Ms. Turner's Box

The damn thing sat there in the middle of the otherwise barren livingroom mocking me. I had tossed it in the trash last night thinking I would get a couple of days reprieve. Usually when I toss it out, I at least get a full forty-eight hours.

I figured it would give me enough time to get everything organized and moved over to my new house. Without having to worry about where to put it or anyone asking questions about it. But no, instead it pops up right when I do my final walk through to make sure I didn’t forget anything.

No bigger than a shoe box and wrapped in brown paper, the annoying package has followed me since childhood. I remember its first appearance rather well for only having been about eight years old. Mostly because my parents freaked out thinking someone has broken in to leave it, and it wasn’t addressed to anyone. Let alone anyone living in our house.

My mother had taken me to several flea markets that day while my father was at work. We were looking for a gift for my grandmother. I remember being just absolutely delighted by every store we walked into. The scattering of objects both old and not so old, but definitely used.

They were set up in stalls, and turning a corner made me feel like I was going deeper into a maze. Each hallway held tiny rooms with mysterious and untold treasures. When my mom led me into the first one, she told me that a lot of the stuff was really old, and from people who had passed on that their families were trying to sell. She said it was like a bunch of garage and yard sales but all in one building and for longer than just a few hours.

That sent my overactive imagination haywire. Everything that caught my eye would make me wonder what it did, where it came from, and who had owned it before. Was it treasured or unwanted? If it had eyes, what would it have witnessed? I felt like what I imagine walking through time would feel like.

By the time we reached the last store my mother was fed up with searching. “Your grandmother is the hardest person to shop for. She only like old and musty things,” she had said. After taking in my disheveled and dusty appearance had continued with, “and of course you would inherit that trait.” It was with that she returned to her browsing and left me to my adventures.

It was in the next stall that I found it. It was a small ornate wooden box, the age of which was hard to guess, yet there was no rust or tarnish on the hinges. The pattern engraved into the lid was hard to pick out no matter how much I wiped it with my sleeve or ran my fingers over it.

The front clasp popped up easily enough, and I got half a second to take in its emptiness. Then I was hit with a dizzy spell strong enough to send me from crouching to firmly landing on my behind. The box fell the short distance to the floor where it snapped shut.

When my head cleared, I grabbed the box and went to find my mother who was at the front counter about to pay for an item I didn’t recognize. “Mom, can I have this? Please?” I had asked.

It was the only thing I had asked for all day, so I was hoping she’d feel generous. But when she held the box to inspect it, she tried to open it. It didn’t budge. I took it back and tried for myself, but sure enough it wouldn’t open. She took it from me as she answered, “I don’t think so, darling. It’s not really a kid’s toy.”

She placed it on the counter and grabbed her freshly bagged purchase before pulling me out the door. I didn’t even get a chance to protest. She was really good at that all through my childhood. My only consolation was the look of sympathy from the old woman behind the register.

When we got home the package was sitting on the kitchen counter. My mother hadn’t brought anything in, and my father had gone to work before the mail ran. It weirded her out, but she put it somewhere safe until my dad got home. He didn’t know anything about it.

Thinking someone broke into our house to leave it there, my mom tossed it in the garbage and set it on the curb. The next morning it was right where we had first found it. This went on for a while, the back and forth. I think she even threw it in our firepit once. In the end she gave up and placed it on a high shelf in the back of a closet.

There it stayed until I moved into my first dorm room, where it appeared in the middle of my bed on my second day. I didn’t bother trying to fight it the way my mother had. And it followed me through three dorm rooms, four apartments, and a one-bedroom house. Ever since I hit thirty it hasn’t been satisfied with its place in the closet.

It will now appear randomly. In the middle of a dark hallway, in the bathtub, on my bed when I wake up. Once it had appeared in my full underwear drawer, and I still haven’t found where the underwear it displaced went. I’ve often wondered at the timing of finding that box and the first appearance of the package.

I’m pretty sure that the package contains the box, but as a child my parents made it clear that it was dangerous because we didn’t know what it was or where it came from. After starting college, I realized that even though it likely contained the box, it was clearly other in nature, which posed a different kind of danger. So, it was best left alone.

As I close the door on my now old, lonesome, little house it blocked my view of the dull brown paper. There is no doubt in my mind that it will be waiting for me at my new family home. Probably in a very inconvenient place so it triggers a long uncomfortable talk with my new boyfriend.

Life didn’t take the track I expected. I have a lot of regrets, but this move is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. I may have wasted some of my potential but starting a new life, in a new home, after finally getting a decent career off the ground feels like a second chance.

I feel like I actually have a future. Even if it isn’t the one I dreamed of while entering college. The years I wasted on a degree I ended up hating. Then settling for the only long-term relationship I’d ever had. Despite him being less than easy to live with.

The man I’m seeing now is supportive and kind, way different from my ex-fiancé. This is the first time that I’ve felt like I was moving forward, instead of running on a treadmill getting nowhere. I don’t know if marriage is in our future, but I’m open to finding out, without it being my driving goal.

Sure enough, the package stared at me from the kitchen counter immediately upon walking in. Of course, he sees it at the same time I do, and he asks about it. I inhale deeply, sit him down, and spend an hour explaining. I finish and he stands as he chuckles. “You have fun with your magical box. I’m running to the store it looks like you need some essentials. I think we forgot toilet paper,” he says with a grimace.

