The Blue Box

My therapist said I need to stop fixating on things. But when the box arrived, I relapsed.

Relapse. It is easier to talk about my issue using terms of dependency — the kind used to diagnose addicts and alcoholics. After all, not all compulsions are born of substances. The mind erodes little by little when left unchecked.

"Do you feel watched?" Dr. Forbes asked.

I liked the tone she used to hide her opinions about me. It was meticulous. I suppose that is why I performed a clinical analysis of myself. She was like a neurosurgeon, picking away at my brain bit by bit. There was a crater in my head, tiny holes clustering into some sort of lobotomy where they tried to fix me. It is hard to fix someone who claims to know exactly what is wrong with them.

Do not open until October 17th.

Attached to the box, the note was simple and unaddressed. The question is: Why did I follow it?

The pawn shop spanned roughly the distance an elderly lady could cover with her cane in ten seconds. In Solene's case, I'd say about twenty. No one knew why the woman still showed up for work, given that I spent most of my shifts reorganizing misplaced items on the shelves — items she insisted on relocating. Something about the blessed hands of her grandfather.

"It will sell better," she'd say. "I have artisan hands, magical fingers."

She couldn't see very well — consequently, earrings would end up beneath ceramic pieces, and pocket watches under silverware. I've learned we are as real as the attachments we form. They trace us like maps of our time spent; our lives spread open along with what managed to stick. I am happy the pawn shop stuck with Solene. That was a good map to have. I guess that is why I'd attempted to make it stick for me as well. A thick layer, building up day by day, in an effort to soften the thick carvings of my own map.

Regret, I learned, traces differently. Some things stick until it's no use; stick for years until something else washes it away and a new layer is put down. Most things are erasable, washable, rinsed in a sink of more important markings. Regret gnaws away like termites on wood, nibbling at the surface until what once was is gone. Layers and layers. You add them up, but the crater is still there, the termites hidden until they begin to tear at you again.

When they dropped the blue box off I felt I finally had some purpose. Something to not do.

"Ava." Solene's voice boomed like a bass drum as I finished reorganizing the buttons by color and size. "This is the third time this week a customer asks for that blue box, and it is missing from the shelf."

I registered her words, that heavy wave of disappointment — or anger. It clung to my being and I knew it mattered. But the buttons were crooked, and somehow, the brown ones began to irritate me as they merged too well onto the dark blue next to it. I had to fix it.

"Ava." There it was again, that irritation.

I gave in to the sound and put a mental pin to go back to the buttons whenever I managed to sway Solene away from stealing my purpose.

"I haven't seen it," I responded, and it sounded real. My affirmations always did. I had perfected the art of lying to myself and creating realities in which my obsessions didn't rule over me.

"I expect to have it logged under historical savings by no later than tomorrow morning. This shop is decaying by the day and every sale counts." She kept her hands resting on her narrow hips — hips not so fit for childbearing. No surprise, given she never had any.

I enjoyed picturing what her life would have been like had she decided to run off with the man in the green suit. He would tirelessly bring bouquets of colorful orchids at exactly six in the evening, right after work. I could tell she swooned over him — her pocket watch would gather fingerprints from how often she clutched it, watching time pass.

As it turns out, the pawn shop had termites of its own. She could never bring herself to leave it, and he loved to travel. It was in his blood, he used to say. I don't believe I saw that pocket watch ever since.

"Yes, ma'am."

I would take it, of course. I'd wait a day or two, tell the occasional customer that the piece sat merely as decoration. By the end of the third day, I'd tuck it back under the register counter. Solene was too short and rusty with old age to bend down and look underneath. Or perhaps she knew where the object was the whole time and simply enjoyed telling me what to do. There really wasn't anyone in her life left to do so.

We'd both grown used to being alone. Without parents, both only children, we fused our needs onto an unhealthy mutualism bond — two species benefitting from an unmovable life. We were trapped, and we knew it might have been killing us.

