The Yellow Suitcase

by L. W. Clark

  Someone finally got on the line and I explained the situation. These conversations with my English and accent were always hard over the phone. It took some time, but she finally got what I was trying to say. She took my phone number to check things out while she put me on hold.

  I was on hold for a while and I was running out of quarters. I let the phone dangle and went across the room to ask the pizza guy for more quarters, handing him the cash. He gave me the quarters with a smile.

  I don’t know what I’d do without these random people who are so nice to strangers. These people are on the streets, at the train stations, at the supermarket and subways. These strangers behave like your friends, always willing to help. I’ve come a long way in knowing how to live in this city because of them. And here I am again, being helped by a pizza guy I don’t even know.

  I had to get change a few more times. I was on hold for more than forty-five minutes, but I wasn’t about to give up. I wanted the phone fixed so I could get the call I was waiting for. Someone much older than me, but interesting and attractive.

  She finally got back on the line and said the phone was fixed. I wasn’t impressed with the customer service but at least the phone was working. I was also proud that I made it through the phone conversation.

  As I walked home the pain in my foot got worse, and soon I couldn’t press my foot down at all. I needed some medication, or a doctor. I never had such a thing and I didn’t know where to go. It seemed like a bite or some kind of allergic reaction.

  The timing sucks. I’m about to have a whole new experience and now this? Why is this happening now? On Monday, my day off, I’m not able to walk at all?

  I even tried to put my shoes on and tippy-toe around, but I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t able to go to work the next day, or for the next week. I was devastated, unable to do anything. Silvia brought me various kinds of ointments in the first few days, but nothing helped.

  Zachary moved into his new apartment on Tuesday. He worked all day, every day. After work he’d come by with fruit or some ice cream. He’d hold me by the arm so I could walk to the bathroom. He’d visit me every evening and stayed until Silvia came home. Sometimes he’d even stay until I fell asleep. He was so supportive. But I was impatient.

  “I need to see a doctor,” I said. “These creams aren’t working. I’m just wasting time and money.”

  “OK, we should find a foot doctor,” Silvia said.

  She called one of her friends who referred a doctor and we made an appointment. Now I needed a ride because I wasn’t about to walk.

  “Why don’t you call Jeff?” Silvia asked. “I bet he’d be more than happy to give you a ride. He keeps calling. Have you ever called him back?”

  “No, I never did, and I don’t want him to take me. I’d rather call a car service.”

  “Alright, but if you want the car to wait for you it’s going to cost you a fortune.”

  After a few days my foot seemed to get even worse. I was in serious pain. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t getting any better, I was by myself and I couldn’t get to a doctor. I missed my mother, but I didn’t call her. I never liked talking to anyone when I’m not well, not even Gilles. He called and left a message. I was excited but I didn’t want to talk to him or tell him about my foot. Who wants to hear that?

  When Silvia came home, she took me to the hospital emergency room. We waited about two and a half hours before finally getting a room. An Indian doctor came in. Silvia was with me so between the two of us we were able to communicate with him.

  He said he was going to make a small cut around the irritated area which would help speed up the healing, and he gave me yet another kind of cream for it. I had no choice. Whatever he wanted me to do, I would do. The cutting thing kind of freaked me out, but whatever. As long as it worked.

  I was hoping to be back on my feet (or rather, foot) after a couple of days, but nope. I was still in bed without any improvement. By now I was into my third week of being in bed. I was desperate. Then the neighbor who rented the apartment to Zachary heard about my condition and paid me a visit.

  “Girl, you need to go to a specialist, a good specialist,” she said in anger. “You think all these doctors know what they’re doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought they’d all be good doctors here.”

  “What? Why? Because it’s America?” she said, shaking her head. “Sugar, there are a lot of doctors out there you just can’t trust.”

  Sugar? I like this woman.

  “My sister had a problem with her foot not too long ago. The doctor fixed her right up. I’m gonna call her right now.”

