LITTLE BOXES
LITTLE BOXES
by Connie Millard
It’s Maya’s birthday, the one after the “big one,” the one she will never forget. Her husband, Greg, hands her a smallish box that is, sadly, too big to be jewelry, though the wrapping is sublime, with gleaming gold paper and a chic ebony bow that begs to be left untouched. She cradles it in her hands, savoring the beauty and secret within, until her five-year-old daughter, Ava, whizzes to her side, squealing, “Mommy, can I help you open it?” and greedily yanks the ribbons apart before she can respond.
“Aw, this is boring,” Ava whines, peering into the box and extracting a folded piece of paper. She flings it in the air, where it lands with a soft thwack next to Greg’s feet. Maya strains forward, almost tumbling out of the chair, just grasping the sheet between her fingers before he snatches it away and waves it excitedly in front of her face, like he’s won a prize.
“What is it exactly?” Maya asks, squinting at the page that now has a small tear at the top. From this distance, the upside-down blur of words resembles skull and crossbones.
“A subscription box,” he replies.
When she doesn’t react, he explains, “You know with fancy skin creams and bath products. It’s really high-end. French, I think.”
“Oh, wow. I guess I could use some of that now that I’m officially over forty.”
“I know. No! I mean, you look great, Maya. You just never do anything for yourself, so I thought I’d force some self-care on you.”
She fakes a smile and coughs to dislodge the disappointment clinging to the back of her throat.
“That’s so thoughtful, Greg.”
“You sure you like it?”
“Absolutely, honey. Thank you,”
“Great. Happy Birthday, babe,” He offers her a hasty kiss that doesn’t quite reach her cheek, his brown eyes sliding back to his phone again as he disappears to the basement office.
She glances at Ava, who’s now glued to her tablet, entranced by the excited squeals of other children opening presents.
Maya huffs and rest her chin in her palm, ignoring the pile of crumb-laden dishes and half-eaten cake. She gazes at the plumes of her snuffed-out candles as they hover above, their smoky fingers skimming the ceiling, searching, until they fade to nothing.
Alone in the bathroom that night, Maya frowns at herself in the mirror, a purposely ramshackle thing once considered stylish but quite impractical thanks to the dual panes that slice her into uneven halves. Standing on her tiptoes to stretch across the vast sink, she squeezes her face into a single pane, scowling at the lines forging their random paths through her skin, and lifts a fistful of her brown hair. Streaks of gray burrow beneath the surface and creep through her roots, like spiders stealthily spinning their webs in the shadow of night. She slumps back on her heels, far enough to blur the grays and the wrinkles and the dark spots into a softer version of herself. Turning away from the mirror, she shimmies into her nightgown, unable to bear the sight of her sagging belly and flabby thighs tonight.
In bed, she finally examines her present. Even with the rip, the presentation is beautiful, the paper, thick and decadent with an ornamental background and bold lettering – that is entirely in French:
Beauté Eternelle, SARL (Société à Responsabilité Limitée)
Résultats garantis
Bienvenue, Maya Whitlock!
Détails de la commande
Nombre de boites: Trois
Le Prixe: Confidentiel
Il faut souffrir pour être belle
Maya flips the paper over, but it’s blank. There’s no English conversion, no product details, no website, email or other contact information. Confused, she types the words into a translation application on her phone:
Eternal Beauty, SARL (Society with Limited Responsibility)
Results guaranteed
Welcome, Maya Whitlock!
Order Details
Number of Boxes: Three
Price: Confidential
One must suffer to be beautiful.
“Ain’t that the truth,” she mutters and switches off the light.
She forgets about the box until it arrives a few weeks later. The Sunday delivery is a welcome surprise since Maya has a rare afternoon alone with Greg golfing and Ava at her mother’s.
She admires the sleek packaging, tracing her fingers across the letters H-A-I-R embossed on top, the filigreed gold a stark contrast against the silky black background. Inside, she discovers the same thick paper and elegant lettering. Thank goodness the instructions are in English, though it is oddly worded. Probably a product of clunky translation.
Bottle 1: Agitate insides vigorously. Put onto the hair. Wait one hour. Wash.
Bottle 2: Put serum on the head.
Maya selects the first bottle, its opacity offering no hint as to its ingredients. She shakes it and spreads the first line of liquid across her hairline. The fumes are so toxic she nearly gags. Why does hair dye have to smell so terrible? With shallow open-mouthed pants, she smears the remainder of the formula through her hair, mesmerized by the gradual transformation of the color as it oxidizes with the air, turning from warm chocolate to stark crimson. She covers her head with a cap, the radiating heat making her scalp itch.
As Maya waits, she folds laundry, clears the landmine of strewn toys, unloads the dishwasher, and responds to a few work emails – the constant motion of a body in service.
When the timer dings, she strips and eases into the shower, hot water pelting her skin as she tilts her head to rinse her scalp. She squeezes her eyes shut as a blood-red river of dye glides down her body. She massages her head to remove the color, sighing in relaxed pleasure until her hands get tangled in soft, stringy threads. With half opened-eyes, still blurry from the mixture of tint and water, she peers at the clumps of hair winding themselves tightly around her fingers. What the hell? She jerks her wrists in sharp, violent motions to free them from the gnarled tendrils and frantically reaches for her head, horrified to discover an utterly bald scalp.
Maya staggers forward, slamming her face into the glass shower door before stumbling out and clasping the sink. She stares at herself in the mirror, her bare head split into two grotesque scarlet halves. She lunges for the directions still on the counter, her eyes falling the bottom of the card, in bold black letters, Hair loss is expected. Do Step 2.
