The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn’t order it…
23 Pinewood Grove. That was definitely my address too.
I called out to Ben but quickly realised he wasn’t home as I slid the kitchen curtain aside to see the empty space in the driveway. I had forgotten already that I had just seen him off.
Maybe he had ordered something using one of my accounts - all of them are linked anyway, or accessible through our computer’s keychain.
Ben always handles the mail and we never really get packages, so I thought it was best to leave it, but something was nagging at my brain. It felt important. The ink that had my name printed seemed to pulsate against the white labelling, like something was beating beneath the packaging. I felt something. I don’t know what, or why, but something.
I traced my finger against the edges of the box. They weren’t cold like it was outside, but instead felt like they had retained the heat of the hands holding them however long ago. I heard the thud at the door almost as soon as I had finished watching Ben’s car leave the drive. It’s a silly habit, but every morning I stand at the window from our kitchen and wave him off as he goes. I’ve done it ever since I can remember being in this house. Sometimes I wonder where it was we lived before, but it feels so long ago now that my brain must’ve discounted the information as secondary and filed it away somewhere in the back with the other easily forgettable things.
It could’ve been strange that no one was at the door, but these delivery guys have so many parcels to get done that it’s unusual now when you get to see one of them. I miss the postman. The neat hat and satchel - the red and matured version of a paperboy, but their bag is filled with magic and surprises rather than the monotony of the morning standard.
I was only in the kitchen, which is very close to the front door, and it only took me a moment to reach it, but they had gone. The parcel was also small, so it definitely could have fitted through the letter box. I wondered why they had left it there.
Picking the package up felt right in my hands. I used both to cradle it upwards and towards the kitchen table. The label with my name on it was looking at me again. It was hard not to instinctively open it because of this, but even though it was my name, I had not ordered it, so it felt wrong. Maybe it was a surprise? Ben was so thoughtful and had probably ordered me something from one of my wish-lists and that’s why my name came through. He would still be driving, so I thought why not just call him - he’d probably be stuck in traffic anyways.
Hey honey.
Hey, are you okay? Everything alright?
Yes, I just wondered if I could open the parcel that arrived for me? Or did you want me to wait for you?
What parcel?
It just arrived, it has my name on it but I didn’t order anything…I assumed maybe you-
-Don’t open it.
…
Oh, okay. No worries, I’ll wait until-
-Put it in my office, okay sweetie?
Yeah, sure
Will you do that now for me?
Yeah, okay, I’ll do it now.
Okay, well have a good day and I’ll see you when I get home. Maybe you could cook that steak for dinner, it’s been in the fridge a couple days now.
Yeah, sounds good. Love you.
…Click.
I placed the phone back on the receiver and took the parcel upstairs. Ben’s office was next to our bedroom, but was actually much bigger - something about it being closer to the wifi router - I didn’t argue. The room had it’s own presence. I don’t know if this was the size of it, or the way it was arranged. His desk stood against the back wall like a painting: composed perfectly against the framing of the cream moulding that surrounded it, with the leather and oak chair left precisely in its aperture. The desk was home to scattered papers, some stained with the brown circular stamp of his favourite coffee mug. I reached for the desk drawer, but pulled the handle to find it was locked. Why would it be locked? I quickly reminded myself that Ben told me his work involves a lot of confidential paperwork and administration rules are so stringent these days, that it was better to just leave it and rest the parcel amongst the surface papers.
Ben came home at his usual time and we had the steak I had prepared earlier.
The weather has dropped. They need to sort the heating out or else that building will be insufferable.
Please make sure to wrap up - I could make you a hot water bottle in the mornings you can take with you
Come on, I can’t take a hot water bottle into the office… it doesn’t scream professional
It always works for me.
I scraped away the sad and limp pieces of beef that were left from our plates, along with a few peas and one potato from mine.
Ben had already gone for his shower, so after stacking the plates I headed upstairs.
The office light was on, and I could tell this because the door had been left ajar allowing it to leak through.
I pushed against the cold metal handle and felt conscious of the hushed screeches between the hinges and the door frame.
It was the desk lamp that had been left on. Ben must have forgotten.
As I reached for the switch I saw the package had been opened. The brown parcel tape and been severed with Ben’s penknife that lay splayed beside it. I wouldn’t have looked any further but the eye caught mine.
In the box, there was a photograph. A woman with bright, gleaming eyes that shone through the slit of the cardboard flaps. I pushed at one to reveal more of her. She looked so familiar, yet she was a stranger. I had never seen this woman before in my life. Had I? She was beautiful. She radiated with an energy I couldn’t place - a feeling I didn’t know how to describe. My hand drew closer to her -
What are you doing in here?
I’m just turning the light off my love.
Ben stood in the arch of the doorway, his shadowy figure outlined with the soft light of the lamp. His presence glared and flickered. I switched off the lamp.
In bed, I reached for my medication, usually by my glass of water. I picked up the pot, but it weighed little enough to know it was empty. I must’ve forgotten to order more. I’ll do it tomorrow, I thought - one day won’t make a difference. Or had they run out yesterday?
Hey, babe
Yes?
I turned to face Ben and found that he was already looking at me.
From now on I’d prefer if you didn’t go in my office space. Just because I’ve got everything organised in a specific way etcetera, you know I’m a bit anal about that sort of stuff.
