Surprise Package

The woman’s body lay diagonally, motionless across her bed, her face buried in her pillow. The fly, which had attempted many times to rouse her from her self-induced coma, had given up and committed suicide in the half empty whiskey glass sitting on her bedside table. Possibly a happy end for the fly.

Carol Burnes, fighter pilot, desert warfare specialist, deep space commander, had pulled an all-nighter, fighting off alien attacks and supporting her comrades in a battle to save the universe. As a game tester, she was living her dream in the virtual world. Her passion was the game, in the game she came alive, she was the woman with the drive to win, to dominate, to lead, she could be anything. Piloting spacecraft to conquer new worlds, driving outrageous, impossible vehicles through deserts chasing their enemy down, dogfighting through tight canyon passes to escape certain death, every day something new.

All of this adventure was quite a long way from real life. In real life, Carol rarely ventured further than the door of her two-bedroom apartment, fire drills aside. Just how she liked it. Carol had no patience for people, people were disappointing. As the only child of a singularly overprotective single mother, young Carol was sheltered from the rest of the world, which was a difficult thing to pull off, living in the middle of a big city; adult Carol saw no reason to change.

The ping of her phone caused her to force an eye open, well partly open at least. It was barely 8am and she had only passed out at around six. Ignoring any thoughts toward changing her drinking habits, she reached for her phone. Through bleary eyes she read the message, ‘drone delivery inbound, ETA 8.10am’. “Drone delivery? I hadn’t ordered anything.”

Carol sat up in bed and swung her legs off to the side. The sudden movement brought on a wooziness that caused concern about her stomach contents, and whether they would stay down. Steadying herself, she slipped into her scuffs and went to the balcony door to await the drone’s arrival.

Carol loved technology, she lived technology, anything that made her life easy and allowed her to stay home was accepted without question and the advent of drone delivery meant she rarely had to come face to face with humans. Her great dream was no human interaction ever, so drones to her were the ultimate advance in technology; that and the vast, kaleidoscopic, exciting digital worlds she entered whenever she got the chance. If Carol didn’t need the money, she would happily do her job for free.

Looking through the glass panelled door, she waited. It was 8.10 exactly and there was no sign of the flying machine, most unusual, promptness was something drone delivery services prided themselves on. Then like an angel descending from heaven, a plain wrapped box floated down before her. The machine gently placing the box on the small table on her balcony then quickly zooming off to service another lonely soul. Carol began to move out toward her prize, but her phone pinged again to make her aware of the successful drop off. She read the message. ‘Thank you for using ‘Dropit n Hopit’ delivery service’. Carol was excited, certainly more excited than her hungover mind wanted her to be. She stepped out onto her balcony to retrieve the parcel, just as her phone pinged again. The message read, ‘DON’T TOUCH THE PACKAGE. More instruction to follow. Have a nice day ‘Dropit n Hopit’ delivery service’.

Carol was in a quandary and her befuddled mind was struggling with this strange turn of events. She tried to make some sense of it, so as she sometimes has as want to do, out loud she went through the order of events. “I received a parcel from some anonymous entity, from a delivery service I’ve never heard of, with strange instructions.” Pondering these facts, she wondered if she had pissed someone off and this was some kind of revenge thing. That was unlikely, surely you would need to interact with people to upset them. Carol had learned early, that online interactions were prone to misunderstanding and over-reaction. She herself rarely responded to the ridiculous views people posted, except when the subject was something close to her heart or about her chosen field of expertise and then it was merely correcting misinformation. Still not enough to evoke any vengeful retribution.

‘Screw this, I need coffee,” she groaned, turning on her heel and shuffling to the kitchen. Preparing the coffee machine, normally an act that required little thought, this morning needed the focus of a surgeon due to her confused, inebriated state. Going to the fridge for milk, she spied an open pack of Timtams and decided the sugar hit from the luscious, chocolate covered biscuits along with the caffeine, was the charge her brain needed right now.

Coffee in hand, biscuit in mouth, she made her way back to the doorway. Spying the parcel once more, she was reminded of an adventure she and her mother had when she was quite young. It meant they had to travel to another state, and by plane. Young Carol could barely control her excitement. Carol’s grandmother had died. She didn’t even know she had a grandmother at the time, and as it turned out, her mother hadn’t told her relatives about Carol. Surprises all round, and while 7-year-old Carol soaked up the attention from the mainly adult gathering, she also picked up on the tension between those same smiling giant heads and her own mother.

