As I type, the computer screen morphs into a phantom theater door. Cold fingers emerge from Microsoft Word as Silence reaches to still my typing hands. Anxiety rapidly follows, sitting heavily on my chest hissing words of panic into my ear, “What will your parents think? They will disown you again!”

Reason and Good Judgment arrive next. They stand side-by-side shaking my shoulders while echoing Anxiety’s panicked plea, “Don’t do it! Your family’s flaws are your flaws! You will only bring further destruction! Nobody will ever speak to you again!”

Silence, Anxiety, Reason and Good Judgment are startled into submission by the sound of harsh rattling. Silence quickly steps in front of a tarnished metal box marked Truth. It has been shackled outside the theater door for a generation or two. Banging from within, a muffled voice pleads, “Let me out! Let me play my part! I am the only one who can end the drama!”
Like a Greek chorus, the emotions shriek, “Don’t open the box! Don’t open the box! Whatever you do, don’t open the box!”

I stare at the box marked Truth while the pathetic emotions beside me have a collective nervous breakdown. Anxiety rapidly inhales a cigarette while contemplating the outcome of another court case. Reason mumbles about the consequences of coming face to face with the Italians. Good Judgment, mentally adding up the cost of a skilled lawyer, paces in front of the computer screen with a furrowed brow. Silence frantically tries to muffle the thunderous banging and screaming of Truth, enraged by decades spent locked inside a coffin consigned to oblivion.

With a mischievous smile, I invite Silence, Anxiety, Reason and Good Judgment to sit beside me while I open the box.

To the horror of the emotions, I settle myself in front of the computer screen to give Truth its debut on my family stage.

What the hell, Silence is too quiet, Anxiety smokes too much and Reason and Good Judgment are overrated anyway.

Her favorite brother-in-law picked her up at the airport.

The Sad Girl had known him since she was seven years old. She used to sit on his lap and pull on his mustache. She would tug on his long hair and he never got mad. He would give her a quarter to give him some peace. Another sister would hold out for a dollar.

He was always there, like a good brother. In fact, he was her brother. The Sad Girl knew him better than her brothers and had spent more time with him then with any of her brothers.

Indeed, She didn’t remember a time when he wasn’t a part of her daily life. He was always  dependable- whether she needed a ride or her car fixed. His home was always a safe haven. It was a place that was quiet; as quiet as could be with three little girls. It was a place where she was believed. He always let the Sad Girl love her big sister and nieces. He always had his refrigerator open and the coffee pot on.

He wanted to know all about the Sad Girl’s trip to Italy and her husband to be. He wanted the “scoop” and she gladly gave it to him. Her favorite Brother-in-Law was laid back and very easy to talk to with his faint Brooklyn accent. He left work early and drove all the way to JFK in New York for her because he knew she wanted to be home and not with the other sister. He hardly ever left his work as a diesel mechanic early. That’s the kind of guy he was, a true loving brother.

. The Sad Girl’s whole being was spinning with a medley of jubilation and jet-lag. There was a flurry of questions that she didn’t answer properly. She couldn’t. Her parents wouldn’t have understood.

Over the weekend, the Sister and Brother-in-Law she traveled with arrived by The Woman with The Rock in Her Shoe. She had been watching her dog while they were in Italy. It was a Sunday morning. The Sad Girl had been at Mass when they arrived to discuss the Sad Boy.

Apparently, they did not give the Sad Girl’s parents an exemplary report. They made it clear they would not be held responsible for the Sad Girl’s relationship with The Sad Boy, even though they were accountable for setting her up on the date. (Everybody was always on stage washing their hands in the Sad Girl’s family.) The particulars that were discussed were not told to the Sad Girl. There were no witnesses in attendance. The Sad Girl was sure her Grandmother had listened behind the close door. She would never divulge what she had heard.

For an instant, the stage spotlight illuminated the Sad Girl’s parents as they mentally unraveled the family register. With bifocals perched on the edge of his nose, the Sad Girl’s father tilted his chin up while he scanned the list. His index finger tapped his closed lips in thought. The Woman with the Rock in her Shoe peered over his shoulder, pointing first to an entry next to her sister’s name then to the listing below it. Directly beneath the sister’s name was the Sad Girl’s. Instantly their decision was made.

The sister and her husband did not know they were on the parent’s shit list. Anything they said would fall on deaf ears. Also, the parents wished to marry The Sad Girl off. They were not particular as to whom the groom was. In fact, a few months later, the Sad Girl’s mother thanked the Sad Boy for taking the rock out of her shoe. She can still see her pointing to her shoe and then to her calling her a small rock in Italian. She wanted to be a jewel in her crown, not an annoying rock in her shoe. She still does. At least she wasn’t the “No deposit, no return” daughter.

The parents decided they would decide for themselves. After all, Heaven rejoices when a sinner repents. They let the Sad Boy come to America and stay in their home.