Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  Doris shakes her head. “Grant, you probably had a concussion that night you got hurt. Probably you’ve had a lot of concussions. And that paired with the drinking … Look, a healthy teenage boy does not pass out in the middle of the day just because. What about all those football players with brain injuries? Have you read about that?”

  I shake my head. I don’t tell her I’ve specifically avoided reading about any of that.

  “My uncle had a concussion from skiing,” says Nell. “He ended up in the hospital for days. And he still has weird amnesia from the time of his accident.”

  “I think you should see a doctor,” says Doris. “How do you feel now?”

  “Better,” I say.

  “Drink more water,” Nell tells me, handing me another bottle.

  “We should take you to the nurse,” says Doris. “I saw the medical tent on our way to the campsite. Do you think you can walk?”

  Oh man, the last thing I’m going to do is go to the nurse and get checked and have someone who reminds me of my dad’s girlfriend-who-became-his-wife tell me I’ve got something wrong with me; there is no way in hell that’s going to happen. But because I appreciate what Doris has done and I don’t want to make her mad and also it seems like I’m still a pretty good liar, I say, “Oh, definitely, I can walk over there. But let me go by myself. I’ll be fine.”

  The girls look at me uncertainly. “Are you sure? We can go with you!”

  “No,” I say. “Come on, I’m a grown dude. I need some privacy! Why don’t you two stay here and chill. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

  They don’t want to let me go, I can see that, but they also can’t tell me what to do.

  “OK,” says Nell.

  “Fine,” says Doris. “But you better text us if you feel weird or need anything at all. OK?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, slowly rising to my feet. I walk, hobbling a little, out of the tent, and look back to see their concerned faces. “Everything will be fine. This is a small town. Nothing bad ever happens here,” I tell them.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s not to the nurse.

  30

  Doris & Nell

  As soon as he’s out of the clearing, we start asking questions. They’re the kind that don’t have any answers—not yet—but you have to say anyway, just to get them out of your own head. After all, a lot of things are better figured out when you can say them out loud to a friend. And even if you don’t get to any solutions, talking makes you feel better, especially when you have no idea what else to do.

  “Do you think he’s OK?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m worried.”

  “Me too.”

  “Should we tell his mom? Someone?”

  “We can’t! He’ll never trust us again.”

  “Should we have gone with him?”

  “He wouldn’t let us!”

  “Should we follow him?”

  “We could. But I’m sure he’ll see, and then what…”

  “What should we do?”

  “I think we have to trust him. We have to be his friend. We told him we’d keep his secret if he wasn’t drinking, and he’s not drinking.”

  “You’re right. I guess we need to be patient.”

  We try our best to do that, and we wait.

  Patience is hard.

  31

  Grant

  I walk and walk, and I keep walking. I pass balloonists setting up, vendors selling ice cream and fried dough, and the Mercy Church tent, where I avert my eyes. Mrs. Stokes will only make me feel worse. I pass the medical station and think for a minute about going in because I, too, am pretty sure it’s not normal for a healthy seventeen-year-old boy to faint after setting up a tent, even if it was just for a few seconds. But I’m scared I know the answer already: There’s something wrong with me. I’ve drunk too much, blacked out too many times. I’ve fallen on my head too many times. The car accident, what might that have done to me? I ran away from it, somehow, but I didn’t get off scot-free, maybe in more ways than I even know. And because I’m truly afraid of what the nurse might find in me—and what that would mean for me next—I keep walking.

  On my way across the field, I bump into Nell’s family, toting a tent and a bunch of other camping gear. Jack runs out ahead of his mom and dad, shouting when he sees me.

  “Grant! Hi! Hi! Grant!” He stands there and looks up at me expectantly.

  “Hey, dude,” I say. “Cool outfit.” My head’s feeling a little better now—the walking and the air have helped. Something about the sight of Jack cheers me up further. He’s got on shorts and a T-shirt, regular little-kid clothes, but around his waist he’s wrapped about seven bungee cords in different colors.

  “This is my utility belt,” he tells me. “I’m Bungee Man.”

  “Wow,” I say. “What are your superpowers?”

