Baggage Check

by M. J. Pullen

  Rebecca had just signed up for Instagram a few weeks earlier, and already she was coming to the conclusion that it was just another way for the universe to remind her that life was passing her by. Just like Facebook, the feed was full of babies, kids, and wedding photos. Artisan cupcakes for a two-year-old’s birthday party. Pregnancy photos. Happy glowing girls, mostly sorority sisters from her class and younger, turned sideways with a hand draped across each of their bellies (a variation on this included the hands of an equally ecstatic partner). Some grinned at the camera, others contemplated the miracle of life in subdued, artsy black-and-white. All positively swelled with happiness and potential.

  These torture sessions were something of a necessary evil. Because of her travel schedule, she sometimes needed social media to keep up with even her closer friends—like the girls going to the beach this weekend. Beth was a Facebook junkie—posting everything from her deepest religious beliefs to what she ate for breakfast. Beth and Rebecca had never been particularly close—they had only hung out regularly during their senior year of high school—but since the advent of Facebook, Rebecca knew more about her than ever. Marci posted on both platforms: frequent pictures of Bonnie, shots from nice dinners out with Jake (delightful), and a blog about her happy life. It was called “The Care and Feeding of a Suburban Husband,” and was so popular Marci had been offered a book deal based on it.

  Suzanne was less active on Facebook these days. She favored the simplicity of Instagram, and having a superfamous fiancé like Dylan Burke meant taking more care with her privacy (and his). But she had not given up her own personal spotlight yet, and she was constantly being tagged in photos from charity events she planned or attended, especially those related to her foundation for the children of slain law-enforcement officers.

  Rebecca was also Facebook friends with Dylan’s little sister, Kate, who seemed almost as shy in the virtual world as she was in the real world. Her older sisters were pseudo-Kardashians, and their ridiculous behavior had earned them not only constant coverage in the tabloids, but the dubious honor that they would soon be filming their own reality show. Soft-spoken little Kate seemed to be doing her best to keep herself and her baby boy as far from that limelight as possible.

  Tonight, Rebecca scrolled through the streams of pictures quickly, too tired to take a strong interest in anything. Baby, kid, baby, cat, kid, anniversary, shoe ad, political rant, sonogram, and finally, a picture of someone’s steak dinner and glass of wine. Really? she thought. Can we do nothing alone?

  In a heartbeat, a quiet voice answered her own question. You should know. You do almost everything alone. She turned on the small lamp over Valerie’s bed and the light in the bathroom, and then put on her satin eyeshade and earplugs.

  Her head had scarcely hit the pillow when the alarm went off at three thirty and it was time for her to go. Valerie’s snores were still loud and regular as she let herself into the hallway, pulling her reliable wheeled case.

  * * *

  BY MARCI THOMPSON STILLWELL

  * * *

  BLOG: THE CARE AND FEEDING OF A SUBURBAN HUSBAND

  { Entry #174: Dirty Diapers and Fairy-Tale Endings }

  Thursday, June 16, 2016

  Morning, everyone! Just a reminder that the blog will be on hiatus for a few days while I’m on vacation with my girlfriends. I am adding several other great blogs to the list at the left to keep you occupied while I’m gone. Just promise you’ll come back, okay?

  So. Last time we got a little history lesson about how my sweet Suburban Husband (or SubHub, as longtime readers know him) and I met, became friends, and ended up together … eventually. (You can read the whole story here.) Like the stories of Brothers Grimm, our fairy tale was not always smooth sailing. There were problems and dark forests and even a couple of characters who wanted our story to end differently.

  SubHub was certainly my knight in shining armor, but there was a dark knight on the scene, too. And another princess, who obviously was not SubHub’s true love, but wanted to be rescued from her own tower all the same. After many battles, things worked out, in the end, and we got our happily ever after. Was that because SubHub rescued me? Not exactly. I think what he did was give me a chance to rescue myself.

