The Yellow Suitcase

by L. W. Clark

  But most of us are confused at that age anyway. Nothing special really happened, and it’s a typical thing. People under the age of twenty-five are immature, inexperienced and quick to make decisions, and not always good ones. They see the world as easy and light. It’s just a time when we live carefree, observe situations and gain experience, so one day we can make the right decisions. I’m not sure any love is real at that age. You think it’s real at the time, but it’s mostly about attraction, excitement and butterfly feelings, which come and go, just like butterflies.

  “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think we can see each other anymore,” I told my fiancée when he came back.

  “I knew this was what you wanted to talk about,” he said. “My friend Alex told me you were with someone new. But I wanted to hear it from you.”

  Awkward silence. I feel so bad, and very sad. Besides losing someone I love, I’m losing my best friend. But what can I do, considering my behavior?

  “This is really hard,” he finally said.

  “It is,” I said.

  Another long pause as he stared at the ground. He took a deep breath, got up and just left. I watched him walk away from the window. I sat down and cried and cried. Until I had no more tears. A few months later he had army leave for a week and came home for Christmas.

  “You know, I saw your old boyfriend at a party last night,” one of my friends told me.

  “Really? How is he?” I asked.

  “He’s fine,” she said. “He’s looking forward to the end of his army service. He brought a date to the party. She seemed nice.”

  I wonder why he hasn’t called me? At least to see how I’m doing and say happy holidays.

  “Hi,” I said. “I heard you were in the city so I thought I’d call to say Merry Christmas.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “How are you?”

  “You know Alyssa? I really can’t be bothered with the small talk.”

  “I just thought …”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’d rather not hear from you. And you know, if we happen to come across each other on the street, just make sure you cross to the other side.”

  And he hung up. I had heard that his entire family had moved to a different country. After he completed his army service, he moved in with them. But I did see him once more, at a mutual friend’s wedding in the city. I had no idea he’d be there. I was speaking with one of his friends when he came over and stood next to us. He smiled and seemed to want to say something, but I just ignored him. His eyes seemed to follow me all night, or maybe it was just my imagination. Anyway, it was getting uncomfortable, so I left the wedding early. He called me that night.

  “It was nice to see you at the wedding,” he said. “You look well.”

  “Thanks.”

  Silence, again.

  “Listen Allyssa, I’ve had a lot of time to think. I know we’ve grown apart, but I want you to know, I still love you. I always will. One day, you’ll get married, and so will I. Maybe even more than once. Perhaps we’ll both have children. But no matter how long it takes, or where we are, I believe we’ll be together, in love. There will come a day when I will marry you.”

  I was speechless. I just sat there, with the phone in my hand, tears welling up inside. It was one of those painful and sad life experiences that you never forget. He said goodbye and hung up, and I cried a thousand tears, again. His name was Maximillian.

  I laid in bed with all these thoughts and emotions swirling around in my head about my life when the phone rang and startled me. It was another boy who loved me. He was one year younger than me, which I didn’t like. I never liked boys my age or less. I think women mature earlier than men. And this boy? He had a car, some kind of job and a rich father, who I’m sure helped him out financially.

  He lived in a big house with his parents. His mother wasn’t friendly when I met her for the first time. She was unattractive, with a tight-lipped smile, and the boy looked just like her! It was kind of freaky. But he was well-mannered and a gentleman. He seemed like a good choice. The only thing was, if I married him, I knew I’d have to live in that big house, too, with his entire family, including his younger sister and grandmother.

  In this country, people didn’t live separately from their parents, even if they’re married. Not because they couldn’t afford it or anything. It was a cultural thing, which I never, ever understood. But who was I to talk? I lived with my mother, brother and two sisters, just like everyone else. But I was living with my immediate family, who I grew up with. Moving in with another family? That was life changing. You needed to learn their personalities, adapt to their traditions or lifestyle. And on top of that, you had to see them every day. Morning, noon and night. Share the kitchen and bathroom. Share life with them, all the time. That didn’t seem so glamorous to me.

  I spoke with him for a while and agreed to go out with him the next night. I thought maybe I’d start liking him and take a more traditional step, instead of this disruptive move to another country.

  It was late when I finally fell asleep. I slept so deeply, probably because I was exhausted from thinking. I slept until I heard my mother’s voice, yelling. She couldn’t believe I was still in bed. It was only noon, but she kept saying it was already 2 p.m. She liked to exaggerate. It was Sunday and I wasn’t in a hurry. Why couldn’t I just sleep? I never understood that.

  I woke up fresh and energized. My mind was serene, which I didn’t expect. All the thoughts I had last night that gave me insomnia were gone. Last night my thoughts were like a messy bookshelf. Now, they’re well organized, like someone cleaned, dusted and put things back where they belonged, nice and neat.

  I loved the daytime at our house. It was peaceful. At night when everybody comes home, some of them could be grouchy or noisy, or the opposite—happy, drunk and loud. That evening, instead of meeting the boy, I met Niki. The previous night I had thought maybe I should just stay and marry someone. Now? I wasn’t so sure.