"Do you feel understood in ways that others don't understand you?"

There was a silver lining between me and my therapist. I was used to having those with people in my life. The few that remained, at least. Openings where there shouldn't be any; favors and exceptions that showed more pity than any kind of affection or devotion. The sick part of me enjoyed the perks. I'd like to think the other part felt ashamed, but I had lost her for a bit.

She came and went as she pleased.

The clock struck ten past eleven and her home couch creased from the weight of my body. Gradually, it morphed into a mold of my curves, and I felt it begging me to stay — for another two, three, four hours. I waited for her to end the session, but there it was again: the silver lining of avoiding damaging the damaged.

"By Solene?" I asked, pulling tiny threads out of the mahogany couch cover and creating a pattern of loose stitches. "She is the only one who doesn't seem to try to fix me, who isn't scared to hurt my feelings as if I was a pile of sand ready to fall apart."

"Do you believe people in your life are trying to save you?"

Fuck. Was that even a question?

"Aren't you?" My question came out violent, sharp enough to cut straight into being personal. It never was.

I smiled softly. I did that a lot — attempted to amend my careless word choices and intonation. OCD is a bitch, but I think I hid behind it and used it as an excuse to be one myself.

The next morning, I found Solene hunched over the stool in the storage room. She cupped her left breast with her right hand, in pain, and leaned heavily on her cane — forcing it to bear far more weight than it was designed to handle. A familiar feeling filled me up like a car tank: the impossibility of moving a muscle, the knowledge of being unknowledgeable, and, in the end, utterly useless. The fear of being alone even more than I already was; for how could a girl who needs fixing know how to fix anything at all?

"Sol—" The syllables caught in my throat like a fish hook carving its way up.

Part of me hoped she wouldn't hear me. That way, she could not witness my cowardice: of seeing her and hating her for forcing me to realize it for myself — how hopeless I truly was.

"I'll call someone." The words escaped me. "I'll call for help."

"Oh, don't be silly." Solene's voice reached me raspy and weak. "Stupid girl, I was just catching my breath from fixing the mess you made with the buttons."

She knew about my condition — my need for things to be a certain way. Ways that drive people away. I appreciated how she defied me, unbothered by whatever tantrum I might throw, despite the doctor's warning. Not her problem—it's what I assumed she thought. After all, I was a year over being legal and she was a year over being ancient.

I carried the box over to the historical items section, setting it down reluctantly and pushing it further back than it was supposed to go. "You have been catching your breath a lot during the past month," I said as I made my way back behind the counter.

Solene trotted through the three small aisles lining the center of the shop. I let my attention focus on the usual traits—the way her hips bent slightly to the right, causing the circulation on her right hand to whiten a little from the hard grasp on her cane. The slow, dragging sound of her worn out slippers, the gentle curve of her slender back, which became sharper as she attempted to read the products' labels. I knew she wanted to find something off—something badly placed or missing a tag.

Sometimes, I made a game out of it. Sometimes they were simple changes, like a tag that read "yellow" placed on a green item, or a small item placed under medium sized ones. Sometimes, I went big — putting valuable items on sale for half the price, or even a "buy one get one free" deal.

I'd like to think I did it for her, to give her something to do or feel important over. But maybe I did it for myself, because it made me feel real; it was something I could mess up without worrying about the consequences of it. I had the certainty that Solene would fix it. It, not me. The distinction mattered.

"What is it to you?" she asked, kicking the blue box away from the back wall and into plain sight.

I found myself incessantly fiddling with the broken nail on my thumb. "Nothing. It's probably time you hit the road and stop messing with my buttons."

I peeped up at her and caught an almost imperceptible curve to her lips — the faintest trace of amusement. It was rare when I did it, but when it happened I felt an unusual sense of accomplishment. I could tell she appreciated the lack of ceremony regarding her old age, just as much as I appreciated her for not tiptoeing around my fixations.

"Your death threats don't scare me anymore, girl."