  No one ever explains that part when you’re a little girl watching princess movies or listening to fairy tales. We hear about the damsel in distress and the handsome prince. So we spend our lives assuming we’re her, and looking for him. But what no one says is that your knight in shining armor might look a lot like an old friend who forgets to take the trash out.

  They don’t mention, either, that before your knight can rescue you, you must first be able to rescue yourself. And that the process doesn’t end at the happy ending, or even “I do.” It’s an ongoing thing: you will both be in distress sometimes, sometimes at the same time, and you must find a way to rescue one another. Every day. Once you have kids, if you have kids, the definition of “happy ending” becomes far more loose. Sometimes it’s just being the one to get up in the middle of the night to change a dirty diaper. Or, for true gallantry, to clean a sudden projectile poop out of the crib (and off the walls and rug, too). Sometimes it’s coming home from work early so your princess can take a shower, or not rolling your eyes when the prince wants a Saturday for golf.

  I will admit I’m still working on that last one. But SubHub and I have managed, so far.

  I do wonder, sometimes, how the other characters in the fairy tale are doing. In the storybooks, they never talk about what happens to the trolls, the wolves, or the wicked kings after they are “never seen again.” But in real life, the villains don’t fall off the face of the earth, and it’s not always so clear who the wicked ones really are.

  The other princess, for example, is a friend of mine, and I have to admit that even though I was angry when she tried to lure my Prince Charming to her side, I’d still like to see her with her own happily ever after. And what about the dark knight? Did he learn anything from our little adventure? I may never know.

  So for us, the happy ending means Cheerios, projectile poop, and compromising on personal hygiene. Each day feels like we are trying to save one another again. For others, the end of one story is just the beginning of their own adventure. So maybe the term “happy ending” is the problem. Because there are no endings. Just moments. And you have to savor every one.

  * * *

  3

  The things most people hated about being a flight attendant were all the things Rebecca loved most. The crisp, standardized uniforms were feminine and professional—and though she had originally turned up her nose at the polyester blend, she had come to appreciate its versatility. The personal body weight requirements (framed as suggestions but expected by the airlines nonetheless) gave her a sense of self-discipline and control each time she stepped on the scale, as did pulling her hair back into a tight, neat bun each morning.

  Airplane galleys were a Mecca of orderliness—there was a place for everything and absolutely no room for clutter. Most people would never appreciate how every inch of space was utilized to the fullest, and the airplane always left the runway with everything necessary for a comfortable flight and not a single thing more. And while the pay was low and the schedule was what most people would consider incomprehensible, Rebecca found that rising at 3 A.M. and returning home days later made her tiny apartment feel less lonely somehow. It gave an explanation for her solitude.

  As she boarded the DC-9-50 from Atlanta to Charleston, however, she felt a little less in control than usual. It had been a fairly smooth day: no major delays or angry passengers, and only three short flights before this one. A bit of turbulence on the last leg, but nothing that would provoke her anxiety these days. She did a mental inventory, and everything seemed right: bag, schedule, outfit. All that was left was to finish the last flight and enjoy her time at the beach. She twisted the ring on her right hand, three times clockwise, three times counterclockwise.

  Suzanne, Mar
ci, Beth, and Kate would all be at Kiawah Island already—drinking, probably. They would select whoever was willing to be the designated driver to pick her up at the airport. Probably Beth or Kate, she guessed.

  She helped shove carry-on bags into bins, fetched a couple of blankets, and went through the flight checks automatically. It was Thursday evening, and the flight seemed split between business travelers returning bleary-eyed from Atlanta and vacationers heading to the coast for a long weekend. Everyone seemed calm and reasonably content, which made Rebecca’s job easier and the already short flight go by faster. Takeoff, pause, cruising, beverages, questions, blankets, more ice, questions, seat belts on for the descent. The captain predicted a warm, clear weekend for those staying in the Charleston, South Carolina area—perfect for catching up with old friends.

