Baggage Check (5 page)

They left the tiny grocery half an hour later with the frenzied owner helping them out to their car. They loaded up four dusty boxes of mason jars in various sizes, some leftover holiday votive candles that smelled like cinnamon, the two least expensive fishing poles they could find, a couple of wind socks with fluttery ends, underwater disposable cameras, and a large pack of industrial-strength toilet paper. Rebecca also held a grocery bag with some snacks and skim milk, so they would have something to walk in with upon returning to the beach house.

Beth whistled happily on the drive home, and Rebecca marveled at her confidence. As soon as Rebecca had proposed this plan the evening before, Beth had embraced it with certainty and excitement. It was as though they were planning a Cub Scout meeting and Beth had perfected the recipe for gummy-worm cupcakes. Rebecca, on the other hand, checked her phone every six minutes, chewed her nails, and had to resist the urge to steal Marci's SUV to drive all the way to Charleston. Maybe for better supplies. Maybe to catch a plane and be gone. What if Suzanne didn't like this? What if she was offended? Suzanne was the most sophisticated event planner, most stylish person, Rebecca had ever known. Was toilet paper strung between fishing poles really going to cut it?

 

5

By Friday afternoon, Rebecca and Marci had reached a sort of silent truce. Rebecca regretted her snide comments from that morning, but Marci no longer looked venomously angry. In fact, she didn't seem to be registering much emotion at all. Tiredness had overcome her features and beaten down everything else. Rebecca wondered how the human race continued at all, given the sheer awfulness of pregnancy and childbirth. She had never particularly wanted children; not that she had to give it much thought since she had never been in a serious relationship. But even if she had, Marci's whitewashed face and ill temper made her second-guess the whole enterprise.

Eventually, Marci retired to the big master bedroom she'd been sharing with Suzanne to nap. Kate sat outside on the porch, reading. She'd left the door open so the other three could hear the sound of the waves and gulls as they played cards at the kitchen table. It was idyllic. Rebecca tried not to appear too nervous about the plans for the next day.

The general idea was that sometime Saturday evening, Marci was going to drag Suzanne out to satisfy a pregnancy craving for something that, of course, would be impossible to obtain easily on the island. That would keep Suze busy for a couple of hours while the rest of them set everything up and hopefully, Dylan would appear with Jake and Kate's husband, Jeff. Rebecca had offered to call in favors at the airline to get them last-minute tickets, but she sort of hoped they wouldn't take her up on this. She wasn't entirely sure how much clout her three years of service had earned her in this regard.

She, Beth, and Suzanne were on their third game of rummy when her phone vibrated in her pocket. Rebecca jumped, startled, and Suzanne looked puzzled. She pulled the phone from her pocket and checked the number. Her heart skipped a beat. Jake.

“Hey,” she said, getting up from the table and mouthing “work” to Suzanne and Beth.

Then she realized she probably wouldn't answer a work call with “hey,” so she added, “Hello, Mr. Roberson,” in a fumbling voice. Judging by Suzanne's confused expression, this was even worse. In her panic, Rebecca bumped into a table, cursing loudly, as she headed out the front door and closed it behind her so they could speak freely.

“Hey, slick,” Jake said. “Remind me not to hire you as a spy or anything.”

“Yes,” Rebecca said. Her knee throbbed from the collision with the table, and her heart pounded with the same intensity.

“I called you since my darling wife is probably napping,” he said.

“Yes,” she repeated, stupidly. “She is.” Was Rebecca imagining things, or was there a hint of sarcasm on
my darling wife
?

“I guess she told you girls, then, about the baby?” His tone was unreadable, awkward.

“Um, yes. Congratulations, Jake, of course.”

“Not Jacob, huh?”

“What?”

“You never call me Jacob anymore. I always thought it was kind of endearing, how only you did that. Well, you and my grandmother.”

It was as though Rebecca had hit her head instead of her knee. Everything was spinning in the glaring sunlight, so she shaded her eyes, wishing she had thought to grab her sunglasses on the way out the door.