  “Thank you so, so much,” I said.

  She had a few more doctor stories but finally called her sister.

  “OK, sweetie,” she said. “Here’s the doctor’s phone number and address. He’s in New Jersey.”

  She continued telling stories and complaining about a lot of random things. She had some kind of accent that was hard to understand most of the time. I didn’t have the energy to focus on her stories, so I just kept smiling as I looked at her face.

  Her name was Rose. She was around sixty-five years old and originally from South Carolina. She even told me how she got her name.

  “When I was born, some of my momma’s friends visited her in the hospital and brought her these white roses,” she said. “Then her friends were all like, oh, your baby is so beautiful, just like these white roses we got you. My momma loved the roses. So, she says to everyone, they are so pretty. Maybe we should name the baby White Rose. And everybody kind of looks at each other, not saying a word, until my daddy says, that is a nice name honey, but I don’t think it’s gonna work. Well, why not? my momma says. What’s wrong with it? So, my daddy, he looks around at my momma’s friends, and then at my momma, and finally he says umm … because she’s black? Like us? Let’s skip the White and just go with Rose.”

  Rose laughed and laughed. Her laughing made me laugh. She loved telling stories. She stayed with me for quite a while. Zachary and Silvia soon joined in and we all stayed up until midnight. It was a good time. Rose gave me hope that maybe now I’d be healed by a qualified specialist.

  “This doctor is in New Jersey?” Silvia asked as she looked at the address. “That’s pretty far from here. How are we going to get there?”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Zachary said.

  “Like what? It’s at least a ninety minute drive from here,” Silvia said. “We need a car, and who has a car? Nobody.”

  Silvia’s working herself up into a frenzy.

  “And she doesn’t even want to call the guy she knows who has a car,” she said pointing to me. “Why don’t you call Jeff?”

  “Who’s Jeff?” Zachary asked.

  Awkward silence.

  “Well, whoever he is we don’t need him,” Zachary said. “I’ll find a way to take her there.”

  “Yeah, right,” Silvia said, shaking her head.

  “Don’t you all worry ‘bout nothing,” said Rose. “My grandson can take Alyssa. He doesn’t have classes tomorrow, so he has the time.”

  The next morning, I made an appointment and that afternoon Rose’s nineteen-year-old grandson and I were on the way to New Jersey. Rose helped me find a doctor, and she volunteered her grandson to give me a ride. She was, like, everything to me at that moment. She was my mother, grandmother and good friend all in one. We can all take roles as brothers, sisters, mothers or anyone, and we don’t have to be related by blood to be there for each other. She was from the human family.

  I was getting a ride to New Jersey with my young brother from another mother. Rose’s grandson Jordan. He played rap songs so loud all the way from Brooklyn to the doctor’s office. By the time we got there I thought I’d need another ride to an ear doctor because I was going deaf.

  TWENTY-ONE

  May 1997, Brooklyn

  “Hallelujah!!!” as Rose might say. I was completely healed just two days after
visiting the specialist. It was a bad infection that the specialist said I must’ve caught from walking barefoot.

  I was so excited to walk and go back to work. I wouldn’t say I missed my job so much as I missed being active. Three weeks without physical activity was not for me. Only my brain was active. Thinking and reading. I read Vogue and any other magazines Silvia would bring to me. I was learning more and more about everything. I missed walking in Manhattan. I couldn’t wait for my next day off to go and immerse myself in the city.

  Soon I was back into the same routine, but I needed to work even harder. I would’ve worked eight days a week if it were possible. I owed just two more payments to Viktor, and soon I’d be going to school to take a course in English, since I now had a student visa.

  Everybody seemed fine when I came back to work. I expected a little more excitement on my return, but it was like I never left. Anna did call me a couple of times when I was out, which was nice. Michael just said hello, with a smirk on his face, like, “we were doing just fine without you.”

