The Brown Paper Box

I saw her every Tuesday. I watched her shuffle into my diner exactly at noon, her cool grey, short hair curled in place, same blue argyle knitted sweater. Her orthopedic, bright white sneakers squeaking in every other step. She sat in the same booth, against the east side wall windows, overlooking the prairie. I always gave her a water and cup of black coffee. And I always saw the box.

I had been working at P's Diner for a little over six years now, and my senior coworkers said Thelma had her Tuesday lunch for about ten years before me. She was at the time ninety-four years young, sat in the same booth, had the same lunch. Tuna melt on Rye, with a side a fruit. I had many times asked her if she would like anything else we had on our menu, our "award-winning" pie, burgers, even if she wanted some creamer. But she would reply in her meek, high, gravelly voice, "No, thank you." Nothing else. And I never asked about the box.

No one knew what was in the box. It was the size of a shoe box, with brown paper wrapping the lid and bottom separately. She never made it seem like it was heavy, nothing ever shifted inside, but she always put it in the seat in front of her, like two friends out to lunch. Every time I passed her table to fill her water or coffee, or ask if her tuna melt was melted just right, I would look at the box, the paper gradually getting more wrinkly. My coworker said it was probably something of her dead husband's, even though no one in town knew her to be married. She kept to herself, but didn't have a bad bone in her body. No family, no friends, no children to take of her. So I took extra care when providing my service to her every Tuesday.

Until she stopped coming. I looked at the clock, and it was six minutes after noon. I glanced at the cook behind the service window and he shrugged at me, his bushy mustache turning up on one side as he looked down to scrub the grill. I thought she might of just had an appointment, or forgot, she was ninety-four after all. I wouldn't let my mind wander to the worst. But when the time of when she would be leaving the diner rolled around, I couldn't help myself. I decided to wait another week before I checked the paper for obituaries.

She didn't come that week either. I had given up the idea that she was ever coming back, to accept the worst. Though, there was nothing in the paper. I asked my manager who has lived in the county for upwards of forty years, and they hadn't heard anything either. There were not any funerals being planned in town. I went to the local grocery store after my shift to get dinner, and my cashier said the same thing. It was very strange for these people not to know the local drama. I went home to my tiny apartment above the ice cream shop on main street, and decided to google her name. Thelma Darst. I could see her perfect, elegant, and legible signature in my head. My search came up cold. No one of that name in the county. I leaned back in my chair and sighed in defeat. I really didn't know why I was putting this much effort into a frail, old woman, who most likely just passed away. But something was eating at me. And I kept thinking about that box...

The next Tuesday was the same, no Thelma. No tuna melt and fruit. I was feeling nostalgic, or morbid, and had the same order for my own lunch. I sat on the only chair in the kitchen next to the walk-in fridge. I sat with the plate in my lap, looking down at my sandwich and let out a sigh. That's when the cook grabbed my attention. He pointed to Thelma's booth in the corner, and I got up to peer through service window.

It was the box. Brown paper now stained with what looked like dirt and ink. This time the box was in her seat. I had asked the cook if he saw anyone walk in, but he said he didn't even hear the bells that clanged on the door every time someone walked in or out. I put my plate on the chair I had been sitting in, and walked into the dining room. It felt like time slowed down, each step I took felt like was treading through water. It seemed like it took forever to get to the east side window booth. And when I got there, I couldn't bring myself to pick it up. I just stared at it. What if there was nothing in it? Was this a joke? I looked at the only occupied table in the diner. A truck driver that was going through town was reading the paper, while stuffing French fries in his face. I turned my attention back to the box, and I bent down and picked it up. It was so light, like the only weight was from the box itself. I set it down on the table, and my fingertips ran along the side of the lid. I had envisioned this moment for six years. I thought of all the sorts of things that could be hiding within; a hat, papers, I even thought of squirrel or frog. But nothing would have made me think of what I was about to unveil.

