Unpacking the Box

Alone on the back patio, I jumped from my seat when a sudden swarming noise cut through the silence. It was coming from around front and sounded like a mob of angry bees. I made it to the opposite side of the house just in time to see a delivery drone drop a large cardboard box on my porch. It landed with a thud, almost as if the drone could barely carry the box any further. It looked heavy. The drone had reached its limit, wobbling side to side before hoisting itself back into the sky. The propellers sputtered. Then buzzed. Then carried the drone up and away as it disappeared into the dark grey clouds of the late October morning.

I approached the porch slowly. My knees were still stiff after sitting too long in my Adirondack chair while admiring the colorful visitors to my new bird feeder. A red-bellied woodpecker, a pair of yellow finches, and several chickadees—all of whom flittered away at the sound of the drone. Who could blame them? The intrusion was annoying. I too would have preferred to enjoy the peace a bit longer.

The closer I got to the box, the more intrigued I became. It didn’t look like the type of box that typically arrived on my doorstep—perfectly square or rectangular, constructed of clean and crisp cardboard, and marked distinctly with the Amazon logo. No, this box had seen better days.

Scuff marks littered the sides. Two of the corners had been smashed. And the middle sagged as if someone sat on it. The clear packing tape that had been wrapped haphazardly around the box was torn away in one spot, leaving a piece dangling free and inviting anyone to grab hold of it to take advantage of its vulnerability.

What the heck? This package had endured a rough journey. Who was it from?

As I bent over to drag the box inside, my neighbor Frank called out from across the street. “Need some help over there?”

Without looking, I knew he was already halfway up my driveway. Frank was a widow. He lived alone, like me, and always kept an eye on my house. I hoped it was simply because he was looking out for me, and not for any other reason. But sometimes his interest in my comings and goings creeped me out.

I raised a hand and leaned further into the box. “Thanks, Frank! I got it. The box looks heavier than it is.”

Quickly, I opened the front door and maneuvered the box into the foyer. It was too wide to wrap my arms around, so I pushed it through the living room along the hardwood floor until reaching the kitchen. I flicked on the overhead light and grabbed a pair of reading glasses from the counter, peering down at the address label and trying to decipher the chicken scratch that had been scribbled in thick black marker.

The box was addressed to me—Janice Halstead on Cyprus Lane—but I didn’t recognize the handwriting. The return address was familiar, but it took me more than a moment to realize why. Waterford Oaks. A nursing home in Massachusetts. The place my mom had lived before moving into a hospice facility where she died after a short battle with cancer.

That’s strange, I thought. I’d been to Waterford Oaks shortly after Mom passed last December. My brother Ben and I had gone together, cleaned out her room, and divided up all her personal belongings—a painstaking and exhausting ordeal. I’d been tempted to ask my ex-husband Charlie to help. Our divorce hadn’t been finalized at that point, and we were still on speaking terms. Probably because he wanted to avoid getting fucked in the settlement.

But Charlie was great in situations requiring absolute objectivity and emotional detachment—one of the many reasons I had asked for the divorce. I’d had enough of being married to a robot. But my traditionalist mother always liked him, or at least the idea of him. I don’t think she ever forgave me for leaving.

I glared at the package a bit closer then shut my eyes. Now wasn’t the time to be opening a box of potential angst. Thank you, Pandora, for the cautionary tale. I needed to be in the right headspace before picking the scab and revisiting the resentment that could be lingering inside that banged-up package.

I shoved the box into the kitchen corner and turned toward the sliding glass door to head back outside. The sky had turned black abruptly, and pellets of hail bounced across the patio. The bird feeders were still void of life and a pang of sadness washed over me. No more outdoor relaxation today. On to the housework.

After filling a hamper with dirty clothes and approaching the laundry room door, I paused to look at the misshapen box from Waterford Oaks taunting me from the corner. Who’d sent it? The nurse that Mom always complained about or the administrator who barely showed her face? Maybe it was the sweet lady from the front desk. Perhaps she’d stumbled across something that Mom left behind and wanted to make sure it was returned to her family. But after all this time?

I put the clothes down and pulled my cell phone from my sweatshirt pocket. Hitting my brother’s number, I expected the call to go directly to voicemail. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Sis!” His voice sang as usual. Ben was always in a good mood. I loved that about him.

“What’s up?” he continued.

“Got a second?”

“For you, I’ve even got a few.” His signature belly laugh blared through the phone line.