  It was already near the end of summer. I wanted to see her and once again talk about our plan. Niki said she could pay Margo, but she’d wait until I was ready. I didn’t tell her I still had no idea how I would get the money. I just told her I was working on it and would let her know soon.

  “Alyssa,” she said, “This is important. I want us to promise each other we won’t change our minds about this, no matter what. If we start, we finish. We go together. We cannot bail on each other.”

  “Yes, absolutely Niki. I promise. I swear to God. I would never do that to you.”

  “Me either,” said Niki as we hugged.

  The next day I just stayed home. While my Mom was out visiting someone in the hospital, I cleaned the house, washed the floors and did some ironing. My mother loved it when I surprised her with this housekeeping stuff. She usually did all of it, but I tried helping and surprising her now and then while she was out.

  I was never into cooking dinner, but desserts? Making dessert was a lot of fun, especially baking a big cake. Most of the time I would make one when I got paid and I had money to buy the ingredients for it. But since I was home, I decided to bake something. Something nice and fancy. I used my weekly transportation money, which meant I was going to walk to work for the next few days. I hated getting up in the morning and walking for forty-five minutes, but I really wanted to do some baking.

  I made a beautiful, creamy and fluffy napoleon. Everybody’s favorite. The oven had some issues with heating. Sometimes it worked well, sometimes not at all. The heat would randomly go up or down. We used to call it the “moody oven”. This time I got lucky. The oven was in a good mood.

  My family usually came home for dinner so we could eat and chat together. They were in and out all day, every day. Who knows where, but they all loved coming home in the evening. It seemed like they were coming home from work, except that none of them had a job.

  I couldn’t wait for everyone to come home and sit down for dinner. I had so many surprises for them. My
mother came home earlier than the others. She looked tired after being out all day.

  “I took care of all the housework, including the laundry,” I told her.

  “That’s a nice surprise. Thank you,” she said.

  “I also baked a fancy napoleon,” I said. “I want to surprise everyone after dinner.”

  She frowned.

  “How did you do that? We didn’t have any ingredients for it did we?”

  How does she always know what we have in the kitchen? Probably because there’s not much in there.

  “I bought stuff today,” I said.

  “Why would you do such a thing when you can’t afford it?” she said, frowning even deeper.

  “I wouldn’t if I couldn’t. I’m in a happy mood.”

  She just sighed and left the room.

  Why can’t people just enjoy the moment? Why must there always be worries? I already baked and that money is gone. It’s already in the past. And soon, we’ll have a wonderful dessert. I’m so tired of this relentless “worry thing”. If there’s good news and bad news, so many people here want to hear the bad news first, and they don’t care about the good news. So much drama. It makes me want to go away even more.

  Dinner was last night’s leftover chicken soup with a loaf of bread. Not so appetizing, but I hinted to my brother and sisters about a surprise after dinner. None of us were big fans of soup, which always seemed mandatory.

  “You’ve got to have soup,” I’ve heard again and again since I was first able to hear.

  “The body needs liquids.”

  “Soup helps with digestive problems.”

  “First soup and then anything else.”

  Why is it that whenever something becomes mandatory it also becomes less enjoyable? Only my mother liked the soup, any kind. She would finish all of it. I don’t know if my father was a soup fan, but I know he was a meat lover, like most men. I remember once he ate his soup so fast. He probably wanted to get it over with so he could enjoy the next course, with meat.

  We all indulged in the dessert. I hoped I could save a piece for Niki since she was coming over later, but I didn’t have a chance. The whole cake was gone in no time. I was on the phone for a few minutes, came back, and the cake plate was empty, except for a few scattered flakes. But I saw a lot of satisfied faces.

  “Tea anyone? I’m having one,” I said.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Me too.”

  “Oh, me too please.”

  “Well I wasn’t going to but if everybody else is having tea, I’ll have one too.”

  “Anyone want to help?” I smiled.

  “No, we’ll pass on that but thanks,” they said laughing.

  Having tea after dinner was always good. It calmed everyone down. I needed them calm and relaxed before starting the conversation. Usually they were loud and wouldn’t let each other get a word in. If they were like that it would be way too confusing as I tried to speak.

  While they were sipping tea there was silence. It was nice. I thought I was at an opera house, with that silence just before the performance starts. My performance was about to start, and I hoped they would find it exciting.

  Showtime. I stood up, although I’m not sure why. Maybe to divert attention?

  “I want to tell you all that I’ve decided to go to America for a few months, maybe a year.”

  Silence. I guess I said something interesting. They just stared at me with their mouths open, holding their tea cups. But it didn’t last. They all became so loud, all at the same time. I heard a few laughs and so many questions at once that none of them made sense. I couldn’t hear what the hell they were asking or understand how they all had so many questions when they didn’t even know my plan! I said a few words; they said hundreds. It was chaos. Only my mother was quiet. She had heard this story before.

  “Ok, people,” I pleaded, “Please calm down. Let me talk, and then we can deal with the questions.”