It was a whirlwind trip that had them there and back in just over 24 hours and it was never spoken of again. About a month after the event, a plain wrapped parcel arrived from the lawyer who executed Carol’s grandmother’s will. Her mother put it at the back of her wardrobe, unopened, and seemed to put it out if her mind. ‘I wonder what happened to that box?’ She thought to herself. “Oh shit,” she mumbled, snapping out of her daydream when chocolatey drool spilled past the still protruding biscuit onto her foot.

Forgetting her own mystery box for the moment, she was soon standing precariously on a stool, reaching into the back of what used to be her mother’s wardrobe. It was the first time since her mother passed away that she’d even entered her room. It had been a long year. The box was still there, so after dragging it toward her and nearly toppling off the stool, Carol went back to her balcony, this time sitting down, where she began tearing off the aged brown paper from the older package.

It was a plain box, not a shoebox, but close to that size. Removing the lid, she found official looking papers, her grandmother’s birth certificate, there were some ancient looking Christmas cards, from her mother to her parents; the penmanship betraying her mother’s age at the time. The rest of the contents, seemed to be mainly photos of people she didn’t recognise except a few faces she vaguely recalled from her visit, many years ago. One picture stood out from the rest. It was a professionally taken family photo, with a date and names written on the back. The young girl, no more than five years of age, was her mother Mary, which meant David and Maureen were her grandparents, but this left a boy named Peter. Her mother had a brother?

Carol lay back on the deck chair that took up most of the space on her tiny balcony and closed her eyes, clutching the family photo to her chest. There she drifted off to the competing noises of early morning traffic and swallows twittering in one of the rare trees in her street. Giant faces filled her dreams, faces from her grandmother’s funeral. Her mother’s face hovered around the room also, but it was out of focus and despite her efforts, Carol couldn’t really see her. Too soon she was roused once more by the ping of her phone. It was Auntie B, wishing a happy 30th birthday. “Jesus! How long have I slept?” She exclaimed. “It’s not my birthday.” Looking back at the date on her phone, she realised how wrong she was. It was her birthday. She was 30 today. Carol was confused as to how she could forget such an important day. Not that she celebrated birthdays much anyway, but changing decades felt significant. Where did the year go? She thought.

She returned the text, thanking Auntie B for remembering and inviting her for a birthday dinner, most likely delivered by drone. Auntie Beatrice was not her real Aunt, she was a long-time friend of her mothers’, someone she met at university. They travelled through Europe together in their youth but lost contact when Bea tried marriage. It was only in these last few years that they found each other again. Auntie B was her mother’s only real friend. As she was texting, her phone pinged again and reading it she had received new instructions from ‘Dropit n Hopit’. This day was continuing on its weird trajectory, because the message read; Happy birthday Carol, you may now open the box. Love Mum.

Ignoring the moniker, Carol broke the tape seal and ripped off the top of the box. Gazing down at the contents she found four thick packets of banknotes; bright green one-hundred-dollar notes, showing through the plastic wrapping. Under these was an application form for a passport, which on closer inspection, had been partially filled in with her own personal details. An envelope and a clutch of photos, held together with an elastic band, made up the remaining items.

Selecting the photos first, Carol drew a deep sad breath as she studied the top picture. It was of her and her mother when Carol was only nine and obsessed with the Eurovision song contest. Both ladies dressed in sparkly sequined dresses, holding champagne flutes full of apple juice. It was her favourite picture. All of the photos were essentially the same, mother and daughter hugging and smiling, always the two of them, celebrating a time of year, a milestone event, an achievement, but always smiling with her mother’s old Nikon camera catching all the memories. The only difference were the changing faces through time. The last photo had Carol sobbing, both lying together in the hospital bed just days before her mother’s last. Despite her dire situation Mary was still smiling.

Finally, the envelope. Carol knew what was coming, her mother would give some sage advice for her only child on her birthday. Fully aware there would be tears, Carol carefully opened the last correspondence from her mother.

My darling Carol. I so wish I was there.

“Right back at ya, Mum.”