  “Bungeeing, duh,” says Jack. “Bungee Man can bungee anywhere he wants to go, in a split second. Also he can make Kool-Aid appear before his very eyes, but only the red kind.”

  “Can he make chicken fingers appear, too?” I ask.

  Jack looks at me, considering. “Yes. And chocolate bars. And pizza on Wednesdays.”

  “Man, Bungee Man has it made,” I say.

  “Hey, Grant!” says Mr. Wachowski as he and Nell’s mom catch up to us. “How goes it? Did you get the tent put up?”

  “Hi, Grant!” says Mrs. Wachowski, and I see the resemblance yet again—it’s in their eyes, their mouths, and the curves of their bodies. Not that I’m being a creeper or anything. Gah. “Where are the girls?”

  “Hi,” I say. “Turns out I’m sort of a loss with tents, but Doris managed to put ours up in about ten minutes flat. She and Nell are back there doing the finishing touches as I…” I look out into the crowd for some reason I’m here on my own. “Buy ice.”

  “Just one tent for all three of you?” Nell’s mom asks. I see her glance at Nell’s dad. “I hope it’s roomy.”

  “Doris is phenomenal,” he says, seemingly oblivious to his wife’s pointed look. “Where did you guys set up?”

  I point in the direction I came from. “Maybe half a mile that way, in the first clearing past the tree growth. Not too far from the public restrooms.”

  “We’ll pitch our tent over there, too,” says Mr. Wachowski. “Not too close, but near enough that you can join us for breakfast in the morning. How’s that?”

  Mrs. Wachowski gives him another look. I feel the need to escape before a serious parenting discussion goes down.

  “We have doughnuts!” says Jack. “Krispy Kreme!”

  “Oh, yum,” I say. “Hey, wanna come with me? Get some ice, see some balloons?” I try to make this offer sound as enticing as possible because I really do want Jack to come with me, not to mention, this will give me a chance to beat a hasty retreat.

  “Yes!” Jack says.

  “Oh no, Jack,” says Nell’s mom. “There will be plenty of time later to bug Grant.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say. “He can help me carry the ice. Bungee Man looks very strong.”

  “As long as you’re sure,” says Mrs. Wachowski.

  “Jack, stay with Grant,” says Mr. Wachowski. “We’ll expect you back at the campsite in twenty minutes. No going off on your own this time!”

  “OK!” says Jack, pulling one of the cords from his waist and stretching it out as far as it goes. I’m afraid he’s going to snap it back and give himself a monster bruise, but he gently places it back against his shirt as he says, “Bungafralacagelistica, Bungee!”

  His parents and I stare at him.

  “Chill out, dudes,” he says. “It’s a fake magic spell, but you can at least act like it’s real. It’s fun! And, no, I’m not going to hurt myself with a bungee cord. I am seven years old, not a toddler.”

  His mom and dad start laughing, and I give Jack a high five. My brothers love those.

  “We never thought that, even when you were a tod
dler,” Mrs. Wachowski tells him.

  I point in the direction of the ice hut, which sells not only bags of ice but also sticky sweet liquid sugar poured onto shaved ice in different neon colors. Jack reaches out and plants his sweaty hand in mine as we traipse across the field.

  “Don’t let Grant out of your sight!” Nell’s mom and dad call. “And, Grant, don’t let Jack out of yours!”

  “Yes, sir and ma’am!” I say, and Jack waves. “Bungafralacagelistica, Bungee!”

  Being with Jack reminds me of being with the twins. They notice everything; they have so many questions! He’s pointing and shouting in glee at balloons and cloud shapes in the sky and old ladies’ purple hair and funnel cakes. It makes me remember the first time I was here, with my mom and my real dad. I was probably around Jack’s age. I loved it: all those colors, and the two people I cared about most in the world with me to see it all. We went up in a balloon. We could see our house from the sky.

  On the way back down, my mom and dad got in a fight. He was working too much. She was nagging too much. In hindsight, I guess that was kind of the story of their split, with a few important details missing about why exactly he was working so much, and why she was nagging. Now here I am a decade later, and everything’s different but the balloons. I try to hang on to those few moments we had up in the air, when it felt like everything was perfect.

