Chapter 34
34
June
I’m rotting on my couch nursing a period cramp with a hot water bottle. It’s good timing, though. This means I’ll have a fresh uterus, bloat-, blood-, and pain-free during the trip.
I’m reviewing the posts I’ve prescheduled when I hear someone stop in front of my door. A shadow casts through the gap. Lingers. One, two, three… ten seconds. I stare at the shadow, waiting for it to go away. Who is that? Why aren’t they making a noise? I sit straighter, heart thumping. A parasocial fan? A stalker?
A letter slides under the door.
My nerves are displaced by excitement as I pounce for the message from Bella Marie. For the past few weeks, she’s been dropping off letters regularly, but I’ve never seen the delivery in real time.
Each letter is personalized with her stylish calligraphy, a dried flower attached to the heavy card. Baby’s breath. Bluebells. Forget-me-nots. The messages are little hints about the trip. Teasers. I feel like a kid putting together clues in a scavenger hunt.
Chloe, reminder: avoid chemical peels in the month of May. Hugs, Bella Marie
Chloe, remember to check your passport expiration!
Love, Bella Marie
Chloe, I hope you banked some videos and have scheduled your daily posts and stories. No posting while we are on vacation! To reconnect, we must disconnect.
Xoxo, Bella Marie
This time, it’s white chrysanthemum. My whole apartment swells with its sharp, musty scent and I become dizzy with nausea. A memory returns: a bushel of white chrysanthemums and lilies—Chinese funeral flowers—next to two caskets, pictures of my parents hanging above, their faces blurry.
I shake the memory out of my head and toss the chrysanthemum in the trash, but the feeling of being watched, exposed, remains.
I pull out the letter.
Chloe, our time together is only a week away. Pack lightly! Everything you need will be provided. Pickup is at 9PM on June 9. Yours, Bella Marie
Letter in hand, I stare at the two heavy-duty suitcases sprawled haphazardly on the floor, a hill of clothing climbing out of their compartments. For the past month, I’ve been excitedly packing items I thought I’d need. I decide to restart after this message. I’ll look like a brute with my giant suitcases if everyone brings dainty Rimowas. I look around for Chloe’s carry-on but can’t find it. I send Fiona a text.
She replies: Apartment storage. Parking level. Compartment 13.
She’s a godsend. I make a trip underground. Tires squeak against concrete in the distance. A light flickers on as I enter the storage unit. It smells grimy, like stale water, dust, and metal. Chloe’s compartment is at the far end. Her carry-on is stacked on top of a few storage boxes. It’s a fancy beige hard shell, very minimalistic, very Chloe. I try my luck with the keys on my key chain and unlock the storage compartment on the first try. The metal cage creaks, scratching against concrete as I swing open the gate. I pull out the luggage and it thuds onto the floor. Objects audibly jostle inside. A combination padlock keeps me from its contents. Four digits. I take a wild guess—our birthday. 0620. It unlocks.
Thank god Chloe was a narcissist.
I pull the zippers to see what’s inside.
Dozens of worn-down books—no, journals.
Jackpot.