Slowly, I lifted the lid to the box, the sound of the paper sliding against itself was the only thing I could hear. Before I looked inside, I looked up. I looked out into the prairie that Thelma looked at every Tuesday for over a decade. The highway ran east to west, and I looked to the right to a handful of cars whizzing by. I brought the lid flat against my stomach and looked in the box. There was a note. I set the lid down next to the box and picked it up, unfolding it to reveal a picture inside. In typewriter font said, 'Next in line.'. I looked at the picture confused. It was a picture of Thelma, but at least twenty years younger, in the same blue argyle sweater. She was standing in front of a prairie, with her arm around someone's shoulder. That someone almost looked like me. I flipped the small picture around and it had the year '1985' in chicken scratch. I was born in 1990, and my family was not from this state, let alone the county, so it couldn't have been a relative.

I looked in the box more, but there was nothing else. I was so confused, why was this in here? Why was it left here? Who is standing next to Thelma in the picture, and why does it look like me currently? I even had the same outfit as the woman in the picture. I went and showed the cook, who laughed at me and mumbled something about how I should now carry a box with me everywhere. I rolled my eyes and went back out to the booth to grab the box. I took it outside to the dumpster, and kept the note and picture in my pocket.

I went home to only dream of another Tuesday with Thelma. But this was a little different. She was as young as the picture, hair more of a dyed sandy blonde with grey starting to come through her roots. I walked up to her booth and poured her coffee. She smiled at me and then motioned for me to sit, right where the box usually does. I sat down and she looked at me sweetly, and as she was opening her mouth to say something, I woke up. I stared at my ceiling for a moment, before I gripped my eyes shut, hoping to bring the dream back. It was useless, and I got up for the morning. It was barely dawn, with the sun barely peeking through my blinds. I got ready for my morning shift, and gathered my things to leave. I opened my front door to find another box on my doorstep. Identical to the one Thelma had, but the brown paper was new, no wrinkling. I looked down the hallway both ways and it was completely empty. I brought it inside and opened the lid to find another picture, this time it was the woman next to Thelma, but she was much older, greying hair and hunched over in age. Nothing was written on the back. I was starting to get creeped out by now, and put the picture on my round kitchen table and left my apartment. I took every turn down the stairs with caution, as if Thelma was going to pop out at any moment. When I got to work, I told the cook about the new box and picture and he shrugged again and told me to not worry about it. But I couldn't, someone knew where I lived.

The day was uneventful, and I went home again still confused about the box. It was still there on my table, in it's brown paper glory, taunting me with the question of it's purpose. Was I supposed to do something with it? I got into bed still questioning and making the rounds through my head of the copy cat interactions I had with Thelma. Each Tuesday was the same as before, box, tuna melt, 'Thank you' 'No, thank you'. She ate the same way, dressed the exact same, walked into the diner the same. She never drove, and always walked from the west, even though town was east. I had never noticed how repetitious the interactions with her were, like it was scene on replay. I drifted off to sleep trying to think of anything different that happened between Thelma and I.

Same dream as before, I sit in front Thelma at the booth, but this time she didn't open her mouth to speak, all she did was point out the window at the prairie. I turn to look and there is no highway. The prairie was extended, almost surrounding us. The patch of trees a couple pasture lengths from the building, almost seemed black. Then all at once, we're standing in the field. Younger Thelma takes a couple steps towards the tree line and I look back to the diner, but it wasn't there. Just open prairie. I look back to Thelma and she's about twenty feet in front of me, and she waves for me to follow her. I follow behind until she stops in front of the trees. She turns to me and says, "Next in line.", but her voice sounded like mine. She stands next me and as we look into the dark trees, there's a blinding flash. Everything goes white, and for a moment it feels like I'm floating. I wake up soaked in sweat and breathing heavy. I sit up in bed and look around my studio apartment and notice the things on table had been moved around. I get out of bed and walk to the table to see lid back on the box, and picture gone. I opened it again to see another picture. This time, I know it's me. I'm standing with open prairie around me, smiling with my hands in my pockets.