Dream Small

Day 453 of isolation.

Thank God for Amazon, right? Well, for me, it’s always been this way. I don’t like people. Nope, that’s not it. I like the IDEA of people, but have always cowered from the anticipation of face-to-face communication. Get me on the phone and I’m stellar. Skype or Zoom, I’m a superstar. Messenger, FaceTime, email… you get it. I’m an artist – and that probably speaks volumes.

I watch the news, the documentaries, and see that the masses are at their wit’s end. I’m the opposite. This pandemic is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I used to spend sleepless nights psyching myself up to go out for groceries and liquor. I don’t have to do that any more – they deliver right to my door. Sure, I get the bruised bananas and cheap wine, but it’s worth it.

It’s not like I never see another human in person, though. Tony, the mail carrier, stops by with packages for me almost every day – so I’m fine. Right? I’m fine…

Today he has two boxes. It’s always a surprise; I order so many things that I lose track, so opening those brown parcels is like five minutes of Christmas. I’ve almost ritualized it. Coffee, vinyl, bay window open year-round. This morning I close my eyes and lean towards the screen, soft breeze perfumed by the neighbor’s rose bush caressing my senses, the sweet song of newly parented robins offering a delightful duet with Bob Dylan in the background. I lay my deliveries on the window seat and decide which to open first.

I shake a heavy Amazon parcel and rack my memory for what I could have purchased that weighs over ten pounds. I can’t recall so tear into it. Oh yeah, three one-litre bottles of ketchup. Merry Christmas, Lucy.

The second box is carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. My name is written by an elegant hand. There is no postmark, no stamp, and nothing to indicate anything about the contents. It’s no bigger than a shoe box and feels empty. My curiosity is piqued.

Inside, there is only a sheet of paper and a business card from Twist of Fate Antiquities. I’ve never heard of them – this must be a mistake. But my name is on the box…

“Dream small,” the paper says. That’s it.

Well, that was weird. Time to refill my coffee and start on my next job. I paint for fun – and for sanity – but I illustrate children’s books to pay the bills. This project is about a hippo with a broken arm and she struggles to accept help from her friends and community; eventually learning. I’m sure there’s a valuable lesson in it for me, but I refuse to admit that my agoraphobia is anything other than a purposely made life choice.

The hippo, Hazel is her name, is staring right out of the canvas at me. “If I can ask for support in my time of need, so can you, Lucy,” she taunts. Ok. I’m losing it. I wish I had a shot of whiskey.

My coffee is strong and black and today and I’m going to match Hazel’s dress to the colour of it. I’m mad at her, so she doesn’t get playful pink or sunshiny yellow. I’ll have to change it, I know, but at this minute it’s the only way to vent my frustrations aside from knocking things off my table, which I’m about to do anyway. I know I didn’t leave this empty Twist of Fate box on my workstation, but here it is and I’m about to kick it across the room.

There’s something in it. A shot glass full of Jack Daniels? Now I’m a little freaked out… Do I call the cops? Search the house? Go outside….? No – drink that whiskey. That’s what I need to do. Down the hatch. Who cares if it’s 9am? I wish I had another. I hold the empty glass up to the light and it doesn’t refill itself. Damn.

I’m warm inside now; calm. Ready to work – I just have to move that box. Another shot of JD waits for me inside. What is happening?

Okay, so I’ll suck back this shot and recycle this stupid little box. Maybe I’ll just put it in the pantry for now – recycle day isn’t until Wednesday. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll tuck it out of sight.

“Hazel, it’s you’re lucky day. I’m dressing you in neon green with big pink flowers. Heck, I’ll put a daisy in your hair, too. You’ll be the prettiest hippopotamus in the book shop,” Yes, I often speak to my subjects. Don’t judge me.

Crap, I’m out of green. “You want an orange dress, Haze?” I had my heart set on green, though, and now I’m back in that pre-whiskey funk from ten minutes ago. Orange it is, my fashionable fat friend.

I love my life of solitude, but cooking has become laborious. It doesn’t seem worth it to prepare a meal for one, and I often insult my own efforts. Cereal and popcorn have become my go-to, but today I’m feeling the need for soup, as boring as that sounds. I want something hot and I know there are a few cans in the pantry.

They’re probably ten years old, but hey, I can’t hold out for the apocalypse forever.

The soup is pushed to the back of the shelf, hidden by dust covered jars of spaghetti sauce and peanut butter… and that damned box again! Didn’t I put it on the floor? This time I AM about to hurl it across the room, but again, it’s got something inside. I peek. Paint? Neon green paint, to be precise….

I decide to have this curiosity join me for dinner and plunk the box down on the table, right beside my bowl of tomato soup. Dream Small, the note had said. I can do that. It’s not like I need a million dollars to travel the world or go jewelry shopping. “Lobster would go nicely with this soup,” I test my theory. It’s a small dream. The fish market will not do home delivery, so I haven’t had any in a dog’s age.

