Care Package

I have to slam my hip into the door to open it. The rain from this morning having caused it to jam shut. The amazon box scrapes across the porch, sliding off the faded welcome mat before abruptly stopping once it reaches the wall.

“Seriously.” I mumble under my breath.

I press against the door with more force, but it doesn’t budge. There’s barely enough space for me to poke my head out to see the plain box, wrapped in what looks like thick tan paper. A flash of cold rolls through, surprised by it, but I quickly piece together that they must have wrapped the box because of the bad weather we’ve been having recently. Surprising that Amazon even cares.

It hurts to squeeze the rest of me though the few inches too small of a gap. I try not to make a scene of it as I hear my neighbor’s door open, probably leaving for work. I already look a mess being outside in my nightgown, and my hair in the matted bun I continue to throw it into rather than trying to comb through it. That’s what quarantine does to you, makes you too comfortable with laziness. I doubt I’d even be able to fit into any of my old genes with all the Netflix marathons and binge eating I’ve indulged in over the past few months.

She stopped a few steps out her home and turns to me, clipboard in hand. I can barely see her face through the glare reflecting off her plastic face shield. She’s been taking the pandemic much more seriously than the rest of the neighborhood. Every time I see her she’s in medical grade full body covering. I wait for her to say something about her kids selling something for school, but I’m only met with silence. Her shoulders rise and fall with a long breath, and she lifts her tired eyes to my face.

“…Morning.” I say.

She lowers her eyes to the board with a soft shake of her head. “Still no change.”

“What?”

She turns and steps back towards the open door of her home. I scramble to think of something else to say but I’m lost for words. Is she talking about how I’m dressed? How would she know that I’ve been wearing this for days?

The door clicks shut, and I’m left with my unasked questions. Taken ‘a back, I stand on my porch for a few painfully long seconds before hobbling back into the house to be hidden from the world once again. A wave of darkness washes over me as I close the door. I should really start opening the blinds more, or at least turning on the lights rather than using the TV as my only means of light.

I wait with my back to the door for my eyes to, once again, adjust to the darkness. I stare at the box in my hands, picking at the thick paper on the sides. There’s something satisfying about the sound and feeling of the first tear of thick, crisp paper. Like scratching an itch you didn’t know you had until it’s gone.

Not Amazon.

Just a plain box.

Maybe a care package from my mom, though I’m sure she would’ve first. She’s knows I don’t like surprises.

I lower to the ground to set the box in front of me. There’s no tape to hold it closed, yet the top flaps sit perfectly flat. A bit of light spills from the crease in the center, but I don’t remember ordering anything electronic that could give off light like this.

Getting into my own head I reach around for one of the many face masks littered across my living room floor – having been thrown there after receiving different foods orders in a rush. I slip one on, and it stinks like hospital cleaner, and I slightly regret not washing it first. I really need to make it a point to start cleaning more, even though no one is going to see my house except me.

A bit more comfortable with a mask on, I slip my thumb under one of the flaps.

Beep.

I startle back, ripping my hands from the box. My head slams into the front door but I don’t pull from the pain of it, needing that little bit of space from the box.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

A bomb? No. Why would anyone want to bomb me? I'm being paranoid.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

It continues but is a bit muffled now. It beeps with a slow, continuous rhythm that’s vaguely familiar. Not like a ringtone, it feels more personal.

Beep… Beep… Beep…Beep...

An alarm clock? Maybe it really is just a care package from my mom.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

I barely lift the flap. The beeping becomes louder but doesn’t pick up in speed. The light radiating from the box is blinding. I can’t see through it to know what’s causing it. I’ve never seen light like this. Just as blinding as the sun, but warm to stare directly into. I don’t feel the need to squint as I stare into it – if anything, I don’t even want to blink because doing so would shield it from my sight.

“Still no change.” My neighbors voice hidden within the rhythmic beeping.

I don’t look away from the light.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

I can’t look away.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

“Do we have any other options?”

Mom? It sounds like she’s been crying.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

“Say goodbye. She should still be able to hear you.”

Goodbye?

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

“Heather,”

“Mom?”

“It’s okay.”

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

The light spreads from the box, spilling over the carpet in a sea of warm white.

“You don’t have to keep holding on.”

The room fills with the endless white.

Beep…. Beep…. Beep…. Beep…

“You can let go. I understand.”

Only the box and I remain.

Beep…… Beep…… Beep…… Beep……

“Mommy loves you.”

Her voice is clearer and untouched by the light from the box. I can feel her hand on mine as the beeping slows.

Beep……… Beep……… Beep……… Beep………

No!

I go to close the box, but the flaps are like stone against the blinding light.

I refuse to go out like this. I’m not done yet.

My body aches all over as I force one flap closed. It stays flat over the light, darkening one side of it and bringing the room back into existence. The sound of my others cries muffles as I drive the other flap shut and sit on top of the box. It has no problem holding all my weight, despite being empty.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

This isn’t the care package I was expecting or wanting, and I won’t have it. Not yet. I want to stay in quarantine.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

Even if it’s for just a bit longer.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

I will not go into the light.