Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  Signs point to yes, it says. I smile. I add another question for good measure: Will Doris and I be friends?

  It is decidedly so, answers the 8 Ball.

  “You there?” asks Ashton. “Did you get my photo?”

  I look at my phone again. He’s sent me a selfie. And in his hands he’s holding what looks like a printed-out plane ticket.

  “No way,” I say. My heart starts racing, but I try to remain cool. “You actually used a printer?”

  “I did it!” he says. “I’m coming down to the BIG BAD SOUTH in August. Tell me this is a good idea.”

  “August! Oh my God! That’s amazing! And … so far away,” I say.

  “I’ve got baseball camp before that,” he says. “And my parents say I have to pay them back for the ticket before I step on the plane, so I need a job, too! I think I have an in at the sporting goods store that just opened at the mall. I’m psyched. You’re psyched, too … aren’t you?”

  “I am, I am!” I say. I hear that cough again. “Hey, let me call you later, OK? I love you. You’re literally the best boyfriend ever.”

  “Love you, Pony,” he replies, and I hang up the phone and walk back out to face Doris.

  “I’m really glad he’s not dead, because this would be superweird if so,” she says.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I say. “It’s just—”

  She holds up her hand. “I have some follow-up questions.”

  “Go for it.”

  “How long have you been dating this guy?”

  “Like, three months. But I’ve known him since freshman year, kind of.”

  “And he’s coming to visit you?”

  I smile again. “Yes! That’s what he just said.”

  “And you’re kissing 8 Balls and imagining they’re him?”

  I can’t deny this.

  “Show me another picture of him?”

  I open up my camera roll and display a recent photo, which she inspects.

  “He’s cute,” she says. “Very cute.”

  “He’s the most adorable boy in the world,” I say.

  “You’re in love, aren’t you?” she asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question. “With Mr. Cute Sexter Boy.”

  “Hey!” I say. “That wasn’t a sext! He sent me a picture of his plane ticket.”

  “Was it wearing clothes?” She laughs.

  “Stop!” I say.

  “Sorry, sorry, but it’s just … that’s why you’re so hung up on this guy, even though you only dated three months and you just moved hundreds of miles away. Right? You’re totally in love.” She pauses and gives me a suddenly bashful smile. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m way too direct. My aunt Stella used to say I have the gift of gab, but my parents think it’s more like the gift of sticking my foot in my mouth.”

  “It’s OK,” I say. And maybe it’s because I haven’t had an in-person conversation with anyone resembling a friend in at least two weeks or that I’m in happy shock at Ashton’s news, or both, that I spill way more than I should. “I am,” I admit, “in love.” Even though it’s only the two of us in the room, I lower my voice to a whisper. “We lost our virginity to each other before I left Illinois. It just felt right. We didn’t know if we were ever going to see each other again. And now he’s coming to visit!” I can’t help it, I want to shout it from the rooftops. “I’m just really, really happy.”

  She stares at me intently.

  “Was that TMI?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe you have the gift of gab, too. So, was it right?”

  This is where it gets complicated. The truth was, it was fine. Good even. Strange. The worst part was that it felt like it had to mean so much, that your first time always means so much, and there was no way for that not to be a tragedy, given my departure. I don’t know how to explain any of this. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’re supposed to say about your boyfriend, or to a girl you barely know.

  The first time is supposed to be perfect, right? So that’s what I tell her. “It was wonderful,” I say.

  Doris is still gazing at me, her expression serious. “We have a lot to talk about, Nell Wachowski,” she says. “But for now, two things. First: There are two ten-minute phone breaks for each eight-hour shift, in addition to lunch. Otherwise, you have to keep your phone in the locker you’ll be assigned. And second: As the newly minted head of stockroom personnel, I would like to offer you a job.”

  “Yay!” I wave my phone in the air, and then realize I should stop drawing attention to the thing that nearly stopped me from getting hired at all. “Thanks,” I say. And then I blurt out, “Don’t worry, I’m on the pill. My mom made me to go the doctor and get a prescription when I turned fifteen, just after she sat me down and lectured me about sex for an hour. Again. TMI.”

  “Ha,” says Doris. “My parents still think I believe in storks, or maybe immaculate conceptions, and they certainly do not think anyone in this town is having premarital sex, so long as we’re talking about the proper Christians. The heathens will go to hell, so it doesn’t matter. I learned everything about the human body from reading stuff online, plus Coach Deeson’s health class. If you can call that ‘learning.’ He thinks the uterus is a ‘baby holder.’”

  “Oh no,” I say.

  “All the jocks call him Coach Deez-Nuts, which is actually still sort of funny after the fiftieth time, only because it makes about as much sense as he does.”

  I laugh.

  “Anyway, work stuff,” says Doris, her tone suddenly brisk and professional again. “The pay is eight dollars an hour. You’ll go through shipments and separate out what you think we can sell, listing it on the sheet. Then you stock the shelves and put items in the to-be-cleaned section, if necessary.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “I can explain the shelving system; it’s kind of quirky. Red brought his six-year-old daughter, Freddie, in one day and had her point to different spots and say what would go where, if you can believe it.”

