Double Trouble (18 page)

It also keeps getting more anxious. You can feel the tension in the air, the unspoken worry that the bags really aren’t here. Or that one particular bag—yours—is lost. Maybe gone to Shanghai instead.

So, I’m standing there, staring at the opening that the bags first appear from, thinking that it’s like a dark little mouth to who knows where. I always think that at the beginning of the dream and I always think what a weird thing it is for me to think. I too am skeptical and a little tense about the arrival of my luggage.

The conveyor starts and the crowd pushes forward, jostling for position. The bags start to appear and people snatch them off the belt, claiming them before they can disappear into the dark little mouth at the other end of the conveyor. Maybe they won’t come back. The anxiety changes flavor. Speed is key.

I see a familiar bag and shove through the crowd, claiming it victoriously. It is, oddly enough, the impossibly pink suitcase in which my sister kept her Barbies when we were kids. (I did not have Barbies.) My name is on the tag, though, and no one seems to think it strange that a grown woman has checked a bag emblazoned ‘Barbie’ complete with little cartoons on the side.

I carefully check the latch and am always struck by the oddity of this gesture. It’s a kid’s toy. The latch is a cheap flip latch that wouldn’t stop a goldfish but I’m always ridiculously relieved to find it still closed. It’s one of those round bags that would be a hatbox if there wasn’t a hinge on the lid and a loop handle at the opposite side.

And pink, as I’ve mentioned. Pink!

Meanwhile, people have been snagging bags and claiming carts and the area is beginning to bustle. I look up just in time to see my backpack from the Japanese adventure lolling on the conveyor. It’s black canvas and beaten up, wearing the mark of the miles it’s logged like a badge of honor.

It’s also just about round because there’s so much junk in it, as well as heavy. I drag it off the conveyor, checking that its Boston Bruins crest and rising sun flag are both intact. It has a dusty footprint on it, a man’s boot print, presumably from some guy on the ramp. I try to brush it off, with no luck.

Next is a big plastic tub with a snap lid—like an oversized Tupperware dish—that I got at Ikea and use to store files in my office. God only knows why it’s been checked onto a plane, but no one finds this remarkable either. It’s similarly full to bulging, but fortunately is equipped with wheels. I wrestle it off the conveyor myself, load the backpack on top of it and carry the Barbie case separately.

And here’s the weird part. I don’t know whether this is all my stuff. I can’t remember. I don’t have the ticket with the luggage claim tags stapled into it, so there’s no way to be sure. I stand there, stupidly uncertain, waiting until the conveyor brings no new bags forth from its shadowy maw.

This part of the dream worries me a great deal. I know that I toss and turn at this point. In fact, I often wake up even now, a conditioned response from Neil jabbing me in the ribs so many times when we shared a bed.

This time, I slept through it. That’s happened once or twice before, but knowing what will happen doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

I’m very anxious as I leave the luggage claim area, very anxious. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, worried that I’ve forgotten something. Classic travelers’ paranoia—where’s my ticket passport wallet key—but multiplied a hundred times. I even look back through the glass, from the corridor outside the secured area.

And that’s when I see it. It’s a Bonnie Cashin bag, the kind you wear under your coat like a secret pocket. It’s made of red leather and it’s mine, I know it’s mine, and there’s something making it bulge and it’s on the conveyor all by itself. A late arrival. It’s mine and I’m on the wrong side of the security barrier. The terminal is empty now. There’s no one else coming out of the claim area, no chance to sneak back in and get my bag.

I can’t claim it.

I press my face to the glass as it disappears into the other dark hole, filled with terror until it comes back around. I pound on the glass as it slides effortlessly past me, I shout and scream but there’s no one there to hear me. And the bag goes around and around, appearing and disappearing, a glorious prize out of my reach forever and beyond my control to retrieve.

And on that night, that’s when I looked up and saw the sign over the conveyor that I never noticed before:

Emotional Baggage Claim.

Please ensure that any luggage you claim is your own.

