Other People's Baggage Read Free Page A

I rounded the corner and leaned against the wall, counting silently to myself, waiting to see if the doors would reopen. They didn’t.
    In a matter of minutes, I arrived at my room. The suitcase sat on a luggage cart by the end of my bed. The sun filtered through the sheer white curtains and I could see the water from my window. I’d requested a room with a view and this room didn’t disappoint. I wanted to shower, to change clothes, and to relax on my balcony with a glass of wine from a local vineyard. I wanted to start to forget.
    I undid the brass clamps on the suitcase and flipped it open. And that’s when I realized I had a whole other set of problems.

MIDNIGHT ICE: TWO

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    â€œThis is Madison Night in room 319. I just checked in. The wrong suitcase was delivered to my room. Yes, I can hold.” I sat on the bed and stared at the neatly folded contents of the suitcase. And by neatly folded, I meant obsessively neat. I knew my spontaneous decision to get out of town had left me packing in a less than orderly fashion, but even if I’d been planning this getaway for a month I would never have packed like this.
    While I waited for the concierge to locate Lionel and figure out where my suitcase had gone, I stared at the top layer of the suitcase interior. It was covered in Ziploc baggies, each labeled and numbered. I recognized hair products, cosmetics, and lotions all packed individually. Why would a person separate their toiletries, especially if they checked their luggage? Why use the Ziploc bag at all if you didn’t have to go through the security screening with liquids?
    â€œMs. Night?” said the concierge, returning to the phone.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œLionel says that’s your bag.”
    â€œThat is most definitely not my bag,” I said.
    â€œWould you like to come down to the lobby and talk to him?”
    â€œI’m on my way.”
    I left the suitcase open and slipped my feet back into my white sneakers. My underarms were sore from the crutches rubbing the double-knit polyester dress against my skin. I limped a few steps, favoring my injured knee, to test if I could make the trip without the cursed wooden instruments, but it seemed, if I wanted to be mobile, I had no other choice.
    Lionel was waiting for me by the concierge desk. The man who had checked me in waved me over. “Ms. Night, I’m sorry for any inconvenience, but Lionel assures me he took your suitcase directly to your room. Isn’t that right, Lionel?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I noticed the tags on it. I moved here from Dallas, so I was thinking I’d like to ask you what part you’re from. You did come from Dallas, didn’t you?”
    â€œI connected through Dallas, but I’m not from there. I live in Pennsylvania.” Live. Lived. Once lived. I didn’t bother explaining my issues with tense or my own question as to whether or not I’d go back.
    â€œDid you check the luggage tag, Ms. Night?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid I didn’t. I opened the suitcase and the contents were unfamiliar.”
    The two men looked at each other. “Would you like us to call the airport for you?” the concierge asked.
    â€œNo, I can do that, and I should probably have the tag in front of me when I do so. I’m sorry for the confusion. Good night, gentlemen.”
    I turned around and went back the direction from which I’d come, back to my room, back to the awesome view and the wrong suitcase. I sat on the bed, then fell backward and spread my arms out to my sides and stared at the ceiling.
    I wanted to wash off the day. I limped to the bathroom, where an assortment of shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and soap, but most of all, a post-shower plush white terrycloth robe awaited me. After stripping down to nothing, I stepped in under a hot spray of water, where I stood for the better part of an hour.
    I towel-dried and belted myself into the robe, then