, a half full bottle of sherry and two six packs of Budweiser.

My daddy froze in mid-reach, his face tight with anger, his hands shaking slightly. He stared at the secret stash for several seconds and I felt a familiar fear in my belly. Thinking I might be sick, I backed away, no longer wanting any part of the old hope chest or it's contents, no longer wanting to watch his face. I watched him close the lid with gentle awkwardness and sink back onto his heels, covering his eyes and cursing under his breath, How dare she? Goddam it, how the hell dare she? He turned suddenly and got to his feet, delivering a vicious kick to the side of the chest then looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there. I was crying and he took a huge breath before telling me, We'll finish this another day. Though his voice was soft and the words gentle, there was pain and shock underneath. He brushed past me and started down the stairs in slow, measured steps, one hand gripping the rail like a vise. I fled for the security of my room and locked the door behind me, as if it would keep the ugly truth away.

My mother returned in the fall and with typical willful blindness noticed nothing. The secret of the hope chest remained a secret and was never mentioned again. When I graduated high school that fall, my daddy gave me a small version, almost a miniature hope chest, made of the same fine wood and lined with the same cedar. For your wishes, he told me with a sad smile.