  * * *

  It turned out to be Marci waiting in her behemoth SUV when Rebecca had finished all her duties and wheeled her suitcase out into the humid air of the South Carolina coast. Rebecca’s heart sank a little at this. She and Marci had been part of the same circle of friends for more than fifteen years, ever since Rebecca had escaped to Georgia her senior year in high school, but they could never seem to get comfortable being alone together. Rebecca supposed the fact that she was in love with Marci’s husband didn’t help.

  “Hi!” Rebecca called too loudly, too cheerily.

  “Hey,” said Marci, as Rebecca put her suitcase on the floorboard in the back. She tried to ignore the distinct crunch of Cheerios or Goldfish or some other kids’ snack as she rolled it in. It will wipe clean. She slid into the passenger’s seat, pushing away the visions of crumbs wedged into the black fabric of her bag.

  “So you drew the short straw, eh?” Rebecca said.

  “Of course not,” Marci said, sounding tired. “I was happy to come pick you up.”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I’m just sorry you weren’t able to drive out with us. We missed you,” Marci lied.

  “Oh, I wish I could have, too,” Rebecca returned. Also a lie. A five-hour drive trapped in this car with everyone? No, thank you. “I just couldn’t get the extra time off.”

  “Oh, no, of course. We all understood. Suzanne understands.”

  “How is she doing? Getting excited?”

  Now Marci smiled for real. “You know Suzanne, she hates weddings. It’s been kind of funny watching her try to weasel out of her own.”

  “She’s still fighting it?”

  “Yes. Dylan says the best way to get rid of the tabloids and the press is just to face them head-on. He says if you just give them what they want on your own terms, they’ll go away. But she’s, well … obviously she doesn’t have the best relationship with the press.”

  They both smiled. Last year, Suzanne had been plastered all over several major national publications, nearly naked in front of the High Museum and jeopardizing her career and reputation. It hadn’t been her fault, exactly, but the papers had been far less interested in printing the explanation afterward than in the explosive pictures. Now that Suzanne was marrying the man who was arguably the most famous person in country music, the press had become even more of a challenge.

  The car got quiet; the darkness outside made it hard to focus on anything but the awkward silence. “So how far is it to the house?” Rebecca asked. She’d never been to Kiawah Island.

  “About forty minutes, I guess,” Marci said. They both sighed.

  “How’s Bonnie?”

  “Great, she’s really great. Getting so big—she’s almost nine months old now.”

  “Wow,” Rebecca said, realizing she had no idea what questions to ask. Nine months was too early to walk and talk, right? “So she’s … crawling?”

  “Uh, yeah, she’s been crawling for a few months now,” Marci said.

  Rebecca tried to ignore the “any idiot would know that” tone in Marci’s voice. “It must be hard keeping up with her then.”

  “Yes,” Marci said. “She’s everywhere. Jake and I are constantly chasing her around the house.”

  Rebecca nodded. She knew there was something appropriate to say in response but had not the faintest idea what it was.

  “Jake is really great with her, of course,” Marci said. She was looking intently at the road in front of them. “He’s a wonderful daddy.”

  “I’m sure,” Rebecca said, proud that the crack in her throat did not make it to her voice. Outside, the city lights of Charleston receded and the mercury-yellow pattern of streetlights blurred along beside the car.

  It was nearly eleven by the time they made it to the luxurious rental house on exclusive Kiawah Island. This weekend was technically supposed to be a bachelorette party for Suzanne, but Rebecca was happy to see that the four-bedroom house was not bedecked in pink streamers and plastic penises. The only sign of the party atmosphere was a blender half-full of margaritas on the kitchen counter and a single discarded pink feather boa draped across the back of a chair. Otherwise, the house was tastefully appointed with soft-green walls and sedate rattan furniture, and a few subtle pieces of decor on the built-in bookshelves. Only a tiny driftwood sculpture showed any sign of being from the sea: no whimsical beach signs or framed starfish. Only Suzanne could find a beach house that didn’t look beachy, Rebecca thought.