Nine months ago, I was fired. I have been fired quite a lot. It had happened at least twice a year for the past four. The reasons varied, and they never really lasted; after all, our maps had overlapped long ago. But the last time was different. It had been a while since I had thought about my mother's death; the foundations of my map were flooded with the image of her.

"If a friend were in your situation, would you see them as responsible in the same way?"

"I don't have many of those left," I said, squeezing one of those soft rubber sharks meant to relieve anxiety between my fingers. "But yes, probably."

I remember how Dr. Forbes looked at me then: eyes narrowed, starring up from her notebook undoubtedly full of diagnoses concluding just how fucked up I was. She would speak in intervals, as if she expected the silence to make me feel judged, prone to explaining myself. But I had already given myself a verdict. I let her die.

"Do you think this will change anything, girl?" Solene grabbed the needle injected in my wrapped-up arm, the purplish inflammation showing I had missed the vein. "Do you want to die? Fine, go jump off a bridge, but don't be using this stuff in my shop."

"You don't think I see the way you looked at me when you found that photo of the two of you?" My voice came out choked, and I could feel saliva trickling from the corners of my mouth. "You think I killed her too, I know you do."

I remember wanting to feel rage and indignation at the way she yanked the needle out of me. But my face felt flushed in a funny way, a drowsiness enveloping me in pure bliss. As for Solene's face, there was no drug in the world that could make me numb enough to forget it. I couldn't because it was mine — the very one I stared at in the mirror while listing all the ways I had killed my mom. How I let her seizure alone by the living room television. How my legs locked in place and the voice in my head kept repeating the same phrase over, and over, and over again.

You can't help her.

"I wish you died instead of her. I wish I killed you and not her." In my head, I was yelling, but I felt wetness drip down my cheeks and a burning sensation at the back of my throat from someone who is holding back tears.

Many times I wondered whether I meant it. Or if it would have changed my guilt in any way. If the person who died changed. The termites tell me no—I would be torn apart just the same. Solene didn't believe in gentle parenting, such as caressing the back of your head while pointing out a different path, or taking your hand in hers as she leads you through it. In many ways, I resented her; and in many ways, I saw the one thing worth fixating on.

I learned how to frame my map with rose-colored glass, to dress it up in silk and smush it down under the weight of every pawned item.

"How much for this one?"

My eyes met the rough surface of the wooden box, a deep cobalt blue. Its surface was finished with layers of aged paint, and the corners seemed to have been reinforced with iron fittings. There were carvings along the lid — perhaps floral work, or simply leaves — finished by a small, ornate lock sitting at the front.

I pondered for weeks what it could have kept, or what was currently keeping. At night, I let my imagination run wild, spinning little fairy tales about ancient civilizations and knights who had lost their beloveds in war. I imagined it held a wedding ring, or a key to a Civil War bunker, or a single arrowhead used to kill an Emperor, or a letter announcing the discovery of the Americas.

"We're missing the key." I swallowed dry as I spoke, itching to clutch my necklace currently holding such object.

"Oh, that's okay, I'm looking to decorate my daughter's college dorm and she loves everything blue," he said, bouncing the box around.

I slowly imagined a tiny bomb waiting to be activated by extreme movement. I imagined it exploded in the man's hand, taking the whole pawn shop with it. I imagined I survived — standing still among ruins and ashes, holding the key in one hand — while Solene told me I could have prevented it all if I'd simply opened the damn box.

"It's three hundred and fifty without tax." I smiled widely, allowing the lie to warm my bitter heart.

The man stared at me in disbelief. I could tell he was ready to fight me on it, given the sign outside the shop read: Inexpensive given up items for you to love. In my defense, the slogan was terrible anyway; It was high time someone went against it.

Tiny bells hanging from the entrance door chimed as Solene stepped through the threshold. "Mark, dear, how are the kids?" She limped slowly towards the insufferable man.

