The Story of Her Holding an Orange (3 page)

The last day of camp, I decided to take a break from both studying and working out. My hotel was only a ten-minute walk from the beach, so I spent the whole day laying in the sun and swimming. I got back to my room, took a shower, and collapsed in bed, exhausted. You know how sometimes when you’re too tired, you can’t sleep? Well, after a good hour of turning and flipping in bed, I decided to go out to the balcony and get some fresh air. I opened the door and sat on one of the chairs. The view overlooking the ocean was beautiful, and I started getting sleepy again.

“It is really time to take it now.”

I nearly shat myself. I mean, it’d been a while since I’d heard that voice, but something like that stays with you forever. That childish, mechanical tone. I turned to the right. Rose was standing on the balcony rail. Mind you, she wasn’t sitting at the balcony table nor was she standing in a natural position; no, she was standing on the balcony rail. This probably wouldn’t be as shocking if the floor we were on wasn’t some fifty feet above the ground. To make things more absurd, she was holding an orange.

Try to imagine it. Go ahead, just try for a second. You’re alone in your hotel room. You walk outside on the balcony at maybe 4am. Suddenly, you hear a child’s voice say something to you. You look to your right and see a grown woman standing on the rail of a third floor balcony, holding an orange, telling you that it is “time to take it.”

Two different kinds of fear overcame my suddenly sobered up mind. First, I was obviously afraid of this fucking lunatic standing on the balcony next to me. Second, I was terrified that she may try to jump. Only a few feet separated our balconies, and such a jump would be entirely possible, but if she didn’t make it, I was afraid I’d somehow be blamed for it. I had no idea what to do.

“It really is time, you know. That’s the only way to transfer,” she whispered in that goddamn child-like voice without ever opening the teeth that looked even whiter in the dark of night. I remember the orange looked dark, almost rotten, and certainly not as “orange” as the first time she took it out. 

“What the fuck do you want from me?!” I screamed at her. I screamed because of all the frustration that had been building up since the day she started the orange horror. I screamed because I wanted someone to hear and come to witness the madness this woman was putting me through.

“I only want you to take it,” she said, widening her grin to nearly inhuman proportions. Her teeth remained clenched, and her head tilted to the left.

“Fuck you, you crazy bitch,” I said after realizing that no witnesses were going to show up this late at night. I opened the door and walked into my room. As I shut the door, I heard, “You will take it,” from the outside. I spent the rest of the night keeping an eye on the terrace, but she never came. I wasn’t brave enough to check if she was still standing on the fence of the neighboring balcony. Morning couldn’t have come soon enough. Right as the first sunrays hit my window, I carried my bag out to the reception desk and waited for my father to pick me up. I decided not to say anything about this incident because I was sure I would, yet again, be blamed for an over-active imagination. 

I was leaving the continent in a day. The night before the trip, my mom made me call my grandmother in Bosnia and say goodbye to her. We talked for a long time, and she gave me all the pieces of advice you’d expect your grandma to give. Her instructions ranged from “Americans are crazy, be careful” to “find a good girl and get married so I can see my great-grandkids before I die.” Towards the end of the conversation, though, she noticed there was something wrong with me.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Milos?” she asked.

“Eh, it’s nothing, grandma. It’s all going to be all right tomorrow when I leave.”

“What is it?” she persisted.

“Well, you won’t believe me anyway,” I sighed.

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay. Here comes the product of my wild imagination, as Dad calls it. So, there’s this woman, Mom’s friend, right? She comes over all the time, but whenever we’re left alone, she acts strange. I mean, really strange.”

“Strange, how?” asked my grandmother, sounding quite interested.

“Strange as in she talks in a child’s voice, her motions are mechanical, and… I don’t know, Grandma, there’s just something wrong about her.”

About a good minute of silence came after that last sentence. 

“You still there?” I asked, checking to see if the line had disconnected.