  “She actually said ‘bust of Ringo’?” I gesture toward the shelves.

  “That’s a mystery,” she answers. “I think it might be something from an ex-girlfriend that Red moved in here to get out of Heather’s sight but can’t bear to sell because, you know, nostalgia.”

  This place is weird. I like it.

  “Heather is Red’s wife,” Doris continues. “She’s tough but cool. She does our bookkeeping. If there’s a little girl running around, it’s probably Freddie. She pretty much gets free rein of the place, and is allowed to play with all the toys, so don’t worry about that. She’s really well behaved. And you’ve got to meet the rest of the staff: Byron was a big University of Alabama football player until he blew out his knee and moved back home, but he’s not the asshole jock type at all. Nadine brings us homemade lemon pie and is always showing off pictures of her grandbabies. Cat plays drums in a band and does Roller Derby. Everyone is pretty great.”

  I nod again. Doris seems so adult—together and on top of things. “Do you have any questions for me?” she asks.

  “Have you ever had someone come and reclaim an item?” I’ve been wondering how that works. “Like, show up saying it’s theirs and they want it back?”

  “Not once!” she says. “Even when we’ve found pretty amazing stuff. Jewelry, expensive coats, whatever. I guess once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

  “Maybe people just give up after a while,” I say. “They move on.”

  “Or they don’t know where to start looking. If you call the airline and they can’t find it, what do you even do, besides submit a claim and eventually get your money back, if you’re lucky?” she says.

  “Maybe ninety days is some kind of threshold for forgetting.” I think about this with regard to relationships. It’s the three months of summer. It’s the time I’ve been with Ashton, boyfriend-girlfriend serious. It’s close to the amount of time we’ll have been apart before seeing each other again. Will we still want to find our way
back together in ninety days?

  “One final question.” Doris interrupts my train of thought. “When can you start? Oh, and one more question: Have you ever had a Krispy Kreme Doughnut?”

  The 8 Ball was right about me getting this job. I cross my fingers that it might be right about everything else, too.

  8

  Grant

  When I wake up, my stomach is growling. I don’t remember how I got home last night, but I know I’m hungry. My alarm clock is officially broken, so while I have no idea what time it is, at least I don’t have to deal with its infernal beeping. I listen for voices, but it’s quiet. I roll out of bed and wander to the bathroom, where I’ve left my cell phone. It’s past noon; no wonder I’m starving. I walk downstairs in my boxers, and there on the kitchen counter Mom has left me a plate of waffles. They’re cold and hard from sitting so long, but I gnaw on one anyway as I peruse the fridge.

  There’s a casserole with aluminum foil over it, and a Post-it on top that says, DON’T EAT! FOR JR. LEAGUE MEETING, but guess what I do anyway? I pull it out and yank off the foil, just to see. It’s my mom’s famous sausage-egg-and-cheese casserole, and before I can stop myself, I’m using my hand to scoop it up and shove it in my mouth, one step above animal. I think about going the whole way and putting my lips right on top of it, eating like our old Lab, Rusty, spraying chunks of food left and right, but I stop myself.

  Here’s a fact to chew on: I have not been feeling like myself these days.

  I’ve heard my mom say it to her friends on the phone: “Grant’s not feeling like himself these days!” her cheery tone covering up the darker truth. I’ve heard her say it to my old girlfriend, Chassie Dunkirk, who dumped me in April. Chassie won’t respond to any of my messages, but she calls my mom every now and then to check in. At least they have each other, because I’m a huge disappointment to them both. “Grant hasn’t been feeling like himself, boys,” I hear my stepdad, Brian, tell Bobby and Michael, my three-year-old half brothers, twins so cute that of course they get all the attention in the house, especially when Grant hasn’t been feeling like himself.

  The reason I’m not feeling like myself, the reason I’m lurking around the house like a ghost instead of killing it at football camp, the reason Chassie dumped me, the reason I’m standing in front of a refrigerator devastating my mom’s casserole when she’s told me not to and made waffles for me, is because I am a total and complete shithead.

  And possibly an alcoholic. The internet says definitely—I answered seven out of their ten questions “yes,” and that means I should seek help, ASAP. But I’m already getting help, so the laughs are on you, internet. The psychologist Mom and Brian and Coach are making me go to, a woman who insists I call her Dr. Laura, says I have “adjustment disorder.” According to her professional opinion, I’m a normal teen simply “experimenting with the limits of what I can and cannot do.”

  This is because I have been giving her exactly what she wants to hear. I say, “I realize I’ve been excessive, but there’s a lot of peer pressure.” I tell her, “I am going to keep a sense of awareness about me when offered alcohol, and not simply say yes to fit in.” When she asks if I crave the taste or the way it makes me feel, I muse and say, “Not really.” Dr. Laura isn’t one of those TV psychiatrists with a couch in her office. She sits in a chair in the corner of the room, and I sit facing her on another chair, which swivels. The more I bend the truth, or annihilate it completely, the more I tend to swivel, which is something she’s never seemed to catch on to. You’d think she’d see through the lies. Part of me keeps hoping she will.