  But later Kalian told me they were both impatient for my return. You could’ve fooled me. I didn’t see that from them. Maybe once they saw me, they just relaxed because they felt things would be back to normal in their world.

  “Of course, she’s back. What else?” they probably told themselves.

  “Anna,” I said a few days after returning to work, “with this student visa I’ll have to attend classes for at least 16 hours a week. So, I’ll need to have two days off.”

  “Oh, is that how it works?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I also won’t be working at Peter’s any longer. I’m happy to put in extra hours on the other five days to make sure the work gets done.”

  But really, how many more hours can there be? I already work more hours than I’m supposed to.

  “To be honest, I’m not happy about this,” she said. “There’s a lot to do around here.”

  Tell me about it.

  “But I understand,” she said. “Let’s try to make it work.”

  Going back to school was exciting. It also meant I was staying here longer than I originally planned. I did want to take English classes and then go back to my country. That was part of my plan from the beginning. I just didn’t realize I couldn’t get everything I wanted in six months or even in a year. Time went so fast.

  But it was also true that I wanted to renew my visa. I was slowly starting to enjoy life here. Little by little. I wasn’t ready to go back. Financially or emotionally. I hadn’t been able to save any money yet. That was another priority.

  I promised myself I’d stick to my original plan from the beginning. To go back home speaking English, with some savings, and to bring everyone fantastic presents. Often before I fell asleep, I’d visualize my arrival, including seeing everybody at the airport. I missed my family and friends so much but at the same time, I wasn’t ready to leave the beautiful city that I fell in love with. At least not yet.

  Sometimes I had dreams that I went back to my country and I wasn’t happy. I regretted going home and wanted to go back to America but couldn’t. That was a nightmare. I always felt relieved when I woke up and realized it was only a dream. No, it was best to be patient, stick to my plans and go back when I was ready. I was certainly having mixed feelings about my old and new lives. But I felt certain that in the end, I’d go back home, to my friends, family and culture.

  The next time I was in Brooklyn I brought a bottle of champagne for Zachary. I used my last twenty dollars. I wanted to say thank you for being so kind and such a good friend over the last few weeks. I knocked on his door, but he wasn’t home. I left a note, but he never showed up, that evening or the next day. It seemed strange but I didn’t know much about his personal life. I left Brooklyn without seeing him.

  It took me a while to prepare myself to return Gilles’s phone call.

  Why do I get so nervous every time I’m about to call him? Or even when I just think of him? Maybe because of the age difference between us? Maybe I think it’s like reaching out to a person of authority, like a teacher, or a boss? When you have to be super-polite and respectful? Geez, I hope he’s not a teacher. Not that it’s a bad profession or anything. It’s probably gratifying. I just don’t think I could ever be attracted to a teacher. He’s definitely not a teacher. Not the way he looks and dresses—when he has clothes on. Teachers don’t look like him. At least not my teachers. And teachers don’t have townhouses. Or do they? Maybe they do in America? Nah, can’t be.

  I finally called. I became even more nervous when I heard his voice. He sounded different on the phone. His voice was deeper. Even my voice sounded different. I didn’t recognize it. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience.

  “I’m going out of town on business the next few days,” he said. “But I’ll be back this weekend. I’d like to take you out to lunch or dinner if that’s OK.”

  “Yes, sure,” I said. “I’d like to meet but I work on weekends.”

  “Oh, I see. Well then, what days do you have off?

  “Mondays and Tuesdays.”

  “OK, how about Monday?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll call you on Sunday evening to let you know where to meet up,” he said. “Talk to you then.”

  “OK, bye.”

  When I hung up the phone, I felt excited but also cautious.

  I want to see him, but then, maybe not. I like him, and I don’t. I shouldn’t be with a man so much older. And I don’t have time for distractions like this. I have to work. I even want to find another job to make things happen sooner. And what about school? There isn’t time for Gilles or anybody else. Work should be my boyfriend. But it would be nice … oh hell.

