Chapter 7: Cardboard Express

I did call Haylee, as promised, and to make up for not responding to her earlier, I requested a video chat.

It wasn’t until her lovely face popped onto the screen that I realized how much I missed her. Suddenly, I wanted to hear all about her potential romance with Payton, but she didn’t mention it. I suspected she was avoiding the subject altogether.

Instead, she rambled on about her new job and shared a few juicy tidbits about her coworkers. When she was done, she squinted at the camera. “Dharma, no offense, but you don’t look so good. Are you doing all right?”

“Yeah…,” I began to answer, but then paused. My mother was right. What was the point of having a forever friend if you couldn’t share your true feelings, so I changed my tune.

“No, I’m not, actually. Something strange happened…”

I recalled my nightmare and the aftermath. When I was finished, Haylee’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Oh, wow…,” she breathed as she sat back and rubbed her arms. “That story gave me goosebumps.”

“My mother thinks I may be suffering from trauma or PTSD due to this last year, in addition to the move.”

“I don’t mean to sound superstitious,” Haylee began, “but I think you may have been given a glimpse into the past.”

“~Whose past?~” I beseeched her. “I didn’t even recognize those people.”

“You said they were called Dan and Karen, right? Does Dan and Karen ~Johnson~ ring a bell?” Haylee pressed. “Your dream may have been a sign.”

“A sign of what?” I asked. “That I’m going nuts?”

“No, silly,” Haylee said with a little chuckle. “Maybe it is a warning. The story about the family’s demise seemed fishy. Maybe your dream was a prompt to investigate.”

“Didn’t Virginia Cole already do that?” I inquired.

“I don’t know.” Haylee shrugged. “I only began reading her book after you moved, but I recognized the parents’ names as soon as you started talking. Is it possible that your dream was inspired by the book?”

“I’ve never read the book.”

“Perhaps you should,” she advised.

Haylee’s theory haunted me through supper, and when it was time to turn in for the night, I felt my anxiety resurface.

My mother sensed my discomfort and offered to let me bunk with her for the night—an offer she hadn’t made since I was a toddler. Though I felt silly, I gladly accepted, though I had no intention of sleeping.

Exhaustion must have won me over, though, because before I knew it, blinding morning light shone upon my eyelids, forcing me awake.

My mother had risen before me; I could hear the water running in the shared bathroom.

I tossed aside my covers and stretched. On any other day, I would have puttered around the house before starting my day, but since the moving company was due to arrive soon, I hurried to dress, then rushed downstairs to brew coffee.

My mother entered the kitchen just as the coffee began to perk. “Thank goodness you figured that thing out!” she cried, looking genuinely relieved. “I made an attempt last night, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of that machine.”

“One side is for coffee, and the other side is for cappuccinos,” I explained.

“I’ll take just regular boring coffee, thank you,” my mother quipped.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I asserted as I checked the time on my phone. “What time are the movers supposed to be here?”

My mother opened her mouth to answer, but as if summoned, the doorbell rang. “I think you have your answer,” she declared as she skated out of the room. Not feeling as jovial, I trailed along behind her.

The moving company sent two men, who did most of the heavy lifting, while my mother and I hauled the numerous boxes filled with books, clothes, appliances, and knickknacks. The morning was grueling, but the truck was nearly emptied by noon.

“The only remaining furniture is the beds,” one of the movers told my mother. “If you would like, we can put them together for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you longer than necessary,” she said, prepared to politely decline.

“Thanks to you and your daughter, we are a couple hours ahead of schedule. Me and my buddy, here, can put the beds together and still have time for a long lunch before we head back.”

My mother relented. “If you insist. The bed with the white frame is mine and that will go into the yellow room, and my daughter’s bed will go in the—”

“My bed can go in the room with the bookshelves and desk,” I interrupted.

My mother seemed perplexed by my choice. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I like that room,” I insisted firmly.

I understood why my mother was surprised by my decision; the office was cold and barren, while the pink room was colorful and offered plenty of shelves for my stuffed animal collection. But since my night terror, I had developed an aversion to the room, as if my occupation of it would invite bad omens.

“Oh, I guess I just thought you’d like the pink room with the charming chandelier,” she posed.

“It just doesn’t feel homey, I guess,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, the bookshelf room has a large desk that may come in handy when I start college.”

“Okey-dokey,” the mover intervened. “We’ll have those beds set up for you in no time.”

“Thank you,” my mother said, returning her attention to me. “So, have you changed your mind about going away to college?”

A year ago, wild horses couldn’t have discouraged me from going away for school—Haylee and I had often fantasized about the sororities we would pledge for and the frat guys we would meet—but since my father’s death, I was reluctant to leave my mother, fearing that loneliness would drive her into a deeper depression.

