Unclaimed Baggage

by Jen Doll

  “Then what was Mrs. Stokes talking about? What was it I should know about Stella that would prove she’s not as great as I think she is?”

  My mom sighs. “Priscilla. She should keep her mouth shut and her nose out of other people’s business,” she says. “That woman really is a hypocrite.” She pats the couch next to her, and I move closer.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “Priscilla’s right about one thing. Your father and I should have let Stella tell you a long time ago. It never should have been such a secret at all. When I think about how she had to go through all of that as a girl just a little bit older than you…”

  “Mom. Say it. You’re freaking me out.”

  She looks at me, her eyes teary. “Two years before that picture was taken—before you were born—Stella got pregnant. She had a baby of her own, a boy. Our parents persuaded her to give him up for adoption, and to never speak of him again. In the brief time she had with him, she called him Oliver.”

  53

  Nell

  It’s the last week in August, and Doris and I have a plan, but first, I need to make a trip. I take Jack to the big Target in the next town over and let him roam the aisles, pointing out every video game he really, really needs. (I’ll buy him one, I really will, after I find what I’ve come for.)

  There it is in the cups and plates section: a mason jar, the kind Stella used to drink out of, the kind that Doris drew in her illustration of her aunt. I grab two, one for me, and one for my friend. Then I add a third to my basket. Afterward I let Jack pick two games, and we pay and head home so I can put our plan into action.

  Next I pack a bag for the water park. I put in the mason jars and three cans of actual Diet Coke (not RC!), Stella’s drink of choice. You’re not really supposed to bring glass, or beverages of your own, into the water park, but I cover everything with towels and figure what security doesn’t know won’t hurt them. This is a special occasion. I add the book of Mary Oliver poetry that Doris let me borrow, a special page dog-eared. I put on my swimsuit, and then I pick up my phone.

  Ready? I text.

  I’m leaving now, writes Doris. C u in 15 at the front?

  Yep! I say, and add a smiley face emoji.

  * * *

  She’s standing there waiting for me when I arrive, and this time she slips the paper wristband on my arm. “My treat,” she tells me. “For helping me with all this. And—for being you.”

  I smile. “What do you want to do first?” I ask her. “Wave pool or waterslide?”

  “Let’s hit the waves first,” she suggests. We head over to the pool where, just a few months ago, she met Jack for the first time; soon after that she found him. It’s an overcast, cooler-than-usual Monday at the end of the summer—Red has given us the day off—and we’re the only people in the pool. We bob up and down along with the waves as she updates me about everything she’s found out, everything that was too much to text about, that she needed to tell me in person.

  “So, here’s the deep, dark Dailey family secret,” she begins, her dark hair clinging to her shoulders in the blue water. “You know Aunt Stella lifeguarded here the summers she was in high school. The summer after her junior year, she met this boy—man, really. He was in town for the summer, running space camp at the Space and Rocket Center. They fell in love. She got pregnant.”

  “Ohhhhhhh,” I say, paddling water. “WOW.”

  “My ultra-conservative grandparents swiftly packed Stel off to this facility for ‘girls in a family way’ down in Mobile, and that’s where her baby was born. She gave him up and came back home and everyone pretended like nothing happened. My grandparents decided this was the least shameful option for everyone.”

  “I can’t believe she went along with it. That doesn’t sound like Stella.”

  “She was so young, just a year older than us,” says Doris. “They made her think she had no other choice. It’s kind of like Grant not talking about what really happened so he could still play football. She thought her life as she knew it would be over, so she went along with what the authority figures told her. But it totally changed her. After that is when she started getting into Buddhism and thinking organized religion wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and really speaking her mind. I remember her telling me how hard it is to be brave, but that it gets a little easier as you go. That makes so much sense now. So does my mom’s irrational fear that I’ll get knocked up.”

  “This is so sad,” I say. “Imagine having your baby taken away from you. Imagine not having a choice, and then not even being able to talk about it. How do you get over that?”