“Well, it's been—different,” she managed.
You know, I haven't felt as affectionate and playful since you broke my heart and married the other girl.
Where was he going with this?

And then, it was as though he had never said any of it. “Okay, so anyway, Dylan's got a charter booked for tomorrow afternoon and we should be there by five. We're bringing a bunch of fishing stuff in case the paparazzi are lurking around. Do me a favor and text me when Suze and Marci leave, so we don't cross paths with them on our way to the beach house.”

“Sure,” Rebecca said. “Will do.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You're wonderful as always, Bec.” The phone had disconnected before she could think what to say next.

*   *   *

Saturday morning was leisurely at the beach house, and Rebecca had finally managed to quell some of her nervous excitement. It was overcast until almost noon, and the girls sat in their pajamas drinking coffee and scarfing down pastries Marci had obtained from a bakery in Charleston while the rest of them slept in. They got sub sandwiches for lunch, and spent a couple of hours on the beach before Marci retired for her daily nap at three, with strict instructions for them to wake her by four thirty.

Rebecca had stepped out the front door to take a walk when her phone rang. Hoping for Jake, she made out her mother's number through the glare and her stomach sank. She twisted the ring on her right hand, breathing deeply, and answered.

“Becky! You have to come home!” Her mother's voice, high and strained. “Come tell them I'm not leaving!”

“Mama, what is it?”

“They're saying I have to leave.”

“Who is?”

“I don't know. There's a note on the door. On my door! They had to walk on my private property to put the note here. It's an outrage. I pay my taxes!”

Rebecca inhaled deeply, twisting her ring again. “I know you do, Mama,” she said, using the calm voice she normally reserved for white-knuckle passengers during turbulence. “I'm sure there is some kind of mistake. Did you call Daddy? Did you remember to pay the bills?”

“Your
father
”—Lorena Williamson spit out the word—“hasn't returned my call. He's probably with that whore!”

“Okay, calm down. I'll call Daddy, okay? Just try not to panic. We'll get it straightened out.” She said this, as she always did, with far more conviction than she felt. But it worked.

“You'll get me a lawyer, won't you, Rebecca?” Her mother's voice was thin, but at least calmer as she pleaded. “You know people over there in Atlanta; you'll find someone who can help?”

“Of course I would, Mama, but I'm sure you don't need a lawyer. This is probably just a mistake, and we'll get it straightened out. Why don't you take a walk and get a little fresh air?”

As soon as it was out of her mouth, Rebecca knew it was the wrong thing to say. “I don't need to take a walk. I need people to leave me alone and stop putting papers on my damn house, Rebecca!”

“Okay, Mother, I'm sorry,” Rebecca said. “I'll try to find out what's going on.”

“And you'll come home?”

“I'm on a trip with some girlfriends, Mama,” Rebecca said gently. “I'm supposed to go back to work on Tuesday.”

“Oh,” Lorena said. Then she made the statement that was the signal of motherly guilt worldwide. “Well, don't worry about me, then.”

“Tell you what, I'll call you back today if I find anything out, and then I'll look at the schedule when I get back and find out when I can get over there. Okay?”

“Okay,” her mother said. Now her voice had a thin, faraway quality, and Rebecca knew just as surely as if she were standing next to her that her mother was in Cory's room, holding his worn baseball glove to her chest and staring out the window at the backyard. Rebecca hung up without saying anything else, knowing that she wouldn't have been heard if she did.

Her father answered after two rings. “Rebecca Rockstar!” he said gleefully. He had given her this nickname at age eleven, toward the end of a two-week period during which she enjoyed singing into her hairbrush and pretending to be Joan Jett, until Tanya Boozer informed her that she couldn't sing. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts were long gone, but despite her best efforts, Rebecca Rockstar would never go away.

“Hi, Dad.” She decided to get straight to the point, glancing at the house behind her. “Do you know what's going on with Mama?”

There was quiet on the other end of the line, and Rebecca was pretty sure she heard whispering. “No, darlin',” he said at last. “She tried to call me a little bit ago, but I … well, I'm kind of busy.”

