The Isolation

I held my breath as I gently parted my dust-covered Venetian blinds. The shadowy figure walked away from my home. Had my heart stopped beating with the knock on the door? Perhaps. Who knows how long my vital functions hinged on the verge of total failure as I waited for the unknown danger to leave.

The sound of an engine starting. Yes, the vehicle was driving away. I was free.

A deep sigh of relief escaped my lungs as I backed away from the window. Freedom. Freedom to enjoy my peaceful solitude once more.

But what had the figure wanted? Despite my longing for freedom, the need-to-know gnawed at me. I sluggishly walked toward the kitchen. Each step produced a different scenario in my mind.

Perhaps it had been a traveling salesman. Maybe he was a vacuum salesman – a vacuum salesman who would spill red wine on my rug to show how well his product worked. And once the red wine stain was out of my rug, he would then proceed to murder me, in my own home. My blood would spill on the rug like the red wine, but, no worries, the TurboPowerCleanerMax5000 would take care of any evidence. Yes? No. No. That’s a crazy notion. Vacuum cleaner salesmen don’t travel door-to-door anymore. They setup at kiosks in malls and wholesale-club-stores.

No, more than likely it was a landscape company representative. They saw how overgrown my hedges had become. Yes. My front yard was a disaster. It had been weeks since I attempted to mow the grass. Weeks? Maybe a month. Or two. Time really had no meaning. Yes. The horrible law caught a landscaping company’s attention. They would invite me on a walk-through tour of my front yard. Trim a hedge for me in a lovely design to pique my interest. Then they would ask me to lead them to the backyard to assess the needs of my oak tree. Cut off a limb here, there, then my left arm first, taking me by surprise. Next, my left leg as I try to run away. My right arm as I scream. Quick work and I am part of the timber pile about to be churned into mulch.

I stood in front of my refrigerator. A shaking hand pulled open the French-style doors. Why was I opening the fridge? I couldn’t remember.

My stomach grumbled.

Oh yes. Lunch. Before the shadowy stranger had arrived at the front door, I was making a sandwich: roast beef, thinly sliced smoked Gouda, light mayo, iceberg lettuce, and fresh garden tomatoes on toasted whole wheat. Except, there were no tomatoes in the crisper. That must be why I was at the front door when I heard the knock. My tomato plant is on my front porch.

I closed the refrigerator doors and clinched my fists in determination. I was going to retrieve a tomato.

Defiantly, I returned to the front door. Imaginations stopped. Silence. Blissful silence in my head except the one beacon of hope: a juicy, red tomato.

The English oak entry flew open at my touch. Only ten paces stood between me and that tomato. Ten paces and – and a box. An indistinguishable, brown, ugly little box sitting squarely in the middle of my welcome mat. No words. No labels. Just hideous brown paper wrapping a suspicious little box. A suspicious little box full of poison. Or anthrax – were anthrax attacks still happening? No! It was worse! It was a bomb!

I slammed the door shut and began locking every bolt. My heart rate increased with every click. My breaths shortened. Why me? Why had the stranger singled me out?

“One, two, buckle my shoe,” I recited. Control your heart. Control your lungs. “Three, four, I’ve locked my door.”

I hurried to my back bedroom. I needed to call someone. Who? The police? The bomb squad? The FBI?

My trembling hand reached nervously for the phone on my nightstand. 911. That was what I needed to dial. My mind understood this, but my hand did not. It was frozen in terror.

What if the bomb’s detonation device was triggered by the emissions of a cellphone like in the movies?

What if the police got angry with me for calling them?

What if the box was an empty prank, and I got charged with a false police report? Did people go to jail for that?

The phone lit up. My ringtone blasted into my ears. I threw the phone on my bed with a scream. For a brief moment, I expected an explosion to occur at my front door. But the sound never came.

A deep sigh of relief guided me to my knees. I peered over the edge of my bed at the ringing phone. Tenderly, I reached to answer it. “H…hello?”

“Tamar? Are you okay?” It was my sister.

“Oh, thank goodness, it’s you.” She probably noted the panic and tension in my voice. Now she was worried on my behalf. I was such a terrible burden to her. Even knowing that, I could not resist telling her about the source of my worry. “There’s a suspicious package at my door. I don’t know what to do. Do I call the police?”

“Are you sure it’s suspicious?” she asked. She always attempted calm logic with me. “Did you order anything?”

“No. No, I didn’t. There was no label on the box.”

“Was the label on the bottom of the box?”

“I can’t touch it! What if it’s a bomb and disturbing it makes it go off?” I yelled.

My sister sighed. She paused her line of questioning. Perhaps she was starting to see things from my point-of-view after all. “Isn’t it the fifteenth? Doesn’t your sertraline get delivered to you on the fifteenth of each month?”

“Oh.” I scratched my arm nervously. “Maybe.”

“Check your email and see if it sent.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked my email application: ‘Delivered – Sertraline 30 Day’. “Oh.”

“Tamar, go get the box and taken your medication. And stop binge watching true crime shows.”

I hate it when she’s right, but, at least I would get my tomato.