The Little Box

*This story contains bad language.

Keys jin-jin-jingled. Door shhhlid to a click. Junk mail fl-fl-flopped and scattered on the table. Little box sat. It was addressed to Roger Rose.

Beth turned away, removing her coat. Damn tremors wouldn’t let her unhook the zipper, so she let the whole thing fall to the floor. Nice move, dummy. Now her feet were caged in. She was creating her own therapy obstacles. Her PT, Steve, would be elated.

Experimentally lifting her foot, she set it back down. Walls don’t move. Right. She spread her palm against the wall and risked a step over. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall.

Success. One foot, two foot, she could do this! Cursed coat. In a spark of annoyance, she kicked out her other leg, coat flying over the arm of her sofa. Bit impulsive there, Beth, but no more trippy-coats.

She shuffled over and fell back into the sofa. Steve wouldn’t like that. Steve could suck a dick. Physical therapists didn’t run her life. She had made it to the mailbox and back without so much as a cut or a bruise. She was a rockstar. 

Beth’s eyes drifted to the little box. She didn’t want to open it. Why not? Because she didn’t care. If she didn’t care so much, then why not open it? Because… because it wasn’t addressed to her. Good point. How about some television? 

The remote stared menacingly at Beth. Once in her sweaty hand, it swung left and right in erratic pulses as she attempted to press the bouncing circle. Ugh. No good. Her right hand slapped over her left and her finger made contact with the power button by the grace of God. God, of course, approved of her watching tv.

The television sprang to life, ads blaring their trumpets at her. It was full of explosives and screeching tires. The list of Continue Watching was completely unfamiliar. Which were hers and which were his? Screeching tires. Need to turn this off. Their past lives together were nothing more than a postcard to her traumatized brain. 

The remote leapt from her hand as her phone sang and buzzed on the coffee table. Screeching tires.

“Hello?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“No, you don’t need to come over.”

“I’ll just microwave something.”

Sigh. “Okay, Mom, see you at seven. Love you, too.” Had she told Roger that she loved him? Seems like the sort of thing someone would remember. Screeching tires. The television timed out and turned off. Thank God. He must have changed his mind about the whole tv thing.

There was a knock at the door. Was it seven o’clock already? No. Plus, Mom had a key. The knocking pounded in her brain. Was her mom testing her to see if she could walk to the door? Damn, Mom sucked!

“Just a minute!” or an hour. Nose over toes, Beth stood on shaky legs and shuffled her way back to the front door. She managed to turn the deadbolt on her first try. 

“Finally! Beth!” It was a man. A cute one.

Beth barely made it out of the way of the swinging door. The cute man grabbed her in a bear hug and swung her around. Going to hurl. Glad she had only eaten that slice of bread for lunch. 

The hug left her disoriented and unbalanced. Her body began to collapse as he let go, but he caught her before she hit the ground and guided her over to the plush couch. 

“Beth, are you okay? You look like shit.” He held both her hands as they sat on the couch together. Their knees touched.

“Is Roger home? I just got back from my trip and you both were radio silent. I had to stop by and see what was going on.” He searched her eyes. It was weird.

Oh God, he didn’t know.

He smiled with a cute dimple on his cute face, and Beth watched as his cute eyes dissolved into concern and his cute dimples vanished into a frown. “What’s going on?”

“Roger and I…” How strange. She didn’t feel like a “Roger and I.” 

“Yes?” Hope flickered in his eyes.

“We were in a car accident.” Screeching tires. Beth glanced at the tv, but it wasn’t on. Hope had receded from cute man’s face. She probably wasn’t the best person to deliver this news.

“He didn’t make it… I’m sorry.” Did it sound as hollow to him as it did to her? Like telling him there was pizza in the refrigerator. Was there pizza in the refrigerator? There is no pizza… I’m sorry. She should ask her mom to bring pizza.

Cute man hugged her. He was upset.

“Oh my God, Beth, I can’t believe it! Are you okay? Can I do anything for you?”

“You can let me go.”

“Oh, geez, sorry, Beth.” He held her at arms’ length, inspecting her face. It was placid. Less touching would’ve been nice.

“I have a brain injury. The doctors say I should recover most of my motor planning and memories. But they’re not good right now.” She could detect the slur in her speech.

Cute man was sobbing. She patted his back. What could she say? Her eyes and her thoughts wandered.

“You left the door open.” She saw someone walk by, pause at the sounds of cute man’s despair, and rush off. Take me with you…

“I’m just so shocked! I’ve never met two people more in love than you and Roger, and for that to be taken away…” he devolved into sobs again. She didn’t think he was going to close the door. 

“I don’t remember much, but it should come back.” She stood, pointedly eying the door. 

Cute man stood, as well. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask. Please.”

“Can you tell me your name?” Impulsivity in brain injuries is an asshole. At that moment, so was Beth.

He turned away. “It’s Sam. You have my number. Good-bye, Beth.”

“Good-bye, Sam.” A soft slide and click followed Sam out the door. Beth collapsed back onto the couch. She would lock the door after resting her eyes a bit.

Lights burned into her brain.

“Honey, the door is unlocked and all your lights are off. Are you trying to get murdered?”

Beth yawned. “No, Mom.”

“I brought you pizza.” 

Score! “Yes!”

“And a surprise.”

Hmm

Mom lifted a plastic crate next to the little box on the table. She pinched the edges and a gray cat sauntered out.

“You got me a cat? I can barely take care of myself!”

“Oh, sweetie, I didn’t bring you a cat, I brought you your cat, Ms. Fuzzle.” Hah, Ms. Fuzzle. At least her sense of humor was unchanged. The cat hopped onto Beth’s lap, purring loudly.

Mom continued, “I’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry.” Her mom did just that as she went from room to room, setting up the litter box, installing nightlights in every socket, and feeding the cat as Beth munched on her pizza and watched The Mom Show. 

Mom lifted the little box off the table. “What’s this?” She set it down by the pizza and helped herself to a slice beside Beth.

“It’s addressed to Roger.”

“You said his name! Are you remembering more?”

“No, Mom, but I can read. Want to know my address?”

“Elizabeth, really? Well, I’m glad nothing impaired your sass.” She kissed Beth’s forehead and prepared to leave.

“Your phone is charging by the bed. I’ll call you in the morning. I’m locking the door behind me, so no need to get up.” She paused at the door. “Do you want me to help you to the bathroom?”

“Noooo, I’m, well, yes, okay.” Not the experience one wants to share, but better than lying on the bathroom floor with your panties around your ankles…

Returned to the couch and the pizza, Beth enjoyed the final door click of the evening as her mother departed. She was blessedly alone. Well, Ms. Fuzzle was there, too, but that was alright. The cat curled up on her lap.

She lifted the little box. Awkward fingers ripped tape and tore cardboard. Beth caressed the black velvet box within and creaked it open. Inside glittered a gold engagement ring. It had been well-polished, but its age still showed. Had it belonged to Roger’s mother? 

Was there a twinge of feeling there? Perhaps, but not more than if she were reading someone else’s story. She didn’t think she wanted to live that story. It didn’t end happily. Better, a rom-com. 

Beth hobbled to bed, leaving the ring behind, but not the cat. Maybe she’d begin another story tomorrow.