  They found Suzanne, Beth, and Kate on the back porch, talking by the light of a few citronella candles and a waning moon over the Atlantic. Rebecca inhaled deeply of the thick sea air as she exited the screen door, hearing the ocean’s soft roar in the background, and feeling instantly calmer than she had in weeks. She made her way to an empty chair and sank into it, returning the smiles and blown kisses from the other girls, who all seemed a few margaritas in the bag.

  “I don’t understand, Suze. I just don’t,” Beth was saying, waving a plastic cup emphatically in the air. “I’m sorry but it makes no sense.”

  “What about it doesn’t make sense?” Suzanne’s Southern drawl countered a little slurrily. “It’s simple, really. I just don’t want a big wedding.”

  “But you’re an event planner,” Beth said.

  “Who hates planning weddings!” Suzanne said. “Present company excluded, of course, girls,” she added and raised her cup in the direction of first Kate and then Marci. “Your weddings were a delight to coordinate, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Marci and Kate answered simultaneously, giving one another a little grin as Marci pulled up a chair. The two of them seemed to have become fast friends since Suzanne had introduced them. They both had babies the same age, which Rebecca supposed brought them together.

  “Anyway,” Suzanne went on, “I hate planning weddings for other people, and I sure as hell never wanted to plan my own, especially not under these circumstances.”

  “I have an idea,” Marci said, leaning forward with mock inspiration. “Why don’t you let your amazingly rich, famous, and adoring husband-to-be get a wedding planner for you, as he has offered to do about ten thousand times in the last two months?”

  “Because no one else would do it right,” Suzanne said bitterly. Even though it was too dark to be sure, Rebecca thought there was a collective eye roll around the table.

  “Look,” Suzanne said, standing and wobbling just slightly as she swept her cup around the table before finishing it. “It’s not just the planning. I mean, yes, it’s a pain in the ass and all the extra security and stuff makes it even harder. But the main thing is, I just hate that it all feels like a show for someone else. For the world. Every decision I make, from my dress to the flowers, I have to think about how it’s going to hold up under scrutiny on E! News or Giuliana Rancic, or whether there’s a Kardashian getting married this year. Other brides just have to worry about what they want, and maybe their parents. I have to think about the whole damn world.”

  Beth sniggered. “Poor little famous bride. I don’t know how you do it, waking up every day to the unlimited budget and superhot fiancé. Is there anything we can do for you?”


  Everyone laughed, even Rebecca. Lately, her relationship with Suzanne had been growing closer, and she’d been more inclined to take Suzanne’s side on this issue. But hearing it now, she supposed Suzanne’s problems did sound a little absurd.

  “I get it,” Kate said softly. Dylan’s younger sister had spent her life under the glaring spotlight of her family’s exploits and her brother’s rise to fame. “They follow you everywhere. A nurse or someone managed to get a picture of my face with her phone while I was giving birth to Adrian and sold it to the tabloids. They don’t care that it’s like the most private moment possible or that I was in horrible pain. They printed it anyway.”

  “See? Fucking vultures,” Suzanne said loudly, heading for the kitchen to refill her cup. “Kate gets it. That’s why I love you, Kate.”

  This would have been a graceful enough exit for the tall, lithe, platinum-blond Suzanne, except that in her inebriated state, she fumbled quite a bit with the screen door, nearly pulling it off the track in frustration. Rebecca stood to help her while the other three giggled.

  “May I present your future sister-in-law,” Marci said to Kate when Suzanne had finally cleared the door. “I’m sure she’ll do you proud.”

  Kate laughed. “She can’t be any more embarrassing than my real sisters.” The table was silent as the other women tried to think of some polite but truthful way to counter this, but there was no way. With the exception of Kate, whose worst offense was being three months pregnant with her baby son when she’d married Dylan’s promotions manager last summer, Dylan’s sisters were a train wreck made for the tabloids.