How could she have missed that on her first read? Was she losing her mind? If she had seen that note, she never would have put that shit on her head.
With shaking hands and soft whimpers, she opens the second bottle and rub a green, viscous serum on her scalp and sags to the floor, sobbing, afraid, and ashamed. Soon, the heady perfume of the gel soothes her racing heart, and she closes her eyes, drifting to sleep.
“Mommy! What are you doing?” Ava squeals in delighted confusion, “Are you taking a nap on the floor? That’s so silly.”
As Maya startles awake and sits up, Ava stares at her, her daughter’s green eyes – Maya’s eyes – wide and unblinking. A sudden smile bursts from Ava’s face.
“Wow. Your hair is so pretty,” Ava breathes, pulling a long strand and stroking it like a pet.
“Do mine. Do mine,” she pleads, mewling in disappointment at the empty box and tugging at her short blonde curls.
Surprised, Maya pats at her head and feel long, silky tresses. She jumps to her feet and gapes at the mirror, shocked by the dark waves tumbling past her shoulders, a complex shade of auburn, chocolatey brown with threads of reddish-gold hues smattered throughout. She gives a nervous little tug to a tendril, but it stays firmly in place.
She kisses Ava, shoos her out of the bathroom, and crouches on the shower floor. The sharp edges of tile digging into her skin as she gathers the soggy clumps of her hair, gray blobs that hit the trash with a watery thunk, and she smiles.
Three months later, Maya’s hair is still perfect, no wiry grays poking from her scalp, no white strands slithering through her roots. Everyone asks what salon she visits, what products she uses. Ava begs to brush her hair every night. Greg is bit smug to be honest.
Maya is drunk on the attention and realizes she’ll need to reorder soon. She asks Greg where he purchased the box. He says a coworker provide an email address, that it is an exclusive, word of mouth opportunity only, like a secret club. She sends a message to the email address Greg gives her, heaping praise, requesting more hair dye, whatever the cost, but it comes back as undeliverable.
Greg thinks her new hair might permanent, that maybe her DNA has been altered somehow. Secretly, Maya prays this is true because she can’t stop the constant nightmares, piles of hair twisting around her legs, snaking up the length of her body, suffocating, preserving her like a mummy.
Sometimes she examines herself in the mirror, tries to remember her old hair, but the memories are vague, slippery like they keep falling out of her head.
The second box arrives with the same sleek packaging, though this time, T-H-I-N is written in gilded letters. Inside, there is only one squat tub of cream, along with the instruction card. Maya scrutinizes the directions, rereads it ten times, to ensure she’s not missing any information this time. But there are only a few lines: Apply thick coating to thighs, stomach, buttocks, and underside of arms ONLY. Wait one hour. Towel dry.
She uncaps the bottle and sniffs. The pungent odor stings her tear ducts and makes her mouth water, like apple cider vinegar, sweet and just a hint of sour. With eagerness and trepidation, she scoops out a glob from the vat and applies it to her thighs. The calming blue cream feels pleasantly cool against her skin, and Maya eagerly slathers all of it on her butt, belly, and triceps area, scraping every bit from the container, the briny scent filling the bathroom. She scrubs her hands and waits.
After ten minutes with no discernable reaction, she attempts to stand, but her muscles seize, cramping and clenching in on themselves. Maya falls to her knees, gasping in agony as fiery tingles pepper her thighs and cause the skin to shrivel like a rotting peach. She is being squeezed from the inside; her breath siphoned from her lungs. She gasps. She screams. She vomits. She prays in strangled whispers, splayed on the floor about to black out, when the vise suddenly releases. She gulps in deep, heaving breaths. When she can see again, she notices a puddle of pink-tinged filmy gunk the floor in the outline of her body.
Maya is wiping the floor clean when Ava rushes in.
“Mommy? Are you ok? I heard you scream.”
“Sorry baby, I just spilled something and got mad,” she lies and stands up to hug her.
“Mommy, you’re so skinny,” Ava puts her hands over Maya’s slim, firm stomach, rubs it like a talisman.
She gazes at her body and realize she’s right. She has no more dimpled thighs, no pudgy belly, no more wobbly underarms.
Maya is twenty again, but better than when she was actually twenty. The school moms glare with envy. Ava parades her around to her friends. Greg can’t keep his hands off her.
But she eats! She eats everything. No – she gobbles. She is insatiable, like as soon she fills up, she needs more. And, she never exercises. She always feels slightly out of breath, like her lungs are being squashed.
She does not gain weight.
She ignores the phantom tingles.
Ava watches Maya open the last box, fidgets with excitement, asks her what F-A-C-E spells. Maybe she should skip this last one, let the wrinkles – the laugh lines, frown lines, her life lines – settle into their grooves. She worries about looking like a mannequin, stiff and lifelessly perfect. She cups Ava’s face in her hands, caresses her smooth cheek, and presses a kiss to her forehead.
Maya strides to the garbage can, hovers over it, clutching the box in her hands. She loosens her grip and lets it dangle above the inky depths.
Throw it out.
Her fingers twitch.
Throw it out.
It slips out of her grasp, almost tumbling in.
No!
Maya snatches it back, hugging it to her chest, and races upstairs, the trash lid slamming closed with a damning crash, and Ava’s soft steps following behind her.
Fiction © Copyright Connie Millard
Image by Patricio González from Pixabay
