Free More Than A Maybe by Clarissa Monte Page A

his electronic package-delivery-guy doodad. He thanks me and leaves, and I struggle the box into the foyer of my building. I grab the wad of mail that’s been collecting in my mailbox, shove it in my purse, and begin the climb up the stairs to my apartment.
    I have a pretty good idea who the package is from, of course, but I try and put it out of my head. It’s a habit left over from when I was little — when I’d get something I wanted, a bowl of ice cream or a Christmas present, I’d always hesitate just a bit before I’d let myself enjoy it. It helped me appreciate things more, maybe. Desire them more. Something like that.
    Anyway, I decide not to open the package until I’ve at least dealt with the pile of mail in my purse. I’ve been avoiding it for the past few days. I decide to make the package my reward for finally facing it.
    I dump the mail onto the kitchen counter to try and make sense of it all. Most of it is the normal flood of junk mail, the usual demands for money.
    Water bill. Electric bill. One of mom’s unpaid medical bills. An offer to subscribe to StudentMedNow, the “premiere magazine for today’s modern pre-med students”. More medical bills . . .  
    The next letter, however, makes me go rigid. As soon as I see who it’s from, I immediately want to ignore it, bury it under the other mail, crumple it up and stuff it in the trash . . .
    But I don’t. I’ve promised myself that I’ll deal with the mail, and so I do. I rip the envelope open with my little finger and begin to read:
Dear Ms. White —
    I would like to express my sincere condolences on the recent passing of your mother. Please know that my thoughts and best wishes are with you during this difficult period.
    Unfortunately, the nature of my business dictates that I must sometimes be the bearer of bad news during times of difficulty. I am afraid that this is one of those times.
    Our records indicate that your monthly rental payments for the last two months have not been received. If you are unable to rectify this situation in the next two (2) weeks, I am afraid that we will have no choice but to begin formalized eviction proceedings.
    I wish you the very best of luck in bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.
    Sincerely,
    Charles M. Fenton Building Superintendent
Cloverdale Apartments
    Eviction. My emotions surge. I’m sad, I’m angry . . . I’m frightened. I look around the little two-bedroom apartment where I’ve lived for so long, and it’s like I’m seeing it with new eyes. I’ve always thought of this place as my home . . . but it isn’t. Not really. It doesn’t even belong to Mr. Fenton, the sad-eyed man who says hello to me in the hallway and occasionally stops by to fix my toilet. It belongs to Cloverdale Apartments, some faceless entity that hardly knows I exist.
    Except, of course, when the rent is overdue.
    I’m breathing quickly now — my hands begin trembling, and I rub my palms together to try and stop them. It’s fear, real fear — nothing like the stagefright at Mirages, but actual real honest-to-goodness heart-pounding terror. I’m having the beginnings of a genuine panic attack — it’s all I can do to keep myself in check. I start to pace, back and forth and back and forth, my eyes scanning the room wildly . . . as if any of the battered furniture or mom’s old knick-knacks are going to be of any help to me right now . . .
    And then my eyes fall on the package.
    Truth be told, I’m not at all in the mood for a reward anymore . . . but it’s easy to see the value in a distraction from my pile of new problems. The package seems so much more substantial than anything else in the room at the moment. I focus on it, concentrating, until I feel my breathing begin to slow and my hands start to steady themselves.
    The box is made of thick matte-black cardboard, roughly chest-high, sealed with tape. It’s scuffed a bit from its journey, but somehow it still manages to be the most