He used a stray strand of my hair to push back and follow the curve of my ear. His finger tip lingered and felt oddly hard against the soft skin of my neck.
I only went in because you asked me to put the package there, usually i don’t-
-I know sweetie, it’s okay. Just from now on let’s not go in there.
He cupped my cheek with his hand and applied a small amount of pressure as he smiled just before kissing my forehead and turning around. I turned to my nightstand and reached for the switch of the lamp but knocked over the empty pill bottle in doing so. I stood it back up straight and the name printed on the white label jumped out at me: it was not the one on the package, it was not mine.
****************************************************************************************************
My wrist moved left to right and waved my hand naturally, but it felt nothing of the sort. I didn’t have a pill to take this morning either, and I felt horrendous. As soon as Ben’s car was out of sight I lent over to the sink to throw up. Chunks of the brown meat, limp like the bits I had scraped away yesterday lay against the dull metal basin.
They looked exactly like the leftovers on the plates from yesterday…
There was something else on the plates, right? Yes - peas. I remember peas being on the plate, and one potato that I hadn’t finished!
I ran to the bin and drove the push-pedal down with force.
There it was: lumps of steak, peas, and one potato.
I had remembered… I. Had. Remembered.
Finally the medication was working - my constant brain fog, the doubt, the haze felt like it was lifting from above my head and the clouds were parting. I couldn’t wait to tell Ben.
And after being so worried about missing the pills recently: I must be so lucky.
That reminded me - the pills. I wasn’t going to let this slip away from me, if they were finally fixing my memory back together I did not want to risk fumbling the course of treatment any more than I had been recently.
I bounded up the stairs with the most energy I’d had in, well, since I could remember.
Without thinking, I pushed the office door open, but my body stopped me at the threshold of the flatbar that separated the hallway carpet and hard linoleum of Ben’s office.
I clearly remembered what he had said the night before. So clearly that I could feel his hand against my cheek and see the look in his eyes that meant he was serious. But my prescriptions are kept at his desk and this was an emergency. I’m sure he would understand and I would explain, and there would be no problem.
I crossed the invisible, but weighted barrier of the carpet and sat at his desk.
The package was still there. Still there in the same place I had left it. My hand reached in before I did, and now I was holding the photograph of her. But this time my eyes fell underneath the picture of her, to more images of this woman, with more people I thought I had never seen before. They went on, and on - the entire package was full of printed pictures of this woman with people, pets, her against beautiful scenery, in cities I had never been to - were these photographs of Ben’s grandmother? Or maybe his mother? They looked to modern, too recent. I held up the glossy photo paper and caught myself in the mirror hung next the to bookshelf adjecent to the desk. The woman stared at me, and me, at myself through the mirror. We shared the same hair colour, although hers slightly shorter in length. The lines of her face seemed to match my own - the curvature of her nose, the arc of her brow… we even had the same eyes: brown with the slightest fleck of green that muddied the hue into a lucky hazel. And then I saw it. She was wearing my locket. The silver chain hung around her neck, the heart-shaped pendent caught the flare of the camera lens and was so bright it seemed to glow through the photocard.
My fingers ran through the pile and I began to draw at random. She was wearing my locket in most of these, and in some of them she wore the clothes I had hanging in the wardrobe nextdoor.
My head span as it fought the idea. Go lie down. You’re not well. Wait for Ben and he can help you. Just wait for Ben to get back.
But something incessant and demanding wouldn’t let me. I went deeper into the package, down into more photos. It was clear but I wouldn’t let myself believe it.
At the bottom of the pile was a note. A sticky-note that had lost all residue and curled up at both ends like burnt paper does. It had a number scrawled across it. It was a phone number.
The momentum of my mind had taken over my body. It knew I needed proving to, needed shaking awake.
I dialled the number. At first I didn’t hear anything but the low humm that lets you know you’re connected to whoever's on the other side…
H-Hello?
Hello?
Who is this?
Excuse me, you’ve called this number. Who is this?
My name is…
…
Your name is what?
My name is Jane. Jane Doe.
…
Oh my fucking god. Oh my god. Lucy. Lucy is that you?
Jane, it says Jane on the package. Ben calls me Jane - I don’t know a Lucy
Lucy, where are you? Tell me now. Tell me now and we can call the police. Oh my god I-
The woman on the other side of the phone started to cry. Her voice was muffling as she took sharp inhales of breath and tried again to speak.
Lucy I just need you to tell me where you are, where he has you. A road name, a town - Lucy please - anything -
As she said this name it was like the woman in the photographs was saying it to.
My mind repeated it, the pictures repeated it, this voice on the other end of the phone was repeating it…
Lucy just, don’t do ANYTHING he says. Don’t drink anything, don’t eat anything and DO NOT let him know you have spoken to me okay lucy?
This time the hinges of the door didn’t screech so quietly.
Lucy can you hear me?
I didn’t have to turn the chair around to know he was standing there. To know what he looked like in that doorway. I had seen it before. That, I can remember.
Oh Lucy
This one came from him.
It’s such a shame we have to start over again. You were really starting to suit the name Jane.
The syringe sunk into my tricep and before I could say it myself, and the memory of Lucy vanished.