  But it’s a better look for her, for everyone, if I’m just “not feeling like myself.” It means the situation is temporary and that my real self—the high school quarterback, the role model to his little brothers and every other kid in the whole damn school, the guy who was on track for a full scholarship to the college he’s dreamed about playing for since he was a little kid watching games with his (real) dad, the guy with the perfect girlfriend and flawless life and impeccable future—will one day just be back, and this misfit, out-of-sorts asshole will, poof, vanish and be forgotten forever.

  That everyone but me seems to believe this only makes it feel worse. No one wants to admit I have a real problem. That’s how, when what happened happened, they managed to keep it quiet. No one said a word to anyone outside of the tiny containment circle that dealt with the information and my hush-hush punishment. God knows, the one thing everyone can agree on is that I have to play football—if I’m out for the spring or summer, no biggie, but when the championships come around, I better be on the ground, back to my old self. So this has to be a phase. I’m the only one who seems worried that it’s not.

  For now, I’m taking a private little “leave of absence” for “health reasons,” says Coach, no need to get everyone—aka, the whole town—worked up about it. No football camp for me this summer, I’m grounded till the next century, and my driving privileges are a vague memory, but as long as I “take care of things” and do right by Dr. Laura, I’ll be reinstated on the team come September. But how can I take care of things when I’m not sure I won’t do what I did again? That I won’t be able to help myself, or even know what I’m doing? That’s the sort of question that can drive you to drink. Two things you shouldn’t do together. Ha. Ha.

  I know, not funny.

  Drinking has always been something that I’ve done, it seems like. Back when we were in eighth grade, Chassie’s big brother, Deagan, would get us beer and those spiked lemonades she liked. He was on the football team then, so he had a hookup for booze, even though he was just a few years older than us. We drank and got goofy, mostly. Chassie and I would fall all over each other, kissing and touching, and maybe we went further than we should have, but it was OK, because we’ve known each other forever and we really were in love. I think we were in love. I tried to be a good boyfriend. When I was sober, I really, really tried. But drunk Grant is another story.

  All I know is, something changed in me freshman year. Coach saw me at JV tryouts and put me on the varsity team. The team had sucked for years, but we won the very first game I played. Afterward, these crazy sensations were coursing through my brain and body, and wouldn’t stop. It was more, even, than sex, and almost too intense to feel good. Later that night we were partying at my friend Brod’s house, and Leroy Coggins handed me an ice-cold Bud. I popped the top to release the beautiful noise that now triggers saliva to well up in my mouth (I really am a dog), drank it down in a giant glug, and asked for another. I couldn’t get enough. I was so thirsty.

  After the next game, which we won, too, someone had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. When I walked into the party, people were passing it around, chugging straight from the neck. I took my turn, and whoa: I was a hard-liquor convert. Beer helped, but whiskey and vodka and gin would really take the edge off. I’d feel just like everyone else for a little while, normal and happy and cheering the team for another victory that I’d helped achieve. And then I’d feel better than everyone else.

  I started drinking more, not just after games but other times, too, and I got wilder. There was always alcohol available; no one deprives a football player in this town, especially not one who guides the team to victory every damn time. Sometimes I didn’t make it home at night—I’d crash at Brod’s condo, or sneak into Chassie’s bedroom, and once when the weather was nice, I slept the whole night in our neighbor Mrs. Humphrey’s flower bed. I always told my mom I was staying over at a friend’s house, and she believed me. She was too busy with the twins, who were teeny-tiny babies then, to notice much, I guess. The funny thing is, no one seemed to mind. I was just being a guy, a football kind of guy, and it never affected my game. Until the thing that happened happened.

  Now here I am, a prisoner in my own house. So far, progress has been more backward than forward. I don’t know how to talk about what went down. And I don’t know if I can stop drinking, but if I tell Mom or Brian or Dr. Laura that, wo
uldn’t it prove that I really am as bad as I’m secretly scared I might be? Then maybe I really am an alcoholic, and not just an alcoholic as identified by the internet.

  I finish the casserole and debate re-covering the dish with foil and putting the Post-it back on top, an empty platter in disguise in the fridge, but I decide that omission is less of a sin than a full-blown lie, so I shove the tray into the dishwasher and go back to my room. My sheets are starting to smell, but I don’t care enough to get up and change them.

  9

  Eventually, the purple leopard suitcase wasn’t alone anymore. A human came and collected it and put a new tag on it, then delivered it to a large, gray, mostly dark room where a bunch of other suitcases resided. Some had been there for weeks, even months.

  Not a lot happened in this room. Every so often, the door would open and a new suitcase would arrive, and sometimes, one or two of the suitcases that had sat there so long would be taken out. Of course, the humans never told the suitcases where they were going. And the suitcases couldn’t very well ask.

  The suitcases didn’t yearn for their owners, exactly. After all, having someone use you whenever they feel like it and shove you under a bed for the rest of the year doesn’t necessarily endear them to you. But what the suitcases did mourn, in whatever way suitcases could, was how they’d gone so far off course. For a minute, they’d known exactly where they were headed and what their purpose was. They knew what they contained and who it was for. But now everything was up in the air, except they were down on the ground, no longer en route to wherever they were supposed to be.

  What would happen next? No one could say.