“But you answered when I called,” she said.

“I'll always answer for you, Rebecca. But the truth is I'm down at Playa del Carmen with some friends and—”

“Wait a minute. You're in Mexico?” She tried to picture her dad in his full beard and postal service uniform, hanging out on a beach, sucking down margaritas. It didn't compute. “Who with?”

He hesitated. “Just some friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, George and Annette Brown—you remember them—and a couple of others from church—”

“And Sonia?” Rebecca hated the accusatory tone in her voice.

“Yes, Rebecca, and Sonia.” His voice was impatient.

“You didn't even tell me you were going,” she said. It sounded even more ridiculous spoken aloud than it had in her head, especially since she had not mentioned to him that she would be at the beach this weekend, either. “I could have gotten you a flight.”

“Oh, that's okay, darlin',” her dad said. “The group all flew down together and I didn't really have much to do with the arrangements. Annette sort of led the charge on that. Anyway, we're heading out to do some—what is it?—parasailing. Hopefully I won't break my neck and drown. So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Mom called and she's really upset—something about a note on the door. You've paid the mortgage and everything, right?”

“Of course. I always pay it way ahead.” There was high-pitched giggling in the background. Rebecca gritted her teeth and twisted her ring, counting—seven, eight, nine.…

“What about the bills? Like the utilities and stuff. Do you think she lost them again?”

“I don't think so sweetheart—I'll be right there! See if they have an extralarge life jacket!—Rebecca, I pretty much stay on top of all that, for her house and mine. But I'll check into it when I get home. If it's the power company, I'm sure she has a few days before anything will happen. They put those notices up to scare people into paying the bills.”

“So what should I do?”

“Nothing you can do, darlin'—just go have a good time. Live your life. It will be fine. Now I need to run.” Before the call disconnected, she heard more talking and laughing and some kind of horns playing in the background. Mexico? Parasailing? Her parents' small-town-Alabama Sunday school group partying like college kids? It was some kind of alternate universe.

She debated about calling her mother back, and decided against it. What could she say?
“Daddy doesn't know anything and he's busy partying on the beach with his new girlfriend and all your old friends”
? Rebecca sighed and began walking along the asphalt driveway they shared with neighboring beach houses. Two doors down, a man was being pulled to a minivan by three children chanting, “Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!”

Rebecca and her father were both at different beaches today, and at least one of them was doing a bang-up job of getting on with his life. He'd suggested that she do the same, and she knew he was right. If Rebecca really knew what was good for her, she'd keep walking right now, leaving her former life and her friends, and even Jake, behind. She should jump on a plane to Madrid or Paris and never look back. Marry some exotic guy with a sexy accent and a powerful job. Get a cottage in the European countryside. Raise goats. Make cheese. She'd had this fantasy before but had only gone so far as to get a job that put her on planes every day. Now it called to her again—the desire to be somewhere, someone, else. To get as far away from Oreville, Alabama, as possible and never go back.

Rebecca had been one foot out the door since her freshman year in high school, but even when she left to live with Aunt Louise before college, Rebecca knew she could never
really
leave. Almost two decades later, even though she had no obligations to hold her back, she could never bring herself to stay where the planes brought her. Something stopped her. Maybe the same thing that stopped her dad from filing for divorce, even though he'd been out of the house for years. They were both inextricably tied to that small house in Alabama, where Rebecca's mother lived with her cats and collections and the lingering memory of a boy long dead.

 

6

Rebecca made her way down to the water and walked for a while, letting the Atlantic froth against her ankles. It was late in the afternoon and still hot; the beach was mostly populated by older children and their tired, sunburnt parents, with a few young-adult sunbathers here and there. She tried, without success, to make her mind as clear as the blazing blue sky.

I am fine. Most problems are temporary. It's not my job to fix everyone else.

When she returned, she took the railroad tie path up to the house and overheard Marci trying to get Suzanne out of a lounge chair on the back deck. “Please, Suze, we never get to do anything just the two of us!”