* * *

I woke abruptly, my heart pounding, my eyes bugging out of my head. It was eleven in the morning and my sheets were knotted around me, wet with sweat.

I fell back and closed my eyes, trying to stabilize my breathing even as I wondered what the hell it all meant.

Me? Emotional baggage? I think not.

Or at least I think it completely stowed under the seat in front of me. Surely I couldn’t be wrong.

----

Subject
: all show no go

Dear Aunt Mary -

All my boyfriend wanted was sex, sex and more sex! I used to say to him “Is there something wrong with wanting to talk?”

Yes, there is! Now I know. Suddenly, all he wants to do is talk. Yap yap yap and no action.

:-/

Do you think he’s getting the rest somewhere else?

Worried

----

Subject
: re: all show no go

What is it with you people? Sex, sex and more sex - it’s all you ask me about. Talk about a fixation.

As for you, there’s an old proverb, my dear - be careful what you ask for, as you might get it. You’ve just proven it right.

Maybe he’s mucking around. Maybe your relationship has gone to a new level. Maybe you ought to be glad you got what you wanted.

Aunt Mary

***

Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

----

O
h, yes, I didn’t miss the irony in that particular little post turning up at this particular moment.

Thing was, it was quiet, vewy quiet, in my life and had been since I lost it in James’ kitchen three weeks before. Three weeks. That’s a long time. He’d mailed me the new contract—nice personal touch there—without so much as a scribble from his own pen. It was a thing of beauty—of a particularly nasty, legalistic kind beauty, but one designed to protect me. That was a nice thing.

It might not have been all bad to have a pet shark.

I spun slowly in my orthopedically-correct chair and launched paper airplanes around the loft. Spring has sprung, the grass has riz, I wonder where the Coxwell’s is.

You see, I’m not really used to people getting on without me. I had pretty much expected James to call again, begging me to reconsider. Not immediately, but in a couple of days.

He hadn’t. By now, I’d figured out that he wasn’t going to.

I am not used to men who can actually resolve anything by themselves. Not just my dad, either. There was what’s his name, Neil, the original cowboy and perennial six-year-old, the all time master of offloading responsibility. He wasn’t the first and he wasn’t the last, but he gave me a major lesson in fixing it myself. Anything and everything, that is.

But enough about that.

I had spent my entire life trying to defend my privacy and my independence, and done so without a whole lot of success. Now that I had utter solitude, I didn’t much care for the view.

And yes, I wanted to
know
. Bring on the details and the gossip. Had Beverly gone to AA? Had James gone with her? I could easily imagine him virtually dragging her there—surprise sentimentality aside, he struck me as the kind of guy who would make you eat your broccoli because it was good for you. Had they moved? I found it daunting that I might not even know where the heck they lived.

And not just because my sister might suddenly turn up and need redirection. It was starting to look unlikely that she was going to do that.

In fact, I was a bit worried about her, too. She wasn’t exactly the queen of keeping in touch and we weren’t close, but three weeks is a long time. I have a very good imagination and, in the middle of the night, I came up with all kinds of dire fates for her. No one seemed to be sounding an alarm though, so maybe she had called in.

I spun and chucked another airplane, trying desperately not to feel as if I’d been left out of the loop.

What’s that? I’d asked for it, hadn’t I? Thanks for the reminder.

Had James really taken Marcia’s shopping spree back? I would have given a buck to see him in action, that’s for sure. I would have bet that he did do it—he seemed pretty motivated to get stuff done. Yeah, he’d had that gleam in his eye when I showed the price tag of those shoes. Marcia had succeeded in pissing him off, though a bit later than she’d hoped to do so.

Which made me think of another gleam that had been in his eye, and that on more than one occasion. Ah yes, the one that made Captain V seem a pale shadow of his former studly glory. I knew I shouldn’t want any part of that.

But then. But then... I felt as Eve might have felt if she’d taken a pass on the apple. Probably not a good idea, probably better to have walked away, but jeez, what would that sucker have tasted like? She’d never know.

And who could stop after one bite? Wouldn’t she have wanted another?