  32

  Nell

  It is, in a word, mortifying that my parents are camping so close to us. On the plus side, Grant came back with Jack and said the nurses had pronounced him perfectly fine, if a little bit dehydrated. “Are you sure that’s it?” asked Doris. “I swear on the dildo’s grave,” he said, holding his hand over his heart. She made him promise to tell Dr. Laura, and then we let it go, at least for the moment. We roamed around the festival for hours afterward, and there was no trace of another blackout, though Grant’s been chugging water like it’s going out of style. And now my dad is grilling and Mom has set out a spread of delicious stuff—homemade coleslaw and potato salad and ingredients for s’mores for dessert.

  There’s a fire pit where we sit and eat our dinner, Grant and Doris and Jack and Mom and Dad and me, and some people camping nearby join us, too—twentysomething Australians named Jamie and Beatrice who are traveling through the US “on holiday,” and an older couple who’ve brought their balloon down from Tennessee, which they tell us they do every year. Dad and Grant build a fire, and Doris and I tease them for being stereotypical “manly men.” But the fire is nice: Even though it’s been a roasty summer day, it’s cool in the woods, and the heat feels like sunshine on my bare arms. Mom keeps trying to make me put on a sweatshirt, but other than that, she and my dad are being pretty chill.

  I’ve got a second helping of potato salad on a paper plate on my knee when Grant, who’s gotten up to replenish his own plate, sits down next to me, grabs my fork, and helps himself to a scoop.

  “Rude!” I say. Doris comes in on the other side with her own fork and eats another bite. “Can a person not have her own plate of food here?” I ask.

  “This is so good,” says Doris. “I need the recipe for my mom.”

  “Mrs. Wachowski, we love your potato salad!” shouts Grant across the fire. My mom is on the other side talking to the people from Tennessee.

  “What?” she calls.

  We yell, “Potatoes!” and Grant gives her the A-OK symbol while Doris and I make finger hearts.

  She smiles and yells, “Eat more! I don’t want to have to take it home!”

  “OK, so what’s our plan?” says Doris. “Do we walk among the masses? Check out the band, and maybe the fireworks? Investigate how long the lines currently are for balloon rides? Stay here and consume the rest of your mom’s outer-space-worthy potato salad?”

  “I dunno, what do you guys want to do?” I ask. “You’re the locals. Grant, how do you feel?”

  “I feel fine,” he says. “Except I’m tired of answering that question! Hey, how about an after-dinner stroll through the festival, and we take it from there? I think National Velour is opening.”

  “National Velour? Like … National Velvet but … velour?”

  “Yes,” says Doris. “You didn’t know? It’s Cat’s band! They wear horse heads while they play. They used to pair them with these shaggy velour capes, but one caught on fire at a concert, so they switched to wearing spandex jumpsuits. I saw them here last year with Maya. They rock. It’s Cat and these two guys who used to go to our high school.”

  “Toby Marcus and Beau Bonner,” says Grant. “I knew ’em from football. Neither were very good, which is why they have a band.” He frowns. “Maybe I should have been worse at football.”

  * * *

  The field is different at night. It’s not only that it’s dark, with just the light of the stage and flashlights and the stars above to keep us all from bumping into each other. The energy is also different. Some people seem a little drunk, swaying to the music, and others, including a guy I see puking miserably into a trash bin, are definitely drunk. Doris and I keep glancing over at Grant to make sure he’s (1) OK and (2) not tempted.

  “Let’s stop here,” says Doris, when we’re close enough to see the band without binoculars but not so close we can’t hear each other talk. Grant spreads the blanket he’s been toting, and we all flop down on it, lying on our backs and looking up. You can see each star so clearly here, distinct pinpricks in a dark carpet of night. It reminds me of my bedroom, but a thousand times better. For one thing, it’s real.

  “It never looked like this in Illinois,” I say. They both look at me and grin.

  “Welcome to Alabama. Our night skies are unforgettable,” says Doris.

