The Someday Suitcase

by Corey Ann Haydu

  Danny does something I’ve never seen him do before. He leans over, super close to Dad, and whispers into his ear, so quietly I can’t hear a word.

  Dad’s face changes. It gets sad, and I catch the sadness before he remembers to turn it off and make his face normal again. He puts a big arm around Danny and squeezes.

  “What’d you say?” I ask. Neither of them respond. “No secrets! What’d you say? We don’t have secrets!”

  Dad grimaces, and I think it’s weird to keep seeing so many accidental expressions on his face. He looks down at his lap and Danny does too. I want to know what he said, but I also maybe don’t want to know.

  Whatever Danny said makes a difference. Dad softens. He reconsiders. He finishes off his sandwich and looks up at the stars.

  “The Somerset Clinic, huh?” Dad says at last. He taps his fingers on his leg and jiggles his keys. He and Danny look at each other, both of them squinting, saying something without saying anything at all.

  “It’s still a long ways away,” Dad says. “I have a few drops to make. You’ll have to be patient.”

  “We don’t mind,” I say. “We’re prepared.”

  Dad trills his lips. He jiggles his keys again. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking.

  He nods once. He gets up and walks away with his phone. We can’t hear the phone conversations he’s definitely having with Mom and Helen and Ross, but we stay very quiet in case a word or two slips through.

  When Dad is back by us, he looks up at the stars before speaking.

  “Okay,” he says. He clears his throat and it looks like it hurts. He looks like he’s hurting.

  I jump into my dad’s arms to give him a grateful hug. He’s strong and smells like chocolate and dust. I don’t hug him nearly enough.

  Dad’s eyes look sad. “Looks like you two are going to see some snow after all,” he says.

  I feel Danny smile first.

  Then I smile, imagining the way the flakes will float to the ground and make the world a brand-new, better place.

  The ride is long. We stop a few more times, for food and rest and for Dad to make his deliveries. We stop at a motel where we eat a vending-machine meal of candy bars and chips and let Dad rest for a while. On the road, Dad says you don’t have to worry so much about what time to eat lunch or dinner or what time to go to bed. You do what you need to do, when you need to do it. Danny loves this approach and calls it the best day of his life. I already had today on my List of Perfect Days, but I add a star next to the entry, so that I’ll remember Danny agreed with me. Dad smiles, and I think he’s happy he decided to let us keep going.

  Sometime the next day, and we order milk shakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. Dad’s quiet and won’t stop looking at Danny or checking his temperature with the palm of his hand. They keep giving each other secret looks, and I hate being on the outside of something.

  “What’d you say to him?” I ask Danny when we’re back in the truck and Dad’s singing along with “Ramblin’ Man.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

  At another stop Dad makes us get out and stretch our legs and do jumping jacks. He says he’s impressed by how little we’re complaining while we move between the front seat with Dad and our familiar little bed when we get tired. He says it’s nice to have some company on his long rides.

  “I like knowing what you do,” I say. “I like knowing what your days are like and the places you’ve been and what the truck feels like after a whole day of driving.”

  Dad smiles.

  “You are one special kid, Miss Clover Jane,” he says. He only ever uses my middle name when he’s especially happy with me.

  Danny does a few cartwheels, but he stays very, very close.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to my dad.

  Dad nods, and watches Danny so hard I think his eyes don’t even blink. We both do.

  When we get very close to Vermont, Danny falls asleep in the bed and I sneak into the front with Dad. There isn’t any snow yet, but I swear I can smell it, I can feel it on my skin. I’m colder than I’ve ever been, and Dad stopped right outside Boston to get Danny and me both parkas and thick socks and soft scarves. He promises that the second we get to Vermont we’ll pick up hot chocolate, since there’s absolutely nothing better in the world than hot chocolate on a cold day.

  I have a fuzzy feeling in my belly and heart—sort of like excitement, but warmer and sweeter. It overrides the nervousness I feel at Dad and Danny’s secret.

  I zip up my parka.

  “We’re pretty close, Clo,” Dad says. “You ready for all this? You really ready?”

  I don’t know what he means. I’m so focused on the snow and the cold I’ve forgotten about all the doctors and the clinic and what they might do to Danny. To me.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  “I hope it’s what you want it to be, Clo,” he says. “I also want you to be prepared that—”

  I interrupt him. “You know why I like snow globes so much?” I ask. Dad looks confused; he’s not used to me interrupting him. I usually hang on to his every word. He clears his throat. He scratches his chin. He looks at Danny again and again and again.

  “Why’s that, Clover Jane?” he asks.

  We hit the Welcome to Vermont sign. It’s green and declares Vermont the Green Mountain State. That seems all wrong, since the mountains are white tipped. I see them in the distance. Covered in what must be snow.