I can only assume you are hungover after a big night, and you haven’t left the flat since I died. That’s disappointing, but I guess I am to blame, I kept you to myself so long, I didn’t know how to let you go. I think because almost every adult I had known was disappointing, I was in no hurry for you to grow up. Maybe death was the only way to let you get on with your life, so I’ve done my part now get on with your life.

“That’s extreme parenting, don’t you think?”

Anyway, the cash may give you an incentive to escape from there. Our little flat was meant to be a home not a prison.

Ok, enough bitching from the grave. By now my estate has been settled and you know the flat is yours, I was so happy that I could do this for you, because this place has history, family history. When I left home, or should I say ran from home, your great grandmother took me in without a question as to why. She knew her daughter-in-law for the lunatic she was and her son for the coward he turned into. Though in his defence, he often sent money to help me, especially when I went to uni. Your grandfather grew up in that little flat. Quite a change from the opulence I grew up surrounded by. Money isn’t everything. A bit of motherly affection would have been appreciated.

My life has been such a cliché, running away from a stifling, narcissistic, controlling mother and becoming a psychologist to make sense of it, only to realise that there are a lot of narcissistic, controlling people in the world. Was I any different in the end.

“No Mum, you were wonderful. I’m sort of glad I never knew your mother though.”

I suppose when I left you, you found the box that came from my mother, and you know about Peter. When my little brother died, and so unexpectedly, Mother blamed me. Heaven forbid, she should take any responsibility for her children. It was the last straw for me, so at the ripe old age of fifteen I ran away. There is so much I didn’t tell you, but I had cut that part of my life off and you became a beautiful part of my new one.

“Hmm, I wonder what Aunty B knows.”

Remember I told you, I don’t know who your father was, well I still don’t, so no surprise reveal there. Sorry, I got a little loose when I was young, which reminds me, try sex, it can be lots of fun. Just be a little more careful than I was.

That brings me to Auntie B. I truly can’t explain what your aunt means to me. We did so much together all those years ago. I was so sad when she moved away to marry Dick. It was no surprise to me that he turned out to be so well named.

“Ooh, bitchy Mumma!”

When she showed up on my doorstep after nearly twenty years, it was like she had never left. We picked up right where we’d left things. She brought out my wild, and I needed that. You need someone who can do that for you, my darling.

“Sorry Mum, I wouldn’t know how start.”

Please look after her for me. After you, she was the only other person I truly loved. I love you, my darling, now get out.

“Wait, What the fu…!” Carol, reread that sentence again and again. “They were a couple? No. I would have known that. Surely, she meant like sisters. Though they did have a lot of weekends away, but they weren’t obvious. Nah, if they were gay, Mum would have said. We told each other everything. Though, I didn’t tell her about my Uni lecturer, or the dude that used to live upstairs. But why would she hide it from me?” Carol lay the pages on her lap and flopped back in the chair. There was some processing that needed to happen. Allowing the noise of the city to drown her thoughts, Carol drifted off once more.

***

Like a repeat of the morning, Carol peered through gritty eyelids as the sound of her pinging phone roused her from her most recent coma. This time though it was accompanied by distant shouts from a familiar voice. Leaning forward she popped her head out over the railing to find Auntie B calling up to her.

“Hello Carol, I thought you were dead, I was about to call the authorities.”

“Hi B. Nah I’m still kickin’. Give me a sec, I’ll buzz you in.

While she waited for her favourite faux Aunt to arrive, Carol prepared the coffee machine once more. Her head was less fuzzy than earlier, so less effort was required. Bursting through the door like a home invader, Bea yelled “Happy Birthday’ sweetie. Champagne?”

“Oh, thanks Bea, that sounds lovely, but my head couldn’t take the shock and I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Excellent. Coffee and cake now, food and alcohol later.” A beaming Beatrice announced.

Carol smiled back at her lovely Auntie B. She studied her features like it was the first time they’d met. As was her usual style, Auntie Beatrice was dressed impeccably, unlike Carol’s grungy T-shirt and jeans couture or the ‘Urban Hippie’ style of her mother, Bea’s hair was well styled, makeup flawless and she always wore heels. “You know what Bea, I think I need to get out of here for a while. How about we go out for coffee?” Then giving her best ‘Desi Arnaz’ impression, said, “Lucy, I think you got some esplainin to do!”