“Listen, Milos. You’ll be all right. Tomorrow, you leave for America. Whatever that woman was doing to you will stop,” my grandma said, sounding energetic. I wasn’t sure if the fire in her words was coming from excitement because she believed me, or because she wanted to end the conversation soon.

“So… you believe me?” I asked, hoping that at least one adult would acknowledge my misery.

“Yes.”

I wasn’t sure if I got an affirmative answer because she wanted to get rid of me or she actually believed me, but it was good enough. We said our goodbyes, and I hung up and continued packing. The next day, I was going to start a new life far away from all the supernatural, fruit-bearing crazy people. It would be fine.

I’ve never been more wrong in my life.

FOUR

The Land of Opportunity

Coming to America was a life-changing experience on many levels. My world had completely changed; none of my family was close by, and I had to experience an entirely new culture all by myself. All of the difficulties I’d encountered, however, were offset by the peace I found. I was no longer stalked by a woman who wanted me to take her orange. Sure, for the first few months after my arrival, I kept an eye out for Rose. I was sure she didn’t follow me this far, but I wasn’t going to relax just yet. After all, she had proved to be insane on many occasions before. 

Every time I’d speak to my parents over Skype, I’d sneak in a question about Rose just to make sure she was still in Europe. As time passed, my mom mentioned that she was seeing less and less of Rose for some reason she couldn’t understand. I assumed it was because I was no longer in the house, but I said nothing.

Seven wonderful years passed since the first day I landed in the home of the brave, and it had been one hell of a ride; I’d received two degrees and had gotten to experience many amazing cities and everything that America had to offer. On top of it all, I met a wonderful girl who soon became my girlfriend. In a nutshell, life was good, man. My girlfriend Trish and I moved to a small town in Cape Cod to spend the summer. It was one of the best summers in my life, all the way up until September 21st. 

I’m a massive technology geek, and some of you would probably label me an Apple fanboy. What can I say? I fucking love their products. So, September 21st - the release day of the much-anticipated, new and improved iPhone 5. The town we lived in was about a two-hour drive from Boston, where the closest Apple store was located, so I rented a car and got there really early. Even though I was in front of the store way before the sun even came up, I was about 15th in line. About four hours into the wait, the main door opened and the line started to move slowly. When I got close to the entrance, I looked to my right and instantly froze. People ran into my back, and I could hear some curses, but that was all white noise to me at the moment.

Across the street stood Rose.

There was no doubt it was her: white dress with red shoes, long black hair with pale skin, and a red lipstick so bright, you could see it from a block away. In her hand, she held an orange. A million and one things raced through my mind. Was it really her? How the fuck did she find me? What was going to happen now; am I back into my old life?

Someone behind me couldn’t take my pondering anymore and pushed me. I was still frozen in shock and fell down, never taking my eyes off of her. Rose dropped the orange and walked away, disappearing behind the nearby corner. I gathered myself and got up. Thinking that I may have been just making this shit up, I walked into the store. Unfortunately, there were already no phones left, so I decided to walk across the street and see if I could see something to confirm what I had hoped was a hallucination. 

And there it was. There it fucking was. In the spot where I had thought I saw Rose standing was now an extremely rotten, squished orange. A flood of emotions overcame me, and I broke down and started crying, right in the middle of Boylston Street in Boston. 

After a few minutes, I dragged myself into a nearby Starbucks. I spent the next few hours drinking gallons of hot tea and contemplating what was happening. I simply couldn’t believe that she had found me. I mean, sure, me being in America was no secret; every one of my friends and family knew that I was here, and there’s always Facebook. But even if she knew that I lived in the U.S., even if she knew my fucking address, how, or rather, why would she travel across the planet? Just so I can take that fucking piece of rotten fruit? I was baffled at these events. I decided to go back home and hope that Rose wouldn’t find out where I lived. I decided not to tell Trish anything. Nobody believed me before this, and there was no reason she would, either. And even if she did, all my story would do is terrify her, which would be pointless. Plus, there was always an off chance that I just imagined Rose being there, and the orange in the street was only a freakish coincidence. 