  “I think that’s why she traveled so much, lived in so many different places. She couldn’t just stay put here and pretend like everything was A-OK. She had to get out. And she liked helping people. That made her feel better.”

  “Poor Stella,” I say. “So what does your mom say about all this now?”

  “I actually think she regrets it. Maybe she’s got some Stella in her, too.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He’s not exactly Mr. Chatty about these things. But he took me aside to say that he always thought Aunt Stella got a raw deal. They’d agreed Stel would tell me the truth on my sixteenth birthday. I would be old enough to know then. But when she died, they thought it was too painful to bring up the subject. Why not just let me believe what I’d always believed?”

  “Because it wasn’t the truth? Hey, do you know who the father is?”

  Doris looks at me. “Well, this is where Mrs. Stokes comes in. This is the extra-dramatic part of the drama, as if it could get more dramatic.”

  “Stella slept with Mrs. Stokes’s boyfriend?”

  “No, but Mrs. Stokes was making a play for this guy and tried to seduce him that same summer, at the water park! Apparently he was a tremendous hottie.”

  “Ew, Stokes. Go, Stella!” I punch the air. “Where is he now?”

  “No one knows that, either. He could be anywhere. He never even knew Stel was pregnant.”

  “What about the baby?” I ask.

  “My mom tried to find Oliver after Stel died, but all she got were dead ends. It was a closed adoption. There’s no way to track him down.”

  “There’s always a way,” I say.

  She looks over at me and grins. “Well, I have been thinking about a few courses of action. And, you know, you’re pretty good with the internet.…”

  “My skills are there for you, whatever you need. As if you need help finding anyone. Hey, are you ready for the waterslide?”

  “I’ve never been more ready.”

  We get out of the wave pool, grabbing our towels at the edge and rubbing ourselves with them briskly. “It’s almost fall-ish today,” says Doris. “Pretty soon it’s going to be jeans and hoodies weather!”

  “Not that it wasn’t all summer, at least at Unclaimed. Does Red heat the place in the winter?”

  “Does that mean you’re going to keep working there once we’re back in school?” Doris asks, grinning.

  “How could I give it up?” We pass the ice cream stand. “Remember how you found Jack this summer?” I ask. “I’ll never forget walking up here and seeing you and Dad with him swinging between you.”

  “You know what I was remembering?” Doris says. “The Planned Parenthood balloon, and what Alanna said about having real conversations to help people who need it. Health class with Coach Deez-Nuts leaves a lot to be desired. And a lot of parents are probably like mine—they don’t even want to think their kids are having sex, or they’re afraid talking about it will promote it. But if you don’t talk about it, well, then it might be too late. What if I could help create something to give girls—and boys—the information they need to make the best possible choices for themselves?”

  “Hey, if you start something like that, you could name it after Stella,” I say. “Stella’s Room, maybe. Do you still have Alanna’s card?”

  “Yes! I know exactly where it is.”

&nb
sp; “Of course you do.”

  * * *

  We link arms and walk with our towels wrapped around us to the waterslide, and before we go down together, we pour a mason jar of Diet Coke for each of us. We toast and we read Stella’s favorite poem, “Wild Geese.” We leave Stella’s Diet Coke waiting next to the book of poetry on a picnic table right near where Mrs. Stokes chastised Doris so many years ago. (“It’s a small town. No one’s going to steal a book of poetry,” Doris says.) Then we go up to the top of the waterslide, and we get on a single mat together—maybe we look like we’re not to be trifled with, or they’ve just given up at the end of the season, because the lifeguard nods us on through—and we spiral down to the bottom, plunging into the water and shrieking with joy.

  “I miss you, Stella,” says Doris into the sky.

  “I wish I could have known you, Stella,” I say.

  Doris opens her arms and turns to me, and I wrap her in a hug. We’re crying and laughing at the same time, our tears mixing with the chlorine of the pool. I can’t help thinking about Grant, the missing part of this circle, but I know we’ll see him again. You’ve got to hang on to the people you love, in whatever way you can.