Of course, I could never tell her this.

“I think I would rather go to the community college in town,” I said. “At least for the first two years—then I can transfer my credits. That’s the plan, if you don’t mind me living with you.”

“Of course I don’t mind!” she hurried to explain. “You just always seemed so determined to go away to school. I’m just surprised by your change of heart.”

“I don’t see what the rush is,” I said. “Besides, as long as I choose classes that will transfer, I don’t anticipate any issues if I decide to change schools later.”

I expected my mother to argue with me, but instead she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze. When we parted, it was my turn to be surprised.

“I thought you would be mad. You and Daddy always prattled on about how important a good education is.”

“It ~is~ important,” my mother emphasized, “but you don’t need to start out in the Ivy Leagues. In fact, my first school was a community college.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, placing my hands on my hips. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Deva Dupree?”

“At first, I wanted to be a nurse, but the more I learned about medicine, the more I was convinced that I needed to go the distance and become a doctor,” she said.

“And I guess once you began practicing, that was when you decided to specialize in holistic medicine?”

“I wanted to be an option for those who have already been the traditional route,” she explained. “Sometimes the least invasive methods are a better choice—especially for people with sensitivities.”

“I remember when my pediatrician claimed that your practice was just a placebo,” I recalled, expecting my mother to explode the way she had when I had repeated what I had overheard, but instead she shrugged.

“He wasn’t entirely wrong. For the desperate, holistic cures offer hope, which is the most powerful placebo.”

“That wasn’t always your opinion,” I reminded her.

“No, because back then I thought placebo was a dirty word, but I have wised up since then,” she answered easily.

I smiled. “Well, I hope to be as wise as you some day.”

“You are well on your way,” my mother assured me as she linked her arm with mine. “Why don’t we have a quick lunch while they are setting up the bedrooms?”

At the mention of food, my stomach lurched, and I remembered that we had skipped breakfast. “Now that you mention it, I am starving.”

We didn’t waste our time with a heavy meal. We snacked on tuna, crackers, and cookies, and washed it all down with reheated coffee.

We had just finished our meal when one of the movers popped his head into the kitchen to announce that they had finished erecting the beds and would be taking their leave. My mother saw them out, then came back to the kitchen.

“Most of the downstairs is just rearranging furniture,” she said. “Why don’t we unpack our bedrooms first? The rest can be done at our leisure.”

“On it,” I said as I gathered a carton of toys that my mother had mistakenly marked for storage and began toting it upstairs. I was determined to transform my dull space into a colorful habitat.

Once all the Care Bears and Care Bear Cousins were on the bookshelves, I began to hang my clothes, grateful to have shoes other than my sandals and my slippers.

I had just finished filling my dresser when my mother entered my room. “Do you know what the movers did with my books?”

I walked over to the tower of boxes that were stacked next to the desk. “They stored them in here. I guess they assumed this was meant to be a library.”

My mother groaned. “Great. Now we have to haul them all back downstairs.”

“Or we can just store them on the shelves,” I suggested. “I’ll keep them safe for you. Besides, wouldn’t it be nice to use your hutch for its original function?”

“If you’re sure…,” she said with some hesitancy.

“We will have an open-door policy,” I offered. “Except for when I am dressing or sleeping. You can come in any time you want one of your books.”

“Are you sure that wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“It shouldn’t be,” I said, not because it wouldn’t be an imposition but because I was determined not to haul those heavy boxes down the stairs.

Though I was sure my mother was suspicious about my intentions, she must not have wanted to transport them either, because she relented.

“Now that that’s settled, would you like to select a few books to hoard in your room?” I offered.

To my surprise, my mother shook her head. “I have a few of my shows to catch up on. The season finale of Dr. Demonic aired the day we moved.”

“Ah, yes. You better catch up so we have something to talk about during supper,” I bantered. “It shall make for excellent conversation.”

“It shall,” my mother replied in the posh accent as she breezed out of the room, leaving me to finish unpacking. I considered leaving the books until later but decided to hurry up and get it over and done with.

I ripped open the first box and began placing the books on the shelves in no particular order, not pausing until I only had one box remaining: my mother’s precious Virginia Cole collection.

I considered what Haylee had advised the night before, so I began scanning the summaries on the back of each one until I finally found the title I was seeking: ~Until We Collapse~.

I carried the book over to my bed and began flipping through the contents, surprised to find photos scattered throughout the book. I flipped through the pages to gaze at photographs of the Johnsons, then stopped cold.

A chill ran down my spine as I studied an early image of Dan and Karen. Dan was a fit, muscular man, and Karen was a stunning blonde; it was easy to see where Rosie got her good looks from.

But how had my night terror been so accurate? Could I have seen them somewhere before and not realized?