  “They remind me that something is possible, even if it’s not right in front of me, even if I’ve never seen it or can’t even really fully imagine it. For a long time snow sounded like this magical, impossible thing. Then you got me that Pittsburgh snow globe and I shook it up and the snow fell over a regular sidewalk and a regular little house that looked a lot like our little house. And I got it. It existed, it was real, even if I didn’t see it or understand it yet.”

  Dad looks at me for longer than he should, seeing as we’re on the road.

  “All this time, I thought the snow globes were sort of silly,” Dad says with a chuckle.

  “Not silly at all,” I say, feeling like I’m entering a snow globe right here and now. “Hopeful.”

  “Hopeful’s not silly at all,” Dad says. And it’s my very favorite thing he’s ever, ever said.

  27

  I wake Danny up when we reach the white gates of the Somerset Clinic.

  It looks the way it did on its website, but even better: a field of cows, a barn, a magnificent wooden building—a place that looks more like a home than a hospital. There are mountains in the near distance that the sun is starting to set behind, and an icy frost that makes the grass crunch under our feet.

  But there isn’t any snow.

  “Hey,” I say, flinging open the curtain separating the front of the truck from the back. “We’re here.” Danny is drowsy and confused. He rubs his eyes and looks out the window at the sign hanging off the gate.

  “It’s real,” he says, like he wasn’t so sure before.

  “Of course it’s real,” I say.

  “Will they let us in?” Danny asks.

  “They have to.”

  Dad gets out of the truck first, and Danny and I follow behind. He leads the way inside the clinic. It smells nothing like hospitals smell. None of that plastic and rubbing alcohol smell. Instead I breathe in lilacs and chamomile tea.

  There’s a woman at the front desk. She has shiny hair and a thick blue scarf around her neck. She has a pen behind her ear and rosy cheeks and a serious mouth.

  “Can I help you?” she says, and when she looks at us, I’m relieved to see she has kind eyes, too. Long eyelashes. The kind that would catch a lot of snow. Her sweater is red and cream and has a zigzag pattern and looks very Vermont-y. I want a sweater like that. I’d also like cheeks that are rosy from the wind and to be used to being cold inside and out.

  Dad is the adult, so he should answer her, but I think he’s suddenly realized he has no idea what the next step is
. He drove us here. He forgave us. He bought us milk shakes and candy bars and mittens and hot chocolate. He listened to Danny’s secret and got serious and sad. But now he’s all out of things to do.

  Danny is shaking next to me. I think it’s fear this time, not sickness, but I take a step closer to him and put my hand on his elbow, just in case.

  “We don’t have an appointment,” I say.

  “Oh?” The woman with the shiny hair and scarf tilts her head.

  “But we need to be here.”

  She looks back and forth between all of us. She settles on Danny.

  “You’re the one with the undiagnosed ailment?” she asks, even though she sounds pretty certain. Danny nods. Even his eyebrows are sweaty. It should be impossible, since I am goose bumped and shivering in here.

  I like that she could tell just from looking at us. When she steps out from behind the front desk she’s wearing sweater boots and is holding a notebook that looks a lot like mine. This makes me feel good, too.

  “Usually we only take referrals,” she says. “Do you have a referral?”

  “Rachel Goldstein said we should come here,” I say. “Does that count?”

  “I don’t think I know her,” the shiny-haired woman says. “I’m Dr. Belinda Denn. And you are?”

  “I’m Clover. This is Danny. And that’s my dad.”

  “Harold,” Dad says. I always forget he has a real name.

  “How old are you, Danny?” Dr. Belinda Denn says. She holds out her hand to each of us, Danny last of all, and when he shakes it, I hope she feels the texture and temperature of his skin, the boniness of his fingers, the way he is trembling a little, and weak.

  “Ten,” Danny says. I’d forgotten that I’m older than him for a few months of every year. Ten sounds so young, compared to eleven.

  “And Harold here is your dad?”

  “No. He’s Clover’s.”

  “I see. Hmm. Well, we’ll need to talk to your parents. And we’ll need to learn about what’s troubling you. I’m going to want to talk to your old doctors. Then we can determine if you’re a good fit.” Dr. Belinda Denn finally takes out her notebook and my heart soars. I take out my notebook too. I’ve been carrying it in my backpack, keeping it close to me at all times, for exactly this moment.

  “My parents will be here tomorrow,” Danny says. I’m not looking forward to Helen and Ross joining us, but when Dad called to tell them what we’d done, they insisted. I don’t know how he got them to agree with this, but I know it has something to do with what Danny whispered in his ear.

  “You can talk to his doctors,” I say, “but I’ve got everything you need to know right here. About Danny. And, well, about me too.”