The box starts to move a bit. I jump out of my seat and grab the tongs, making sure there is a chair between the package and me in case I need to run. I flick open the lid, jumping back simultaneously. It was quite an impressive acrobatic move, if I do say so myself. Yup – there’s a lobster inside. He’s alive. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I flip it shut and walk away. Now I’m afraid to go into the dining room, so pace the rest of the house.

Morning rears its unpleasant head after a night of fitful dreams. Hazel was running at me, screaming about how much she hated her orange dress; broken arm in a cast, free hand gripping that living, black lobster. It’s claws snapping in my direction, hissing that it needs Jack Daniels to. Is that a French accent? “I need zee Jacques Dan-yells!” he squealed. What in the actual….?

I’m loathe to head downstairs, knowing that the Twist of Fate box is still on the table, lobster likely deceased, the box will definitely stink, but there’s no one else to deal with it so I suck it up.

There it is, so unimposing, mocking me, questioning my sanity. And empty. Thank the Lord. Coffee, that’s what I need. Maybe I should call someone. My therapist? Ghostbusters? I wish I could talk to my mother. There was a time when she would have known what to do, but now her brain doesn’t cooperate. The Alzheimer’s has taken her essence and left an empty shell that looks like mommy, but is a stranger. She was my confidante, my safety, my best friend. Now it’s like a foreign entity has stolen her soul and taken up residence in her body, abandoning me.

A ringing jolts me out of my reverie, snapping me back into reality. Life must go on. Where is that incessant noise coming from? I can’t find my phone anywhere… Papers are flying, coffee is spilling, a chair topples over, all in my frantic effort to answer a call that I probably don’t want to take anyway. The box… crap. It’s in that portal to Hell…

“Hello?” I don’t recognize the number.

“Lulubelle… is that you?”

“M..m..mommy?” It can’t be. I’m still dreaming. No one else has ever called me that.

“Are you okay, my beautiful girl? I’m so worried about you. You haven’t come to see me for ages. Tell mommy what’s wrong, my sweet angel.”

“Oh, mommy,” my voice is tiny. I’m five years old again. Where do I start? She’d be so disappointed in who I’ve become, but not nearly and disapproving as I am of myself. If she knew that I drink too much, I have no friends, I talk to my drawings… I didn’t become the woman she wanted me to be, she would denounce me. “I can’t leave the house,” I finally speak my truth.

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I talked to my mother for an hour. Maybe it was real, but more than likely I am losing my mind; just like she did. I’m going to accept that gift, however, whether actual or fabricated by my own storybook drawing mind, and I’m going to use it. It’s time. It’s MY time.

Tomorrow would be a better day to start my time, though. Yes, tomorrow.

8:15 am and my doorbell is ringing. Tony has never delivered this early – I sure hope it isn’t a new delivery guy. Yup, there’s a stranger at the door and I’m in my pajamas. It’s time… it’s time… I keep telling myself and I muster the courage to open the door.

“Lulubelle Donovan?” he asks.

“Um. Lucy. I’m Lucy Donovan.”

“I have a car here to take you to Shady Acres,” he states, thumbing through pages on a clip board.

“Uh – no. I don’t think so. I didn’t call you.”

“Sure you did. This is your number, isn’t it?” he’s holding up the call log on his cell. He was right, that’s my number. The box! The box called and is impersonating me. I race to it, ready to grab my phone but it’s on the counter; right where I left it. I peer in the box, both excited and afraid of what I’ll find.

Make up, hair dye, a heart shaped pendant, a pretty white blouse and a pair of black heels. Dream Small, Lucy… There must be a message in here, and I heed it.

“Are you in a hurry?” I ask the driver. “I need an hour to dye my hair.” I must sound like an incredibly vain fool, which isn’t me at all. Well, maybe the fool part, but vanity has never been one of my sins.

“No prob,” he retorts. “Mind if I watch the news?”

Off I go to beautify myself for my mom. She hasn’t seen me in years – I don’t want to let her down.

We arrive at Shady Acres in the pouring rain. I’m nervous; scared shitless, actually; but I’m ready, despite my fresh hair dye running down my neck and staining the new blouse. I summon the God of courage and head to the reception desk. “I’m here to see Sadie Donovan,” I choke out the words. The man behind the counter is filled with sorrow.

“She was a sweet lady.” He says to me.

“Was?” No… no, no, no. “Um, did she move?” Wishes are a force, truth is powerlessness. Can I dream big now? If I yearn hard enough, will she be in the Twist of Fate box when I get home?

“We lost her this morning. I’m sorry. She was lucid, though. In the end”

“What did she say?”

 She said “Tell Lulubelle that it’s time to move on. She’s stronger than she thinks and I’ll never leave her.”

The rain beckons me and I oblige. It pelts my face as I tilt it toward the heavens, but I barely notice.

Dream small, mommy. I’m with you.