  “As for the other stuff, enjoy at your own risk,” jokes Grant. National Velour starts playing, a low hum that swells into a poppy, dance-y riff, and Doris gets up and starts spinning circles on her own.

  “I love this song; I can’t help it,” she says, and Grant and I lie back and watch her cycle through a range of standard dance moves until she starts to goof off and present every ridiculous motion she can think of, pretending to write a paper, mow a lawn, drink a milkshake, and make and deliver and eat a pizza. The song ends, and she flops back down on the blanket with us. “I’m exhausted,” she says. “They better play a slow one next.”

  She gets her wish: It’s a sweet ballad. We’re all nodding along, side by side on the blanket. “Into it?” Grant asks me.

  “Yeah. Though I still question their name,” I say.

  “In the history of music has there ever been a truly great band name?” asks Doris.

  “So many artists sound like they were named in some musty garage after a bong hit,” says Grant. “When whatever you’d come up with would be a fantastic, hilarious, brilliant idea. Think about it. Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. Imagine Dragons. Arctic Monkeys. Lady Gaga. Eminem. Greeeen (with four e’s, naturally). One Direction—that one kinda sounds like a halfway house, actually.”

  “The String Cheese Incident! Butthole Surfers! Vampire Weekend!” adds Doris. “By the way, Eminem is Eminem because it’s ‘M and M’—his real name is Marshall Mathers. Get it?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” says Grant.

  “I like The String Cheese Incident. Probably because it’s got cheese in it. What would your band name be, if you had one?” I ask.

  Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Necrotic Flesh!”

  “Ew,” we say.

  “Or … Dogs of Pyrex,” he amends. “That was a band name Brod and I came up with last summer. I was going to be the lead singer, but we never did anything other than talk about it. I don’t even think he plays an instrument. Neither do I, for that matter.”

  “I always wanted to have a band called Purple Violet Squish. I have a trombone in my closet.…” Doris trails off.

  “The Ramen Doodles,” I say.

  “What?” they ask.

  “That was the band I was in in kindergarten. It was a bunch
of the neighborhood kids. We did one—and only one—performance for our parents. I drummed on a pot and sang, and my friend Jackie had a keyboard she could play ‘Chopsticks’ on, and this kid, Ramesh, was like a saxophone prodigy. I think he got into Juilliard.”

  “Did I just feel a raindrop?” asks Grant.

  “Uh-oh!” says Doris. “Did we zip the tent?”

  We all jump up, because it’s not just rain—it’s a sudden, torrential downpour. Water is falling from the sky in sheets.

  “Run!” I shout, as droplets cascade down my face. I didn’t even hear thunder. Maybe the music covered it up.

  Doris is already on the move with our blanket under her arm. We trace our path through the field in half the time it took us to get there, passing crowds of people choosing their strategy: hunker down in place (I see some umbrellas being raised against the sky, and ponchos being ripped from bags and donned with haste), evacuate like you’re being chased by a demon (us), or dance and revel in the magical drops coming from the sky, a decision, I think, made based on how drunk (or otherwise influenced) each person happens to be. We weave through the people waiting it out, and I hear Cat say, “We’re going to take a break to see if this blows over. Stay dry, y’all!”

  “God, I love a summer storm,” says Doris when we get back to the clearing where our tent sits waiting for us. We breathe in the air, which smells fresh and damp and alive. The campfire is still glowing from some well-covered embers, and even though the rain is falling, our new Australian friends, Jamie and Beatrice, are cozied up next to each other on logs overlooking the fire pit, his arm around her shoulders. Grant unzips our tent and we pile inside, laughing and falling all over each other.

  “Here, use my towel,” says Doris. “Take your shoes off and wipe your feet if they’re wet!” Grant and I comply.

  There’s a little knock-knock at the tent, or a rustling of the flap, anyway, because you can’t really knock at the door of a tent. Doris reaches over and unzips it, and there’s Jack, his face peering in over the zipper.

  “Hi!” he says.

  Doris unzips the door, and my little brother piles in, his child-size sleeping bag under his arm and a giant waterproof poncho on top of that to keep him dry.