Amanda Proctor's "Delivery Notice"

Cara’s been busy since she moved to Montréal, or at least that’s what our mom tells me. Even though she never has time to call anymore, I know for sure she’s not dead because she’s still using my Amazon Prime account. I stopped using the account ages ago: the guilt of clicking the golden yellow “Add to Cart” button knowing it meant someone in the warehouse wouldn’t get a bathroom break, their feet chafing in their runners with lightning strikes of back pain. But I guess Cara can ignore all that.

The emails always come in French, all caps and orange, AVIS DE LIVRAISON. Yesterday she ordered 12 Pack Artificial Hanging Vine Ivy Leaves. I hope it’s because she knows that ivy is an invasive species, but it’s probably because in her glamorous city life she has no time to water plants. Sometimes I picture her apartment—the AmazonBasics Foldable Cube Storage Bins and the 2 Pack Fairy Lights (Batteries Included). She ordered those a few months ago. I bet her apartment is beautiful. I bet she never has to spend a Saturday deep cleaning her kitchen because she has nothing better to do. She probably always has hip stuff to do, like making macramé plant holders for her friends with her Macramé Cotton Cord, Not Dyed, Natural.

When she orders Vintage Steampunk Sunglasses in the summer, I think of her fair skin burning into blisters and consider ordering some Hawaiian Tropic Weightless Sunscreen, sent to her address. I think of calling her and remembering the times we went to our Aunt Sherry’s pool as kids. All-dressed chips that tasted like chlorine and that little gnome that had his fishing rod cast into the garden. We never waited long enough before swimming for our sunscreen to soak in, and our skin burned bright lollipop red by the end of the afternoon. We used to play with diving rings, jewels gently sinking to the aquamarine plastic floor. I could never make it to the bottom, even though I was older. My ears always clogged and my chest tightened under the heavy water. I tried to swim fast and get to the orange, pink, and yellow rings before they hit the bottom, but my legs flailed me back to the surface for air. Cara always dived elegantly to the bottom after waiting for me to flounder up, choking. I would pull myself to sit on the edge of the pool and watch as she grazed the bottom with her knuckles. She stayed down there longer than she needed to collect the rings, letting the pressure of the water hold her sitting at the bottom. When I saw her from above she was sliced into rippling half-moons, flecked with reflected sun.

I think about sending her some Pool Time Dive Rings —6 Pack as a joke, but I picture her tearing the smooth brown parcel paper expecting her sunglasses, then, puzzled, letting the box slide out of her hand into the trash. Knowing the algorithms will push the sunscreen to her attention, I search up Hawaiian Tropic SPF 30 and write a four-star review.