“And Eric gave me the antique lapel pin from Florida.” I think back to the handful of other guests and the gifts they gave me. “Who could this be from?”
“What is it?” she asks.
I describe the necklace. “It’s definitely intended as a gift. The note says happy birthday. But the box wasn’t wrapped, and there’s no name on it or anything.”
“And it was on your couch?”
“Not even on it. In it. Like stuffed down beside the cushion. We’ve been sitting here all night and didn’t notice it. I only found it because I went to lie down.”
“Well, it must be from someone who couldn’t make it but sent a gift with someone else. I’m sure they’ll mention it at work,” she offers.
“Alright. Let me know if you hear anything. Good night.”
She mumbles something, already partway back to sleep, and I set my phone back on the table. A few seconds later, it rings again. Assuming she suddenly remembered who left the gift, I answer it and hold it to my ear without looking at the screen.
“Who was it?” I ask.
But only silence comes through the phone. “Bellamy?” Still no response. “Did you roll over on your phone?”
A slight crackling noise precedes what sounds like a soft breath. It’s not the disturbing deep breathing everyone has seen in a thousand movies and thinks actually happens all the time. It’s light and almost trembling, like the person on the other end is trying to either pretend they aren’t there or are trying to work themselves up to saying something.
“Hello?” I say.
The line clicks. I look down at the screen in confusion. I don’t recognize the number, and there’s no name attached to it. I pull up the search engine and type in the number. The results make my hands feel cold, and my lungs constrict. It’s from Feathered Nest.
My fingers twitch, wanting to call the number back. I hesitate. The person on the other end of the line called but didn’t say anything. It’s possible it was a mistake. A strange and cruelly coincidental mistake, but a mistake that shouldn’t necessitate an awkward exchange with me calling back. But it could also be something more. Just because they didn’t say anything doesn’t mean there weren’t words there waiting to be said. It was just too difficult to get them out.
After barely ten seconds of internal debate, I give in to my curiosity and dial the number back. It rings several times before going to a generic voicemail inbox. I call again to the same effect. My third call goes directly to voicemail as if whoever it is has turned off their phone to avoid having to look at my number pursuing them. I leave a message and slip the phone back onto the table in front of me with a heavy sigh.
Pulling the blanket down off the back of the couch, I curl up beneath it and try to focus on the familiar old movie on the TV. I’ve seen this one so many times the lines go through my mind without me even having to try to remember. It’s comforting in its predictability and the way it floats past without my thoughts having to give any effort to keeping up.
But tonight I can’t let myself drift away in it. My mind keeps wandering back to the phone call. My eyes wander to the jewelry box on the table and the edge of the note sticking up out of it. I pick it up again and look at the words on it. Happy Birthday. That’s it. Nothing else. I let my gaze trace the curves of the letters and break them down into individual lines. I take in their slope and spacing, trying to identify them. They look almost familiar. I try to dig through my memories to come up with why I know them. It must be someone from the office who I’ve worked with enough to have read their notes, but not enough to instantly recognize their handwriting.
That doesn’t really narrow it down a ton.
When the end credits roll by with my eyes still open, I give up my attempt to go to sleep and head into my bedroom. I’m not leaving for another two days, but I yank out my suitcase anyway and start packing. It’s something to fill the time, and when sleep finally does catch up with me, I won’t have to worry about snatching an empty bag off the carousel after I climb off the plane.
Traveling is far from an unusual concept for me, which means I have a full stock of toiletries ready to toss into my carry-on. I add them in along with the change of clothes, pajamas, gum, and snacks that always populate my bag after an incident with lost luggage a few years ago. Opening the zipper on the inside of the bag, I tuck in a small bag and promptly close the pouch. With nothing else to do to prepare for the trip, I go back to the couch and finally fall asleep.
Chapter Five
I should have taken a shower before getting on the plane from Des Moines. Usually, that’s the last thing I do before checking out of a hotel and heading home. This time I decided to shave that out of my schedule in favor of hiding under the comforter and trying to maintain my grasp on sleep that, just as I predicted, finally caught up to me.
Staying asleep meant I didn’t have to think about the disappointing few days I spent in Iowa. But it also means I feel grimy, stuffed in the window seat of the economy airline gliding toward the ground. Planes already tend to leave me feeling a little germ-coated. It’s an inevitability when traveling in such a close space with a couple hundred other people.
Hours in a plane leave me feeling uncomfortable on a good day. Without a shower, I just feel sticky.
The bounce of the wheels on the tarmac is a relief, and I pry my hand away from the armrest. I’m not a fan of landings. The plane glides toward the gate, and I reach for my bag where I shoved it beneath the seat in front of me. As soon as the plane stops, the other passengers stream out of their seats and into the narrow aisle. There’s always something fascinating about watching people try to hurry out of a plane. It never works. No matter how forcefully they wedge themselves into the rush squeezing out of the single door, their feet will likely hit airport carpet at the exact same moment they would have if they had just waited for the chaos to end and walked out calmly.
And yet, I do it too.
Bumped back and forth by the people in front and behind me, I perform the plane shuffle out through the accordion tube and finally make it into the terminal. Now to get my suitcase and get home. I’m halfway down the steps when I notice my name scrawled on a white sign held up in front of a man’s face. It might have startled me if I didn’t know the rest of the body attached to that unseen face. It’s Eric. He’s my official ride to the airport whenever I travel, and if he has the chance when I get back, he picks me up.
This is at least the tenth time I’ve seen a variation of that sign. I’m sure people think there’s some sort of hilarious or touching story connected to why he always holds up my name when I deplane and come down the stairs toward him, but there’s not. He did it the first time he picked me up, and it just never changed.
I adore this man.
“That’s me,” I tell him like I always do.
He drops the sign and grins at me.
“Your suitcase is looking for you,” he says. “I’ll bring you to it.”
“Thanks. It is so impatient.”
He slings an arm around me as we start toward the baggage claim.
“So, that’s not the face of someone who made life-changing discoveries during her visit to Iowa,” he observes.
I let out a sigh and shake my head.
“No, it is not.”
“Need a drink?” he asks.
“I need my couch. But I won’t turn down the drink in conjunction with that.”
“Let’s go have a beautiful luggage reunion, and then we’ll see what we can do,” he says.