"Great! My oldest is on her way to college just short of next week." The man clutched the box closer to his chest, and I suddenly felt like a lioness watching her cubs being attacked by territorial lions.

Solene's gaze met mine; she had certainly noticed the hostile exchange I'd just had with the customer. "Are you taking the box? She's a beauty, isn't she?"

I startled due to a dry crack, like a branch snapping. My hands ached from the pressure I was exerting on a broken pen trapped between my sweaty palms. "Solene, can I speak to you?"

I watched her weigh my request, aware of how easy it would be for her to simply refuse and close the sale at the actual price. But to me, that price wasn't real. Until next month, the object was priceless—and it would be an affront if it ended up in the stuffy dorm room of some party-loving college girl.

She nodded, and I quickly stepped out from behind the counter.

"Remember when you told me that every pawned item carried a piece of its owner's history? How you'd imagine their new homes and wonder what other stories they'd become part of?" I kept my voice low, whispering softly near her face as we stepped a few paces away from the man.

"The point, Ava, what's your point?" She planted both hands firmly on her cane, stiffening her posture.

We had a planned truce on times like this. It was a master class set for only two on how to best one another. I viewed our relationship in the shape of a life-sized chess board. Solene was the queen protecting the king — which stood as anything and everything I ever came to want. I was the useless pawn, attempting to build a straight line to the other side in hopes she didn't catch on, slowly creating myself a path to become her equal. All I needed was to get straight to the point.

"Anyone but him. I'll sell it to a hipster, or a mountain climber, or an old man gifting his wife a sixtieth anniversary gift, but not him. What stories could this box possibly build in a college dorm?" I was conscious of my ragged breathing and how dramatic it sounded, but I was just a pawn facing a ruthless queen.

"A sale is a sale, besides, what is it to you?"

That same old question again. What is it to you? Everything. Nothing. My answers varied over the years, but the question always seemed to land in a particular place inside of me. It sat as a plea to hear what she could never ask outright, to teach me a lesson she could never teach outright, or to show me the way to a place she was too proud to lead me to herself. I hoped one day she'd ask me. I don't know what question I was hoping to be asked, but I hoped one day she would.

I'd like to think my answer would be yes.

"Can you tell me what feels wrong about buying it yourself?"

The ceiling of Dr. Forbes' house began morphing into a sort of diagram. White, smooth, geometrically planned indentations surrounded the high chandelier. My answers turned mechanical whenever I found a particular path among the shapes, and my mind would wonder through the possibility of getting trapped inside, attempting to find my way out.

"I'm not supposed to own it, I don't think. I think it wants to be left alone." I believed that — or maybe I liked occupying my time with the pretense of a purpose. Even if I made it up.

Foolish lover of loss. The denomination seemed curious back when my mother used it to describe me. Almost romantic, or the set for a beautiful tragedy. I knew I grew up glorifying my pains, maybe because they were the grounding feelings keeping me tethered to humanity. I liked knowing I could hurt. I liked that it felt like punishment.

Until Solene started catching her breath more often than she complained about buttons or where the box had disappeared to this time. Until catching her breath became going to church, and telling me to toughen up turned into celebrating my ten months sober with a raggedy candle and a vanilla cake. I hated vanilla cake. Tragedy did not seem so grand anymore, and the foolish lover of loss became a little girl hiding under the counter, praying to a God whose existence she didn't know, asking Him to spare her from losing just this once.

"I wanted to though," I said as I bit into the red flash protruding from what was left of my thumb nail. "It would be a lot easier to do it then not to. I wanted to so many times I began doubting whether I had given in or not."

We sat on the floor of the storage room, cramped between dusty boxes of broken snow globes, cracked binoculuses and cheap tricots that never sold. I kept my knees tucked close to my chest, slowly bumping my head on the metal shelf behind me. The space was no bigger than one of those walk-in freezers found in millionaires' mansions; naturally, then, Solene's feet touched mine as she took the smallest bites from a cake we both despised. She could never admit it though.

