Henrietta's Box

She knew it had to be a dream.

The label was clearly addressed to her, Marcy Sherman, 44 Gatesman Drive. That was her. This was a package that someone had packed and sent to her. It was the return address that didn't make sense. Henrietta Jones, 68 Maple Street. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, and once more, wrong. It couldn't be. Someone was playing a joke. They wanted her to believe that Henrietta, her grandmother, had sent her a package. Which wasn't possible. Because her grandmother had been dead for fifteen years.

But the address - 68 Maple Street - that had been their old address. It was where Marcy had lived as a girl, where her grandmother had lived when she had been declared too old to live alone. For years she lived with Marcy's family, until suddenly she became sick and was rushed to the hospital. Three weeks later she was dead. Marcy had been thirteen.

Marcy glanced around her kitchen as if the practical joker would be standing there, pointing and laughing. She ran her fingers across the handwritten post office label. Her wedding ring clicked softly as it hit the cardboard, and she wondered what Henrietta would have thought of David. She would have been thrilled, Marcy knew, about the baby due in four months.

Marcy didn't know if she should open the box or not. She didn't know if she should call the police and report a suspicious package, or wait for David, or if she was just being ridiculous. She didn't know if a camera crew was shooting her reaction through a window and if she would see herself on one of those fool-your-friend TV shows two months from now. What if it was a bomb?

What if it was something else?