  I sat down and told them everything. I tried to explain, so they would support and encourage me. We had a good conversation. First, there was the big reaction and push back, then after the discussion, there was excitement.

  Then, I looked over at my Mom. She was just staring at me, shaking her head no.

  “Mom,” I said, “please let me do this.”

  After what seemed like forever she finally took a deep breath.

  “How is this any different from when I said no last time?” she asked.

  “What’s different is I’ve given this a lot of thought,” I said. “I’ll be with people who will help me live there, and find a job so I can make some decent money. It’s an opportunity not only for me but for everyone.”

  “But I’m afraid. You’ll be going to another country where you don’t know anyone, and you don’t even speak the language. It will be hard. I’ll be worried about you.”

  “I know, but Niki’s coming with me. Together we’ll be fine.”

  “Well that does make it a little better,” she said as she took my hand and smiled. “OK then. I guess you’re going to America.”

  Everyone cheered as I gave her a big hug.

  She’s making me feel even stronger, knowing that she supports me. I’m going to need that support for the next conversation, about money.

  My grandmother was a sophisticated woman. She always loved to dress fashionably, and she had a lot of beautiful jewelry. She had given my mother a beautiful emerald ring. It was round, with the emerald in the center and diamonds around it. My mother told me that the ring was going to be mine when I got married. No one ever wore the ring, and she kept it in a safe place.

  “Mom, what about selling grandma’s ring, so I can pay Margo for the invitation letter and maybe the visa?”

  “Really?” she asked.

  I need a solution. What’s the point of keeping this ring for years when I could use it now as a down payment on a better life? It’s hard to say goodbye but it’s just a thing.

  “I know it’s sad to sell it,” I said, “especially since it’s been in the family for so long. But it’s the only valuable thing we have. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll make a new life and buy an even better ring one day.”

  “You know,” she smiled. “I really believe you. Well, the ring belongs to you, so sure, let’s sell it.”

  It was already September. I quickly sold the ring at a reasonable price, and Niki and I paid Margo. She said it could take up to three months for the invitation letters to arrive.

  I became more confident than ever. I knew this was just the first of many steps, but I felt like nothing could stop me now. I knew I was ready for it. Niki and I saw each other almost every day and talked about our future. We were so focused that sometimes we didn’t even care about guys or flirting when we were out. Our behavior and attitude had changed. No one around us could figure out what was going on. Only we knew.

  FOUR

  January 1996, Eastern Europe

  It was a cold and cloudy day when the phone rang. The invitation letters had finally arrived from America. That was the day winter immediately turned to spring. Life was so good in those few seconds. The beautiful feeling of moving forward. For a second, I forgot that this was just the beginning. There was a lot more to do, but I didn’t care. I felt once started, I would finish.

  Visa interviews at the American consulate were the next step. Getting an American visa was more magnificent than anything else. The consulate accepted applications twice a week; no appointment needed. It was first come first serve so people would go very early in the morning to wait in line outside before the doors opened. When I say early, I mean like, 4 o’clock in the morning early.

  Nicki was so nervous about the interview. She drove me crazy. She wanted to know what kind of questions they would ask. I was nervous too, but I knew I had to just go for it. My only concern was if I was rejected, it would all be for nothing. My money was already spent, and my ring sold, and neither of them was coming back.


  She begged me to do the interview first so she could prepare herself better. Since I had a somewhat better job than her, she thought I was more qualified for a visa. If you had a decent job, you were more likely to come back. I had all my papers ready, so now I had to choose a morning to get up super-early to wait in line.

  I immediately felt the cold air when my alarm woke me up in the middle of the night. It felt like my nose was frozen. I covered up with my comforter, where I felt warm and cozy in my bed. We only had one heater in the house, in the living room, so going to bed was quite a challenge. It was like going into a cave. Getting out of bed was even worse. It was brutal.

  The first two times I didn’t even make it into the building. There were limited acceptances, but at least they announced there weren’t any more times available after a couple of hours, so we wouldn’t waste time standing there. The third time I decided to go an hour earlier, to be on the line by 4:00 in the morning. I thought I’d be the first person in line but was surprised to find a few people there.

  Did these people stay here all night? I live fairly close to this consulate. Where the hell did all these people come from? They were even more desperate for a visa than me!

  It was pitch black and wicked cold, much worse than the other days I was there. This standing on line, outside, was so harsh. It made me so impatient that I thought about quitting and going home. But I never did.

  I’m cold and sad. Standing outside with these people in the dark cold always makes me sad. It has broken my heart since I was a kid when I’d see people outside, cold and poor. What time is it? It seems like I’ve been here for an hour but the minute hand has barely moved. Maybe it’s frozen too.

  A few people in front of me became chatty. They were sharing some visa interview experiences or stories about people they knew who went to America. There were good and bad stories. No one knew if any of these stories were true, but the good stories gave them hope, which encouraged them to stay.

  Some of these bad stories seem made up. Maybe it’s a trick. They’re telling the bad stories hoping others would give up and leave so they could get into the building faster. My skeptical mind.