  54

  Grant

  I remember thinking once that Grant Collins—the me that appeared to the world—might look like a brand-new, expensive suitcase, but inside, I felt like a battered piece of luggage about to explode on the conveyor belt, revealing all of my ragged boxer briefs to the world. Now, though, I feel like my insides are getting a lot closer to matching my outsides.

  Doris and Nell came to visit me last weekend. They brought me a present—the purple suitcase we all still call the Daphne, even though we’re pretty sure it was never owned by someone named Daphne at all. It holds a lot. Secrets, money, and more. The stuff that makes up a life.

  I put a bunch of folded-up shirts in the suitcase, and then add all the things people have given me while I’ve been here. Byron sent me his lucky elephant necklace with a note explaining that he used to drink too much, too, way back when, but he’s been off the stuff for years now, in part thanks to the necklace, which acted as a reminder to help him stay clean. “I hope it helps you like it helped me,” he wrote. Pam made me a cross-stitch that says HANG IN THERE, with a picture of a kitten dangling from a tree. There’s a rock from the garden outside that Eva gave me; she said she likes to hold a smooth, cold stone in the palm of her hand whenever she thinks about using. It makes her feel strong.

  Speaking of friends, there’s a collage of our favorite store Instagram pics, complete with hashtags only we would understand, from Nell, plus a letter from Doris I’ll never share the contents of—that goes in the suitcase’s secret compartment. There’s also a drawing she made me that arrived the other day. This one chronicles the things we’ve lost and the things we’ve found this summer. At the top there’s a picture of me running like I would with a football under my arm, except instead of the football I’m clutching the purple suitcase I’m now packing to go spend some time with my dad before I eventually make my way back home. I can’t stay away from the twins, or Mom and Brian, or, for that matter, school, for too long. And while Doris and I have promised to FaceTime daily until I’m back, there’s no substitute for in-person, which is something Nell knows all too well. (Her parents are letting her fly up to visit Ashton for a long weekend in the fall.)

  Will I ever play football again? I’m not worrying about that for now. I just want to make sure that what I’m doing is right for me, the Grant I want to be. That means regular calls with all the doctors in my life, and outpatient visits to a substance abuse counseling service that Dr. Laura has recommended. There’s no quick fix, I’ve been warned. Finding your truth takes time, but as long as you keep going, there’s a good chance you’ll get there.

  I stare at the drawing, running my fingers over it. My nails sport a new color of polish that Nell sent me: a dark, dark purple called True Grit that looks black in certain lights.

  Doris has outdone herself. There’s the water park, with a picture of the three of us hugging Jack. There’s Chassie and Mac Ebling standing nearby. Chassie’s got her arm in a sling, and I feel a pang about how her injury was my fault, but I do what we’ve been learning to do in therapy and accept that I’ve made mistakes but that I can change, that just because I did something bad doesn’t mean I’m worthless. At least I know now that I ran for help. I’m never going to be perfect, but the Grant who tries to do the right thing and admits when he’s wrong is the Grant I want to be.

  There’s a box of Krispy Kreme, with our three favorite doughnuts—classic, chocolate iced, and a lemon-filled for me. A scene from the balloon festival, with the Planned Parenthood balloon extricated from the tree and floating above, and the old Civil War balloonist on the ground pointing at it in bafflement. There’s Stella looking beatific and holding an infant, the baby she had to give up. There’s Mrs. Stokes alone in her white tent, praying while the rest of us dance in the field. There’s Deagan being cuffed by the cops, his bandana on the ground next to him. There’s a bag of gold coins and a crowd of people staring at it in wonder. There’s Ashton, standing next to his Cubs suitcase, waiting for Nell to jump into his arms. There’s an airport, where things come in and things go out and sometimes things go missing and stay too long. And, of course, there’s Unclaimed Baggage, where three friends found what they needed the most—each other.