  I listened to my heart instead of my mind. I thought about him day and night. I pictured him from when I saw him in the grocery store. I tried to remember everything about him. His look, his manners, his face. I thought I liked him since that day. Or maybe I liked him from day one, when he helped me off the rooftop.

  I really do want to see him again. All my thoughts are so romantic, but I have to stop it now. I shouldn’t be an unrealistic romantic. He’s just a regular guy. There’s nothing special about him. I’m not THAT attracted to him.

  I got up and went for a walk to clear my head.

  “Zachary!” I said, seeing him as I walked towards the house. “I was hoping to see you last week,” hugging him.

  “Yes, I just saw your note last night. I haven’t been home for the past few nights.”

  “Where did you go?”

  I’m being nosey.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Let’s order some Chinese.”

  “Let me stop by the apartment first to get something, and then I’ll meet you at your place?”

  “Sure. I’ll order. Let me guess. Chicken and broccoli?” he smiled.

  “Yes. What else?” I smiled.

  I ate a lot of chicken and broccoli when I was couch surfing. I went home to get the champagne I bought for Zachary but it wasn’t there, and Silvia wasn’t home yet.

  She knew it was for Zachary. Maybe she gave it to him?

  I went to his place but didn’t ask about the champagne. He’d probably say something if she gave it to him. The Chinese food arrived.

  “Let’s have something to drink,” Zachary said. “I have some high-end cognac.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s find out how good it is.”

  No champagne around. It wouldn’t go with Chinese food anyway, but then, neither does cognac.

  “Cheers. Good to see you walking around again,” he said.

  “Cheers, and thank you so much for everything,” I said.

  We raised the glasses of cognac. It tasted strong but it felt nice going through my body. I needed it, to relax and stop having all my romantic illusions. But soon the alcohol triggered even more delusional thinking.

  “I missed you last week,” Zachary said.

  “I missed
you, too,” I said. “I was used to seeing you every evening. You helped me so much. I don’t know how to pay you back for all your kindness. I bought you a gift, but I don’t know … “

  “I love you, Alyssa,” Zachary said.

  He’s staring at me, without blinking. How does he do that?

  “I’ve loved you since we first met,” he said. “When we spent so many hours together on the plane. Since then I can’t stop thinking about you. I didn’t know where or how to find you, but I did. That’s destiny. When I saw you in this apartment, I couldn’t be happier.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked.

  What I just said makes no sense, but I had to say something. This is weird.

  “When I saw you every evening those three weeks, I realized my feelings were real,” he said. “But I didn’t mention anything because you didn’t feel well. You know, you are so beautiful, even when you’re asleep.”

  He poured another glass of cognac.

  Yes, I need another drink. Quickly please.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Cheers.”

  “I didn’t intend to tell you tonight, while eating Chinese food,” he said. “I was going to ask if I could take you out, in the city. I just couldn’t hold it any longer. You look so beautiful.”

  He paused, “Excuse me, I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  He sure is animated and chatty. I’ve never seen him like this. I’m feeling a little buzzed from the drinks. Maybe that’s why I’m relaxed. I can’t even think of anything to say about all this.

  Zachary came back and sat right next to me. He looked at me and then hugged me so tight, and for so long. I felt his deep breathing and strong desires. His energy went right through me. He slowly started kissing my neck. It felt good so I let him kiss me more. I didn’t move. He became more active as I felt his lips on mine.

  I briefly kissed him back and then I stopped. I resisted him, but he resisted my resistance. He kept kissing. I wanted to kiss more, but I didn’t want him. I was feeling a sexual desire that needed to be satisfied more than an attraction to him. It didn’t feel right. I gently pushed him away, but he didn’t stop. He came to me even harder, so I pushed him again, harder. He kept ignoring my defiance and continued kissing me until I pushed him so hard, he almost fell off the couch. He looked up at me, astonished.