I sucked in a deep inhale and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the box, running a finger over my name and staring at the unfamiliar penmanship as if it held answers to what was inside. “I got this package today. From Waterford Oaks. Any idea what it could be?”

“Um, no. But you’re the one who got it, not me.”

“I know.” I took another deep breath to settle my nerves. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Open it,” he said as if it were that easy. “What are you waiting for?”

I paused. My voice trembled. “I dunno. I guess I’m not ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To see what’s inside.” Duh. Sometimes Good-Mood Ben could be so dense.

“What the hell, Janice! You’re overthinking this. Don’t torture yourself. Just open the damn box. Whatever’s inside isn’t going to jump out and bite you.”

An image of a jack-in-the-box springing to life and scaring the shit out of me popped into my mind. I could feel my pulse rate skyrocket. My palms broke out in a sweat.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that almost a year after Mom’s death we’re getting a package like this?"

“Not really. The nursing home staff probably found something that Mom stored somewhere other than her room. It may have taken time to figure out who it belonged to and how to return it to you.”

“I’m not buying that. They had my contact information, and yours. Why didn’t they call and ask about it?”

“Who knows? And I hate to be rude, but I don’t have time for this. I’m expected in a meeting in less than five minutes. What is this really about Janice? Are you feeling guilty about how you left things with Mom the last time you saw her?”

Of course, I was. But I wasn’t prepared to admit it.

My relationship with Mom had been complicated. Once Dad died, I couldn’t do anything right.

“The last time I saw her wasn’t any different than the countless times before that,” I said. “She complained about being cooped up in a home and reminded me how it was my fault. I swear I was nothing but a disappointment to her.”

“What are you talking about? Stop putting words in her mouth. She was proud of you.”

“For what? For failing in my marriage and never giving her grandkids?”

I could hear Ben covering the speaker to his phone. His muffled voice said, “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll let you go,” I said, suddenly irritated with the conversation.

“Wait. Not yet, Sis,” Ben pleaded. “I hate that you think Mom wasn’t proud of you. Sometimes I feel like you and I grew up in different households. We remember things so differently.”

“No matter how we remember things, the proof was in her actions. I can’t remember the last time she called me, or even sent me a note. The only time I had contact with her was when I initiated it, and even then, she never seemed happy to hear from me.”

“You’ve got that all wrong. She loved you—unconditionally. And how often did you reach out to her? Before she was sick and there was a specific reason to call. Did you ever just pick up the phone to chitchat?”

Bowing my head, I fought against the tears threatening to erupt. I uncrossed my legs and leaned back against the wall, bothered by the truth. I could have been a better daughter. The same way she could have been a better mom. We could all be better, but we do our best.

But it was too late now. Mom went to her grave without uttering a word about our unresolved issues, and I’d let it happen. I sat beside her in hospice for days with plenty of opportunity to clear the air—to tell her how much I loved her despite our differences.

I disconnected the call with Ben and drew my knees to my chest, hugging my arms around them and pressing my face into the soft cotton of my joggers. I paused for a beat until finally allowing myself to cry out loud, rotating my head sideways and letting loose. The roar of my grief filled the room. It echoed in the emptiness of my tiny kitchen. Paralyzed by the flurry of emotion, my body went numb.

After what seemed like an eternity, I pulled myself up, leaning on the box until the feeling in my legs was restored and my balance regained. Without thinking, I grabbed a steak knife from the drawer and sliced the packing tape open along the seam of the box.

A layer of bright green tissue paper greeted me. Quickly, I tossed it aside to unveil another box—much smaller in size than the first. It was covered in Christmas wrapping paper and adorned with a burgundy velvet bow. A tiny envelope was taped next to the bow with the words “Dear Janice” scrawled across the front in Mom’s handwriting. She must have written it before last Christmas, right before she died.

I traced each letter of my name slowly, feeling the cardstock of the note tucked inside the envelope. I sat quietly, hypnotized by thoughts of what the note could say and what the gift box could contain.

Without warning, something crashed against the windowpane of the sliding glass door, drawing my attention back outside. The hail had stopped, surrendering to steady rainfall. A flicker of red flashed in the corner of my eye. I turned in time to see a cardinal flying away from the house and heading toward the almost-empty bird feeder.

I dodged the raindrops to refill the feeder, tilting my head toward the sky. I could still picture the drone struggling with the apparent weight of the box that had mysteriously landed on my doorstep. Lighter than it had originally appeared, but more powerful than I ever imagined.

Its journey had been long and messy. Complicated and unpredictable.

There was no need to open the note or the carefully wrapped package to finally understand that Ben had been right.