It took me two days to convince myself that I couldn’t have possibly seen Rose from that far away. That it was some random lady who just resembled her. That the orange was a fluke of the universe that had decided to fuck with me. Trish did suspect that something was wrong with me, but I refused to open up. Then, four days later, a letter came in the mail. Receiving a letter isn’t strange in itself since I get a lot of mail. Sorting through the endless envelopes offering credit cards and coupons, I came upon a strange looking one. This particular envelope had no return address but sure as hell had my name on it. 

Opening it made my worst nightmare come true. Inside of it was a Polaroid picture. A picture of me. A picture of me standing in front of the Apple store that Friday, September 21st. The photograph was taken by someone behind me. The most shocking part was that the picture was snapped in exactly the same moment I spotted Rose; I could tell because there was a look of complete horror on my face. On the back of the Polaroid was written with a black pen:

you take it, NOW

I dropped the picture and started crying like a little baby. I am a grown man, and I sobbed like an infant that just entered this cold world. When Trish walked into our room, I was in a fetal position with my shirt and pillow soaked with tears of horror. She immediately assumed someone in my family had died, since she had never seen me cry before. 

“Oh god… babe. Babe, what’s the matter? Is it someone from back home?” she asked, giving me the strongest hug I ever got from her.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak for another ten minutes or so. Trish just sat next to me, hugging me and waiting to hear what it was that brought her boyfriend to such tears. When I finally calmed down, I sat up, grabbed her hand, and started as gently as I could.

“Babe, what you’re about to hear… I can’t really explain it. But I need you to trust me.” 

“Of course I will.”

And just like that, everything got a little better. Not much, but just a little. Sure, my life and possibly hers was about to go to shit, but man, finally someone was ready to believe me. And I was sure having seen me absolutely devastated a minute ago would lend credibility to my story. I spent the next few minutes telling the story, leaving most of the details out as I just wanted her to get an idea of what I’d been going through. She just sat there, saying nothing, looking at me with utmost fascination.

“…and that’s basically it,” I finished, looking into her eyes, hoping I wouldn’t see that “I’m dating a lunatic” look. But she didn’t say anything. She kept looking at me with her jaw hanging a little, presumably out of shock. 

“Babe, I know it’s a lot to handle, but please believe me…” I pleaded with her.

“That woman…” she murmured finally.

“Rose, yes,” I answered. 

“Did she… did she offer you an orange?”

FIVE

Trish's Story

My girlfriend was born in Kenya, Africa, but her family moved to Canada when she was three. Trish is Indian, if that matters at all. I met her exactly two years ago in a Cape Cod town called Provincetown. She was a flight attendant for Air Canada at the time, and had come to visit the place with a few friends at the same time I was spending my summer there. 

There was only one real club to go out to in the whole town, and after it closed at 2am, people would gather on benches in front of it and just hang out. I was on the street with my brother and best friend, and we were just standing and chatting. At one point, we were approached by an older gentleman who appeared to be intoxicated. Things became hilarious when he started openly hitting on me. Even after I’d told him multiple times that I was not interested in his increasingly forward offers, he became even pushier. Just as I was about to leave and go home, letting this man ruin my so far perfect night, I heard a female voice from the benches.

“Hey, baby, what’re you doing?”

I turned around and saw Trish. She was sitting on the bench with two other people. I’ve never met her before, so I wasn’t sure if she was actually talking to me.

“Well, are you going to sit with me or what?” she asked, looking straight into my eyes. I realized that she was trying to save me from the man.

“Excuse me,” I said, walking towards Trish, “my fiancé is calling me.”

The man wouldn’t buy the story, and he came after me. I sat next to Trish.

“Is he really your fiancé?” the man asked.