The Mystery Box

Sure, there are lots of things to be thankful for in life. I’m just not sure shoveling a foot and a half of snow at six in the morning is one of them. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy living in Ohio — lived here my entire existence — and I like the snow (most days). Today is just not one of those days.

“So…we pay the HOA, why exactly?

Brandon, sweat now visible across his nose and cheeks, stuck his shovel in a snow mound and straightened up. A response really wasn’t necessary since the look on his face easily captured his thoughts, but he answered anyway.

“I’m starting to question that as well. I’ll see if I can find the number to call when we go back inside.”

“All right, do you think —? Wait, what’s this?” My own shovel digging into something other than the tightly packed snowdrift. “Were you expecting a delivery yesterday?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe it was delivered to the wrong house. What’s the address say?”

“It doesn’t. It just has our names. That’s all.” Brandon trudges over to stand next to me. “You think we should take it inside?” my eyebrows raise, questioning. He seems to share my intrigue.

“Uh, let’s look at the porch camera first to see who dropped it off.” Pulling out his phone and quickly removing his glove, Brandon scrolls to find the security app. Searching the video entries, he finally finds the one we are looking for, 1:16 AM, right before the snow starts.

“Well, now I really don’t understand.” I say as the video ends.

Brandon goes back to the beginning and plays the clip again. Eventually, he vocalizes the question we were both thinking. “Why would a drone be delivering a package to us at one in the morning?”

“No idea, but now my interest is even more peaked.” I glance over at Brandon to see him deep in thought. After a few minutes, he suggests that we take the box inside but not open it right away.

“Unusually light,” Brandon notes, as he lifts the mystery box out of the snow.

With the unexpected development of the morning, we decide to abandon our snow shoveling vigil, and head back inside.

We head up the stairs, and my mind starts running through questions and possibilities. What could be in this package? Why is it so light? Is there a reason it was delivered with a drone? And so late? Did they deliver it right before the snow started so it would purposely get buried or was that just a coincidence? I wonder if someone has been watching us, and this is how they decided to make contact. I wish we knew our neighbors a little better to know whether it came from one of them. It could be an invite to some secret party. Or maybe we’re being recruited for a high stakes mission. I have always thought that we had a few skills that could translate to the FBI or CIA or whatever.

Wait…what am I thinking?! These are crazy ideas! Movement to my right draws me out of my momentary musings. I watch as Brandon sets the box on the kitchen counter and walks over to the coffee machine.

We go about our morning, warming up and busying ourselves with house cleaning tasks, but the unusual delivery continues to nag at me. Then, as I begin to vacuum the bedroom, an unexpected suspicion pops into my head, Does Brandon know more about this box than he is letting on? Isn’t it strange that he didn’t immediately want to open it? A nugget of mistrust brewing.

By mid-afternoon, I couldn’t suppress my curiosity and uncertainty. I have to say something.

“What do you think is in there?” I try to keep my question light and non accusatory.

“Who knows?” Brandon shrugs.

“You’re not at all curious? Or wondering where it actually came from?”

“ I am, but I am not sure we will ever answer that question.” Brandon’s response seems…cautious, or maybe that is just me projecting my suspicions on him.

“Well…what if we open the package? That could answer the question, or maybe at least give us some clues.”

Brandon’s hesitation is brief and almost unnoticeable, almost. “All right, let’s see what’s inside.” He carries the package over to the buffet and pulls out the boxcutter. One quick glance at me, and he slices the tape with ease. We reach out and each open a side flap.

Peeking over the sides, Brandon and I silently read the note staring up at us:

You don’t know me, and you probably never will, but I needed you to have this.

The only other object in the box was a single overturned photograph. Brandon slowly reaches for it to reveal what the picture holds. The instant confusion that crosses Brandon’s face makes me immediately regret the suspicions I had earlier. He clearly was not expecting this.

His hand shakes ever so slightly as he grips the photo and reads the simple inscription labeling the bottom edge, “Brandon and Dana, Christmas 1977.”

The picture is almost identical to the one that Brandon has in his box of family photos from when he was a baby, with one major exception….Dana.

For as long as I have known Brandon, he has always been an only child, and based on his obvious reaction to this photograph, that was his impression as well. I try to think of something to say, but I am at a loss. Brandon must feel the same way because he suddenly leaves the room and sprints up the stairs.

The strange noises don’t start right away, but when they do, they are slightly concerning. Clunk. Bang. Oof. My first guess is Brandon might be having a meltdown, which I’ve never seen before. How should I approach this? Do I try to help? Do I wait and let him work through it on his own?

More sounds…Clank. Ouch. Crash! At that, I make my decision. I am going upstairs to see what’s happening.

Just as I move towards the stairs, I hear a sound much more comforting than the noises from a few minutes ago…Brandon’s voice.

“I knew it, I just knew it!”

When Brandon returns to the living room, his expression is now one of recognition and…accomplishment? Once again, I am confused. He hands me a folded paper that has seen better days, and simply nods. Carefully unfolding the sheet, I wait for Brandon to explain.

I stared down at a message written in the same distinctive handwriting:

Not everything you think you know is true. Maybe one day we’ll meet, and I can explain.

Again, no signature or any other clues about who may have sent this cryptic note. Flipping the paper over, I see that Brandon had written only one thing on the back, the date: June 9, 2002.

“Twenty years?” Brandon just nods at my query. “What does it mean, though?”

“I couldn’t explain it at the time, and honestly, I don’t even know why I kept it all these years,” he pauses for a beat, and then continues with a look of determination, “but now…there’s clearly more to it, and I think my mom has some explaining to do.”