“You can’t?” Zoe’s stomach bottomed out. This was why she’d called to check. The lady on the phone had said they’d be able to take it to her door. “Without an elevator how am I meant to…?”
“Sorry.” The delivery driver shrugged. “Company policy, can’t take things up any stairs.”
Zoe’s eyes stung and her face burned. No. No tears. Not here. She could do this.
She managed to hold it together until the driver left. After the building door closed, she turned to stare at the box.
The box stared back.
She could do this. Right?
She swallowed, glancing at her stiff, bruised fingers. She had to do this. It wasn’t as if she had anyone to call for help. An unwelcome voice crossed her mind.
It’s not fun being alone Zoe. You have to be strong to make it alone. I’m not sure if that’s you?
Shut up Mum.
Zoe stared at the box.
The box stared back.
Zoe lost the staring contest.
She dashed upstairs and grabbed the hefty kettle-bell from inside her apartment door. Carrying it down in her good hand, she used the weight to prop open the door to the stairway. She’d figured this out yesterday when she’d struggled to hold the door open and lug the two boxes containing her bed frame up. The bed frame that was meant to hold the mattress in the box she’d already lost two staring contests with.
Her chest tightened.
No. She was fine. Her mother wasn’t right. She hadn’t been a naive girl when she’d moved halfway across the country with no friends or family to support her. She wasn’t kidding herself when she’d believed she was capable enough to do it. She could do this. She’d sorted the rent. Sorted the bills. Sorted the furniture. She could do this.
One step at a time.
She returned to the box.
Zoe knelt on the grimy carpet and, using her good hand, she pushed and shoved the giant box along the ground towards the stairwell. Grunting, and groaning, and heaving, and fighting back tears threatening to spill, she managed shove the box bit by bit across the ground until it reached the stairway entrance. Then she grunted, and groaned, and heaved some more to turn it around until it could slide through the door.
Panting, she stood and surveyed her next step. Or next thirty-two steps. Four flights. Eight steps to a landing. Eight steps to the next floor. Repeat to the third floor. Thirty-two steps.
She stared at the box.
The box stared back.
She bent her legs—another tip she’d learnt from the bed frame—and eased her fingers under the edge of the box.
Her injured hand throbbed but she ignored it, managing to haul the lip of the box onto the first step. She let it slip from her grip with a grateful sigh, stretching her fingers to ease the pain.
She could flip it up. Like with the boxes yesterday. Eight steps conquered in one action. Flipping a box four times seemed much more achievable than lifting it thirty-two times.
She bent her knees, grabbed the other end of the box, and heaved. She intended to lift it far above her head with one mighty effort.
Pain lanced up her fingers and the box fell from her grasp.
She yelped and stumbled back, clutching her injured hand to her chest. The box fell back to the ground with a resounding thud that echoed up the stairwell and Zoe bit back tears. She tried to shove the sobs threatening to escape her back down her chest but as she gazed up the stairwell, that stupid box at her feet…she lost the fight.
She slumped back against the grimy, mark covered wall and held her throbbing hand.
Maybe Mum was right. How could she do this? She couldn’t even move her own blasted furniture into her apartment. How was she meant to make a life in a new city with no family and no friends to help her?
She’d felt so…capable, after she’d managed to lug the bed frame boxes up yesterday. But the more she’d thought about it, the more she realised she’d defeated the boxes through pure force of will. It had taken over an hour of lifting and heaving and truthfully, she’d barely succeeded. And to add injury to insult, she’d crushed her fingers between the box and the stairs during the effort. Her accomplishment had quickly soured, and Zoe had been so exhausted she hadn’t even bothered putting the furniture together. Not that she had a mattress to go on it. Instead, she’d resigned herself to yet another night sleeping on the ratty second-hand couch.
Now, alone in a grimy stairwell with tears running down her face, she was torn between wanting someone to come down and help her and hoping no one saw the sorry state she was in.
But why would anyone come down? It wasn’t as if she’d had time to make friends with her neighbours. The most she’d done was buzz that girl into the building yesterday when she’d forgotten her keys.
Wait.
Was that an option? They hadn’t spoken long. Only long enough for her brief story and what apartment she lived in. But at least if Zoe was to go knocking on people’s doors, she’d have an idea of who was inside. It would reduce her chance of coming across a creep at least.
What number had the girl said she was in? Was it 109? No. She was pretty sure it was 105.
Zoe stared at the box.
The box stared back.
Zoe needed backup.
She dried her tears and retied her hair, checking in her phone to see how red her eyes were. Her fingers still throbbed but as long as she didn’t move them it was fine. She made her way to the door of 105 but paused.
Could she do this? Knock on a stranger’s door and ask for help? Would that just be proving Mum right? Prove that she wasn’t strong enough? What if the girl wasn’t home? Or she didn’t want to help? What if she thought Zoe was the creep?
Her hand hovered, fist closed and ready to knock even as Zoe wavered. Her weight shifted on her feet, ready to step away from the door.
But that box was still downstairs. And Zoe couldn’t lose another staring contest.
She knocked.
And waited.
The door opened.
“Hi—oh are you ok?”
By the concern that flooded the girl’s features, maybe Zoe hadn’t been as presentable as she had thought. Somehow, she managed to stammer out her story. Why did it sound—and feel—like she was about to start bawling again?
When she’d finished the girl smiled. “Oh! Of course I’ll help. I’m Julie.” She stepped out from her apartment. “Unfortunately, my boyfriend’s at work right now but—” Julie’s eyes widened. “Wait here a sec.”
Zoe, bewildered into obedience, did as she was told and Julie stepped back into her apartment. She returned a moment later and Zoe held the door open as she trundled out a moving trolley behind her.
“Between us and this, I think we should be able to manage.”
And manage they did. With no more effort than it had taken Zoe to move the box from the building door to the stairwell, Zoe and Julie (well, Julie took the lead after she saw Zoe’s bruised hand) tipped the offending box upright onto the trolley and lugged it up the stairs.
All thirty-two of them.
After they’d manhandled the item into Zoe’s apartment they paused, chests heaving.
“With the others then I suppose?” Julie asked, seeing the other boxes in what was to be Zoe’s room.
“Yeah,” Zoe panted. “Though not sure if I have the energy to put it all together.”
“Not with that attitude—or that hand—you won’t.”
Zoe laughed, hiding her distaste at her only other alternative. “Might just be another night on the couch for me.”
“Well that certainly won’t do,” Julie said, hauling herself to her feet. “Let me grab my screwdriver. Between us and it, I think we’ll manage.”
That night Zoe lay on her hard-earned mattress, on her newly built bed, looking at that one extra contact in her phone.
Was she still in a new city? Yes.
Did she still need a dining table? Yes.
Would she be able to move it up the stairs herself when she did purchase one?
Probably not.
But at least she had an extra pair of hands to help when it arrived.