I flipped back to the front of the book. In the prologue, Virginia fully vouched for her own experiences, but included that the names and occupations of the other participants had been changed to protect their privacy.

I wondered if any of them were still local. Had they known that the Johnsons were under financial duress? Could they tell me who Dan Johnson was talking to in the basement?

Though the participants had refused to be named, they had all completed cloaked interviews that could be found on YouTube. I made a mental note to check it out later.

Dog-earing the page where the YouTube channel was listed, I settled in my bed and began to read.

I didn’t know what to expect. I had not been one to read for pleasure, though my parents had encouraged it. Now that I thought about it, I wondered if that was my tiny way of rebelling against them.

Virginia Cole had an interesting writing style that drew the reader in, and she often observed odd habits and intrusive thoughts that most people dismissed because they thought those thoughts and superstitions were unique to them.

I was already a quarter into the book when my mother came knocking at my open door.

“Dharma, what are you doing?” she asked.

I held up the book. “I thought I would do a little light reading.”

“Since the Wi-Fi was connected this morning, I expected to find you on your laptop,” she remarked, not appearing displeased.

“I’m as shocked as you are,” I told her honestly and glanced down at the pages. The name ~Annie~ stood out; her character seemed strangely familiar.

“Actually,” I said, “do you think we can visit that apothecary in town? There were some candles there I thought I might purchase to spruce up my room.”

My mother pressed her lips together. “Dharma, I still have too much to do. I plan to open for business as soon as next week and still have to decide where the acupuncture station is going to go ~and~ sterilize all the equipment.”

“I understand,” I said, dropping my eyes to express my disappointment, but before my hopes could be completely dashed, my mother appeared as if something had occurred to her.

“We do have a lot of cardboard cartons to recycle. Perhaps you can drop them off for me and then visit the shop on your own?”

I leapt at the offer. “Deal.”

“I’ll go downstairs and start loading up,” she said, then pointed at the cardboard I had neatly stacked in the corner. “You can start with those.”

“On it,” I told her, tossing the book aside and standing to stretch.

“Just don’t linger in town for too long,” she warned as she turned to leave. “We still have plenty to do, and I would like to eat supper on time for once.”

“Aye, aye,” I said, failing to salute since my hands were full.

I began transferring the boxes so I could estimate how many trips I would have to take down the stairs. Though the book boxes were easy to handle now that they were empty, the boxes that had stored my clothes were large and clumsy and would need to be taken in smaller loads.

“That will take forever,” I muttered as I collected the two largest boxes, but before I reached my door, I had an inspiring idea.

My new room hovered just above the driveway.

I opened the window next to the desk and accessed the peaked awning that covered the wrap-around porch. The gutter could be a problem, but if I tossed the boxes with enough force, they should land neatly in the driveway.

I started with the largest box, and when it passed the test, I began sending the rest down the same path.

I considered doing the same with the smaller boxes but decided against it. Those boxes were too light, and the friction would cause them to get stuck on the roof tiles.

I gathered the remaining cartons and made my way downstairs. Thankfully, the door was wide open, so I didn’t have to put down my stack and fiddle with the latch.

My mother was already in the driveway when I emerged. She stood there with her hands on her hips, gawking at the mess I had made. She spun around when she heard me approach.

“What is all of this?” she demanded, gesturing at the haphazard pile of cardboard that lay next to the car.

“The large boxes,” I said simply as I rounded the car so I could unload the flattened boxes in my hands. “I thought it would be easier than attempting to haul them down the stairs.”

“What if I had been out here? The corners of those boxes are sharp and would have left a nasty cut.”

“I didn’t just toss them from the window,” I argued as I began to collect the fallen cardboard from the lawn. “I used the awning like a conveyor shoot.”

Unconvinced, my mother shook her head. “That is just plain lazy.”

“You and Daddy always told me to work smart, not hard,” I reminded her.

“Can you please stop weaponizing my own words against me?” my mother complained, rolling her eyes to the sky. Though she was doing her best to remain angry, a tiny smirk had formed on her lips.

“The boxes were transferred, and nobody was hurt,” I proclaimed as I shut the hatchback. “So, from my perspective, my little experiment led to successful results.”

“Perspective can be biased,” my mother quipped.

“Success manifests in different ways,” I shot back, giving her a kiss on the cheek, then I displayed my palm. “Keys, please.”

“Be careful with my car,” she cautioned as she forked over her keys. “It’s our only mode of transportation right now.”

“That could easily be resolved by buying me my own car,” I retorted.

“I’ll consider it…,” my mother said, attempting to sound dismissive, but her expression told me otherwise. My father had always teased her about being easy to read and the worst secret keeper.

I wanted to throw my arms around her but resisted; I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

But first, I had some questions for Maggie.