Chapter 9: A HOUSE FULL OF WATER (Part 3)

 Chapter 9: A HOUSE FULL OF WATER (Part 3)

The day at the beach was exactly what most of the cast needed. It was one of the first days off we had gotten in a while. Returning to the condo, I find a note pinned to my door from the Bahamian post office. They’re holding a box for me, and I can pick it up the next day. My birthday presents had finally arrived. Sure, my birthday was in October, but who cares? I can celebrate it now, months later.

The next morning, I get up early and head straight to the post office. I barely make it in time—the window to pick up boxes is only open for an hour. I find myself impatiently standing behind five people in line. The woman in front of me turns and tells me, "If the window closing time comes and you're still in line, they’ll close it and you'll have to come back tomorrow."

“What?” I say, maybe a little too loud. “I’m supposed to be at rehearsal in an hour and all day tomorrow!”

Everyone in the post office turns to look at me. I glance at the armed guard standing nearby and decide I need to calm down, adopting the “Who gives a crap?” island attitude before I get myself into any trouble.

Finally, it’s my turn. I’m next in line, and I can see the clock ticking down the minutes. I’ve got five minutes left before closing time. The suspense is killing me. The clerk behind the counter, who looks like he could be 130 years old, yells out, “Next!”

I rush up to the window, excited, and hand him the letter that was taped to my door. He slowly takes it with his dry, brittle fingers and reads it, his tired eyes scanning the page. After what feels like an eternity, he leans back in his chair, lowers his legs to the floor, and shuffles into the back room. The clock’s ticking grows louder in my head, like the sound of a Telltale Heart.

Finally, an old woman comes out with a mangled cardboard box. She slams it onto the counter and hands me a pen. "Sign here," she demands. I do, eager to just get my presents. I grab the box and turn to leave, but she stops me. “Open it.”

I glance at her and sheepishly explain, “I was going to bring it back to the house. It’s my birthday, you see, and…”

“Open it,” she interrupts, a little louder this time, as if I didn’t understand the urgency.

Reluctantly, I begin opening the box. Inside, the presents, though slightly squished, are wrapped in bright paper with crushed ribbons. They’re a mess, but I can’t help but feel a little giddy. "Open them," she says again.

I look back at her, she looks at me, and she starts slowly spelling out the word “O-P-E-N” like I’m some sort of child. “Okay, okay! I get it!” I grumble.

So, grumpily, I open each present while I sing "Happy Birthday" to myself under my breath, with tears rolling down my cheeks. She stands there, tapping her finger impatiently on the counter.

“That’ll be 36 dollars,” she says, holding out her hand.

I don’t even ask why; I just hand her the money, grab my box, and leave.

I return home to find the phone ringing off the hook. I answer, and one of the girls on the other end is in such a state that I can’t make out what she’s saying. I drop the phone and rush over to her condo.

I open the door to find a waterfall in the middle of her house. There’s about three inches of water on the floor, and luggage is floating everywhere. The water is pouring down the stairs, leaking from the walls, and streaming out of the cupboards. There is water everywhere.

I immediately call the front office, and within five minutes, a woman arrives at the door, holding a mop.