It bugged me.

This did not mean, however, that I was going to call anyone up and confess as much. No way, cowboy. My sister and I have one thing in common—we believe that when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.

Besides, there was a celebration coming up, and I needed something wow for Amnesty Day. I knew just where to get it too—my pal Meg runs the best vintage and used clothing store in Boston—which is saying something, and not just that I have a biased opinion. Not only would I find something unique and possibly outrageous, but it would be a bargoon-eroo. I might not find it on the first try, though, and should give Meg some warning as to what I was after.

The prospect of social contact cheered me enormously, but then I’d been working too hard lately. Time for a break. I’d been good, I’d worked hard and I deserved a lunch out, at least.

A latte that I hadn’t made myself.

It was raining cats and dogs, but I skipped through the puddles, in a huge hurry to get to Meg’s.

What? You’re suggesting that I might be
lonely
?

Bite your tongue. I think NOT. Dillydallying only means that the good stuff might be gone.

But true confessions time—I actually spoke to someone on the T and that without provocation. Something banal about the weather. A perfect stranger. And I initiated the conversation.

Maybe I really was losing it.

I scored an extra large fancy java, reassured myself with a sip, and bopped on. Meg’s shop was small, on a knotted little street in the North End, nestled between a bakery and place that offered almost-ready-to-eat Italian food. If nothing else, her shop always smelled great.

I stopped cold outside Meg’s crowded display window, my double mocchiato steaming. It wasn’t the dress that stopped me—it was the man’s suit beside it. It looked vewy familiar.

Could it be?

Had to be. I was sure it was a dead ringer for the suit James had been wearing the day I stopped at his office. My heart did that stupid skip dee diddle thing, but that was ridiculous. How much do I know about men’s suits?

I knew enough about men to heartily doubt that James had even heard my suggestion, let alone followed it. Give up the toys and trophies? Not a chance. Let the brats starve first.

My heart was still beating too fast when I marched into the shop. To say that Meg looked giddy would have been an understatement. She was glowing and when she saw me, she hooted for joy, then gave me a hug so tight that I nearly spilled the divine nectar.

“Hey! This is the good stuff!”

“Sorry sorry sorry.” I should warn you that Meg talks without taking a breath. It’s dizzying at first, but you get used to it. “It’s just so exciting so perfect and I can’t believe it’s true you won’t believe what happened a week ago Monday...”

“What?”

“I was worried about my rent because it’s been slow you know too slow really too
too
slow and I was wondering whether I should move to Cambridge but then I wouldn’t have the money to move as they’d want first and last and I don’t even have any to cover my rent here so I was feeling really glum...”

“And?”

“And this guy this
guy
this hunk of guy who is just a bit taller than the norm very good looking by the way brought in a ton of stuff just tons of stuff
designer
stuff in perfect condition and he brought it here
here
! and it’s perfect just perfect all of it perfect. Look!”

She dove into a rack of men’s wear and started touching the sleeves of an array of excellent men’s suits. She stroked them as though they were pets, her fingers straying over the fabric, tweaking labels, then occasionally rising to her lips in awe.

“This one’s Gucci and this one’s Ermenegildo Zegna and this one’s a Boss and this one oh
another
Zegna just too wonderful -feel this!—silk and wool blends and pure wool and European craftsmanship and exquisite condition all dry cleaned and oh!”

She caught her own flushed face in her hands and sat down hard on a stool. She actually took a deep breath. “I was so sure he was in the wrong place I had to tell him that he’d probably get a better price from Keezer’s but he was insistent oh yes very insistent and I put such prices on it oh how could I not because it’s in such good shape and he was so nice that I couldn’t get him less than he should get from the consignment and oh Maralys I’ve sold more than half of it!”

Tears glittered in her eyes and she clutched my hands. “It was so lucky so perfect that I knew I just knew that someone was looking out for me so I went and had my cards read and guess what guess
what
?”

Meg bounced a bit, as she always did after a good tarot card reading. I smiled and sipped. “What?”