"When I was little, my grandmother used to take me to the local fair," she said, her fork poking at the white mass with cheap sprinkles. "I would yell and stomp my feet over the long lines for my favorite rides, always wondering how much longer before I could be where I wanted to be."

I blinked dramatically. "Your point?"

She snorted, annoyed by my mockery of her tendency to lecture me. "The point is, my grandmother would always lean back against the railings, facing the line of people behind us." Her fork now pointed at me like a threat. "She'd say, 'Don't ask yourself what's left to do. Instead, rejoice in what you've already achieved.'"

It was hard celebrating anything, even harder recognizing I could have done something worthy of recognition.

A week before October 17th, I brought the box back. In some sort of superstitious vow, I clung to the obligation of amending my fixations. The box had to go. Long strides flew me towards the buttons by the window, and reckless hands tore their files apart, causing yellow to circle around red and green, and brown to overlap white. The disheveled nature of these two initial acts set me on a mission. I was relapsing on a different type of drug. Rebellion.

Next, I targeted the receipts, organized by date and pawned sections. With a handful, I squeezed them together, letting the thin paper intermingle, and rejoiced at the subtle sounds of ripped tidiness. I smiled at my own little betrayal. There was a ticking bomb in my chest, its slow count convincing me that the crater in my head would split open, tear through the pawn shop's floor, and swallow everything whole at any minute. I was an offering to my biggest fears.

I let my trembling hands rest against my chest, lightly caressing the tiny key hanging from a silver chain. My mind wandered back to the possible contents of the blue box. I tried summoning a wish — anything that might tell me what my heart hoped to find. But the only thing I had ever wanted could not be boxed.

A map without any termites.

"What are you doing?"

Solene's voice cut through the noise that lived only in my head. She didn't notice the buttons or the receipt box; she didn't question the aggravating nature of such disfunction. One would have to be searching for it. Unlike the bandages and gauze adorning her chest and arms. I could picture her taking on a soft, pale-yellow hue, with small markings of the world she'd built engraving her skin — a living map of a good life.

"It's just a box, right?" I said, short and dry.

Her eyes softened — or at least, they seemed to. They were sunken and weary, a little irritated, but they were still hers, in every way.

"I thought that was your map," she said, leaning over her cane.

"But the termites—" I forced myself to swallow the lump forming in my throat. "They are tearing everything apart. I don't have a good map. I don't have a pawn shop."

"Silly, girl. My map was never the pawn shop." Her cane wobbled almost imperceptibly — the tiniest tremors forming thunderstorms in my world. "The shop was my destination, not the roads."

"You don't understand," I said. "Your map works."

"Leave it closed a little longer." She bumped my knee with her foot.

"Why?"

"If that box is really your map, it'll still be your map tomorrow. If it isn't, opening it today won't make it so."

I wondered how someone whose hands shook could still hold a map so steady. Mine had a locked box and messed up buttons. I kept waiting for her to hand it to me. Her map. As though, one morning, she'd unfold it across the counter, smooth out its creases, circle the roads I should take, and say, "Here. Now it's yours." Instead, the termites ate the drawers, the shelves, the floorboards, and she talked as if maps were things that could survive wood.

Well, not even she could.

"What makes you want to sell it now?"

Dr. Forbes lounged in the armchair opposite the mahogany couch I occupied. One leg draped over the armrest while she cradled a steaming mug of coffee in both hands. It was twelve past midnight of October 17th. Four days late.

I stared at the Transfer of Ownership Agreement sitting lightly over my legs, clutching a key that no longer hung from my necklace. On the thirteenth, as soon as the funeral was over, a distant cousin had knocked on the door questioning the value of every pawned item in full. I told him I'd need four days to make the count — to say goodbye.

"She asked me to." I let my fingers trace the lines of my bolded name and the empty space where my signature should go—let my mind wonder back towards the note.

Do not open until October 17th.

My therapist said I need to stop fixating on things. And this time, I just might.