  DORIS’S PLAYLIST

  UNPACKING 3.0

  1 hr., 9 mins.

  Mary J. Blige—“Suitcase”

  The White Stripes—“I’m Bound to Pack It Up”

  John Denver—“Leaving on a Jet Plane”

  Alicia Keys—“Samsonite Man”

  EELS—“Packing Blankets”

  Aretha Franklin—“Packing Up, Getting Ready to Go”

  David Gray—“Sail Away”

  Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins—“Handle with Care”

  The Beatles—“Across the Universe”

  Bright Eyes—“Another Travelin’ Song”

  Pixies—“Where Is My Mind?”

  Iggy Pop—“The Passenger”

  Erykah Badu—“Bag Lady”

  Miranda Lambert—“Baggage Claim”

  Simon & Garfunkel—“Homeward Bound”

  Harry Styles—“Two Ghosts”

  Crosby, Stills & Nash—“Just a Song Before I Go”

  Leonard Cohen—“Going Home”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While this book isn’t based on a true story, I had the experience of moving from Downers Grove, Illinois, to Decatur, Alabama, midway through fifth grade. I spent my first few years in the South feeling like a total weirdo, struggling to understand traditions and behaviors that felt utterly strange to my Yankee-transplant self. Why are adult women called “Miss” and their first name? Why did my teacher call it “The War of Northern Aggression”? Who were you supposed to root for, Auburn or Alabama? Why did I say “roof” wrong?

  These questions seemed both hugely important and also somehow impossible to navigate.

  By seventh grade, though, I’d met someone who would become my best friend. And by ninth grade, I was really starting to find my place, or at least to adapt to it. Those of us who’ve moved frequently become very good at camouflage, and I’d made eight different moves by the time I was eight, on account of my dad’s job. My family left the South after I graduated from high school, which meant more changes, and even more adaptation. You might say I’m a writer because of it.

  Now, I’ve lived in New York City for almost twenty years, and I’m keenly aware that my time in Alabama has shaped me in ways I’m still learning about. I’m the Southerner without an accent, the Northerner with roots extending far below the Mason–Dixon Line. A part of my heart lives in Decatur, and it always will.

  Each place I lived taught me a little more about myself, and eventually, I got better at moving. That doesn’t eradicate the pain of losing and having to start over—having to find peopl
e to love again. It’s always hard, but it’s harder when you’re a teenager. Still, I think it makes you strong. I don’t have just one hometown; I have several. And while I’m a little bit like Nell, I’m also like Doris, and Grant, too.

  Decatur is not the town in Unclaimed Baggage—it’s a whole lot bigger, for one, and far more diverse—nor are any of the characters in the book modeled after people I knew when I was there. There are some similarities, however. Decatur does have a pretty awesome water park with a wave pool they claim is America’s first, as well as an annual balloon festival. (It takes place Memorial Day weekend, and it’s worth a visit if you’re ever in the area! I don’t know that a Planned Parenthood balloon ever existed, either at the Decatur festival or any festival, though I like the idea.) There was an outpost of the real Unclaimed Baggage store near the dollar movie theater and the Little Caesars Pizza. The city still has really great barbecue, especially Big Bob Gibson’s. (Some people really like Whitt’s, too.) The nearest Krispy Kreme back then was in Huntsville, Alabama—home of the U.S. Space & Rocket Center and the Marshall Space Flight Center. We’d drive there every once in a while to pick up fresh doughnuts to sell for charity. Usually I’d end up keeping at least a box for myself. They really do melt in your mouth.

  Doyle Owens’s story is real. But I have taken liberties with just about everything else with regard to his great invention. The Decatur Unclaimed has since closed, although the one in Scottsboro continues to do brisk business. (They have a fantastic Instagram account.) I’m certain the way the business functions in my mind is different from its workings in real life; the tales of found luggage in these pages come strictly from my imagination. But I have all the respect in the world (and a little bit of envy) for the people who work at the in-real-life store. They have the incredible experience of discovering lost things regularly.