Her Melting Point

Moving Heaven and Earth

She looked at the photo. The hardly noticeable dent that the Serbian was talking about was there.

"Usually we call to tell customers when a box came in. But this is small. Open it, so we can claim if it will be bad." He shook his head. "Movers in big cities don't care about customers."

Jackie immediately started reassuring him. "It's OK, I'm sure!" She knelt in front of the box, and he handed her a box knife. "It's minimal," she continued. "Nothing should–"

Her words stuck in her throat. She lowered her hand into the box and pulled out her Grandmother's Colclough coffee pot by its handle. She gasped at the view of its missing spout.

"Damn it," Radovan said. He craned his neck. "But you put no paper! No packaging, see? You can't just put dishes in the box. They crack!"

"I–" Jackie's voice broke, and she dropped her backside on the floor. "I wasn't–"

Tears rolled onto her eyes.

"Take other kettles out," Radovan said. "You need to know what is broke. But you can't prove your claim. No, I don't think that they will pay." He shook his head again. "You didn't put paper, and they all move and–" He made a crashing noise.

Jackie wanted to defend herself, but she'd start bawling if she opened her mouth; so she just sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

"Don't cry," the man said with sympathy. "You go to Mr. Oats, you know, the man in the hardware shop? He can fix everything. Or Volchok, that Ukrainian man on Alder street. He knows how to fix old things. Antiquities."

"Is everything alright?" The mover named Remi popped his head into the room.

"Her kettle broke," Radovan said. "But she put no paper!"

Jackie swallowed a sob bubbling in her throat, put the pot aside, and started inspecting the rest of the set. Two of the cups were chipped, and one saucer broke in half. The milk jug, her most favourite dish, was intact, though; and Jackie pressed it to her chest.

"Should we bring the rest of the stuff then?" Remi asked, throwing Jackie uneasy glances.

She nodded, still not trusting her voice.

"This shipment was furniture," Radovan grumbled. "I thought there are handles and wheels in the small box, maybe blankets. Not the glass."

He huffed a judgmental 'pfft' sound and left the room.

The rest of the unloading went smoothly. There were two more boxes of smaller items that had been sent with the wardrobe, the bed, the writing bureau, the leaf table, five chairs, and so on; but this box didn't contain anything breakable.

From all the suppressed crying and the stress, Jackie could feel a migraine episode approaching. She held off just enough to thank and to tip the movers - and to refrain from snapping at Radovan who continued to give her unsolicited advice through the whole process. When the door closed behind them, Jackie had just enough time to rush to the toilet when the first wave of vomiting started. She'd clearly missed her chance to eat, which would've lessened her current suffering.

She needed to sleep, she told herself. That was the only way she could get through this: to lie down, in darkness, breathing purposefully, hoping she wouldn't be sick again, because that would aggravate her pain tenfold. She had her water bottle next to the bed, so she'd take small sips, trying to hydrate without prompting her stomach to expel the liquid.

Thankfully, there were curtains on the bedroom window, and she spread the vintage quilt that she found in one of the boxes on the bed and collapsed on it.