“What?”
“Just leave it.”
“Mom, it’s addressed to Dad.”
“I can see that.”
“Where did that come from?”
“Someone sent this before the accident. They might be waiting to hear from him.”
She put the cards down.
“Throw it away.”
I stared at her.
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“Are you serious?”
“Please.”
“Throw it away.”
She crossed the kitchen and caught my wrist.
“Throw it away. Let’s pretend it never came.”
I pulled free.
That frightened me more than the box.
“What do you know about this?”
“Nothing that matters now.”
“It mattered to Dad.”
“Annie.”
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“What do you know about this?”
“Somebody in Hawaii mailed him something the size of a washing machine three days before he died.”
“It’s not a washing machine.”
I looked at her.
“Then you do know.”
Mom closed her eyes.
I found scissors.
“Don’t.”
“It’s not a washing machine.”
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I cut the tape.
“Annie, please.”
I opened the cardboard flaps.
Packing paper covered whatever was inside.
I pulled it away.
Blue paint.
Wood.
I opened the cardboard flaps.
For a moment, I genuinely didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then I removed the rest of the packing material.
It was a chair.
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An old wooden kitchen chair painted blue.