I sigh in relief as I work on unpacking. If he doesn’t take it seriously then he isn’t likely to get too freaked out. I’d lost several roommates to the package’s random appearances. One roommate even tried to open it, but in the end, she was left with a pile of brown paper and a perfectly wrapped package. She kind of lost her mind for a minute, and I walked in to find her kneeling in her pile of packing paper, yanking on her hair, and crying. She just could not figure out how much wrapping had been put on it. Even though it looks like it only has one layer.

Glancing at the clock I realize two hours have gone by. He still isn’t back, and worry begins to creep in. The store is only about ten minutes away. How much could he be buying that would take him this long? I have no messages or missed calls, so I try to call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. This isn’t like him.

I try to call my parents to see if maybe he had stopped by there. They were the ones to introduce me to him. They were quite close, and I had left a few things in their care while I readied for my move. But neither of them picks up.

I watch the sun dip low on the horizon as another hour ticks by. I’ve given up trying to be productive and just sit by the window waiting. Picking up my phone to uselessly try to call him again, my phone rings in my hand. It startles me and I fumble for two rings before I can finally see the number. It’s not him or my parents. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

Impatiently I answer, “Hello?”. A gruff voice replies, “This is the Franklin County Sheriff’s department. I’m looking for a Ms. Marie Turner.” I swallow hard before answering, “Yes, that’s me.”

“Yes ma’am, you’re registered as the emergency contact for a Mr. William and Mrs. Catharine Landry. I’m very sorry to inform you, there’s been a three-car pileup. It would seem Mr. Landry was killed upon impact, and Mrs. Landry passed before reaching the hospital. I know this is a tough time, and I hate to ask this, but we need you to come down to the morgue and confirm the identity of the bodies.”

A lengthy pause follows his words. My mind is stalled. Nothing he said makes sense. A pile up? Killed on impact? Identify the bodies. If they knew to call me then why do they need verification, unless maybe someone stole their car and then died in the crash.

As the spark of hope ignites, I already know it is denial. “Ma’am?” the gruff voice says, this time gently. I clear my throat and attempt to speak, “Yes, I’ll be there.” I hang up and place the phone on the coffee table.

The trip was done on autopilot. I don’t even remember driving to the hospital. But the hallways are cold and every step echoes. The man that greeted me was polite, but I couldn’t pick his face out of a line up if I tried. Then we entered the last room in the hall.

I take in the three metal beds that fill the center of the room. My feet unwilling to move as he man in the white coat lifts the first sheet. There lay my mother, gashes covering her almost grey face. The second sheet lifts, and I see my father. No marks on his head, but he doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. I’ve seen him sleeping, and that’s not what he looks like.

He didn’t lift the third sheet, but something keeps drawing my eyes to it. Something about the person shaped lump laying there felt familiar. “The third?” I asked, barely pushing my voice to be heard. “That’s the second driver. The third driver caused the accident, but he made it into ICU,” the doctor says.

I see a tuft of dark hair poking out of the covering. “Can I see?” I ask, not really thinking of how absurd my request was. “Do you think you might know him? We don’t have any contact information on him, and his hands were pretty banged up, we can’t unlock his phone.” The officer replies. I can’t speak this time, so I nod instead.

They lift the sheet, and sure enough its him. “I know him. He’s my boyfriend.” I say without thought. The next hour passes in a blur. I confirm his identity and fill out the papers they hand me. Then I’m free to go back to my empty three-bedroom house, to start the funeral planning.

Its dark when I get there, I never turned any lights on before I left. I don’t bother turning any on now. My eyes roam over the living room and my legs carry me to the couch. All of my plans, all of my hopes, the future I was so excited for was gone. Sure, I can continue on my own. But what was the point? My parents were my rock. Where I turned when I needed help or support, or just to feel like I was loved.

I truly felt that he too was a part of my much brighter future. Now it’s all turned to dust in the span of a short phone call. The weight of my world makes it easy as I fall onto the cushions. I have no one now. They were all taken away in one accident. Just one moment of chaos.

I blink and there on the table, barely three feet from me, is the package. Mocking me with its presence. I have nothing left to lose. No more worries about supernatural or other consequences at this point. With anger making its way through my chest I grab it and tear at the paper. It comes away easily under my hands along with the lid of the cardboard box beneath it. As expected, the small wooden box sits snuggly inside.

My fingers trail over it lightly before resting on the front clasp. It opens smoothly with not even a creak in the hinges. At first glace it appears to be full of pictures and papers, but before I can fully inspect it a loud voice makes me jump and drop the box. It closes with a snap, and I realize the soft cushion of my couch was replaced with a cold floor.

“Marie let’s go! I want to get home!” my mother yells from my left before disappearing around a corner. I look back down confused. The box is shut on the floor, and my hands are small. I stand up and see that all of me is small.

Looking around I see that I’m in the old flea market, and I’m eight years old again. Eyeing the box on the floor, next to a suspiciously familiar stack of underwear, I nervously take a step back, and then another, and another. I run to the front counter, to my mother, empty handed.

The old woman looks at me with a knowing smile. I still remember my old life, and I wonder if the memories will fade, but in the meantime, I’ll make sure to write down the important bits. Especially all the important dates. I will let my parents introduce us again when its time.

Until then I will fix the mistakes I made before. I know what my passions are now. There won’t be a need to stumble around as I did the first time. I know I can at least hold on to the date of the accident long enough to write out some instructions for older me. “Have you learned your lessons?” the old woman asks, making me think I might get to keep them. “I believe I have,” I reply, returning that smile.

I lead my baffled looking mother out into the sunshine, determined to do it right this time.