  “About you too, hmm?” Dr. Belinda Denn says. I notice she has a snowflake necklace around her neck and a freckle on her nose. She takes my notebook.

  “Danny’s sick,” I say. “But I make him better.”

  Dr. Belinda Denn gives me a long, intense look. Maybe at the clinic all they need to do is look at you, and they know everything about you. Maybe we’ll leave here today with all the answers. Maybe we can tell Danny’s parents not to come, we can drive the rest of Dad’s trip with him and return home ready to swim and get sunburned and throw Jake in the pool with his floaties on and eat burgers outside with our families every Sunday forever and ever. Maybe. Maybe.

  Or maybe not, a voice in my head that won’t stop talking to me says. It is the same voice that keeps telling me the secret Danny told Dad is a bad one, a scary one, one I should be frightened of.

  “I’ll take this with me,” Dr. Belinda Denn says, rubbing the soft cover of my notebook. “And we’ll set you all up with rooms. And we’ll see. We’ll see what we can do.”

  I hear a cow mooing.

  I smell apples baking.

  I hear a few mechanical beeps that remind me we’re in a medical place even if it doesn’t seem like it.

  I see a sick man in a wheelchair with tubes coming out of him.

  “Hate to see the young ones,” the man in the wheelchair says to Dr. Belinda Denn like we can’t hear him.

  I have no idea what to think about this place, except it’s better than the hospital with its wiggly Jell-O and metal cots.

  “Danny and I need the same room,” I tell Dr. Belinda Denn. “We have to stay close.”

  The rooms are beautiful, with big soft beds and red-checked curtains and cozy tan rugs that feel good against our feet. “Handmade,” Dr. Belinda Denn said.

  “I’m sleepy,” Danny says. His eyes look like they’re having trouble staying open, but he already slept so much, it doesn’t make sense.

  “You should be awake,” I say, a little too forcefully. “You slept a lot. It’s still pretty early. I’m right here. Don’t you feel good?”

  Danny shrugs.

  I don’t like when Danny shrugs.

  “Are you excited?”

  Danny shrugs.

  “We’re in Vermont! Stop shrugging! We did exactly what we said we’d do!” It’s too dark to really make out the mountains, so I beg the sky to snow.

  Snow will make Danny stop shrugging.

  But it doesn’t snow.

  28

  By the next day, Helen and Ross have their own room at the Somerset Clinic. They give Danny the world’s biggest hugs and tell me what a great friend I am. I think they like the chill in the air and the unlimited supply of hot chocolate, but mostly they like being near Danny.

  Dad has to go back on the road when they arrive. He gives me a stubbly kiss.

  “I’ll only be a few hours away if you need me,” he says.

  “I think this is going to work,” I say. Dad’s forehead creases. “Don’t you?”

  “I have hope,” he says. He pauses, like he’s not sure if he should keep going. Usually my parents know exactly what to do for all my different moods. They respond right away when I need something or ask about something or am freaking out about something. I don’t like how unsure Dad looks. It’s all wrong.

  “What did Danny whisper to you?” I ask. “Why did you end up letting us come here?”

  Dad shakes his head. He tears up a little. “I wish he wasn’t so sick, Clover,” he says. “But he is. And I hope he gets better. But he might not.”

  I think I feel my heart fall.

  I think I feel the floor and the ceiling and the walls fall too. Vermont feels even colder, from those words.

  “What did he say to you?” I ask again. But Dad won’t tell me.

  “The way you hope and believe in magic and believe in love is the most beautiful thing in the world,” Dad says. “And nothing can take that away from you, okay? That’s you. That’s who you are. That’s what got you here.”

  I nod, and I don’t know exactly what he means, but I’m pretty sure it means that he believes in me. And that feels better than the Vermont chill or being on the highway or drinking hot chocolate on a cold day.

  Danny has a million appointments over the next couple of days.

  There are blood tests. And ear tests and nose tests and lots of lung tests. They test all his organs, and I can tell from their faces that they aren’t so happy with what they’re seeing.

  “Your whole body is tired from trying to fight off different infections,” one doctor says. “It’s having trouble doing its job.”

  “You’re going to get better,” I say to Danny when we walk back to our room so the doctors can talk to Helen and Ross alone on our second day here. Danny tries to smile, but it doesn’t look like one of his regular smiles.

  That night, Danny falls asleep before me, and I whisper, “Please don’t give up” before I fall asleep too. He doesn’t respond, because he’s sleeping, and I hate the silence that follows.

  The next day they take more blood and do X-rays. They look inside his stomach and ask him a thousand questions about every time he’s ever been sick.

  “We know some of the things that are wrong,” the doctor says. “But we don’t quite know why ye
t.”

  At the Somerset Clinic, doctors talk in low voices and then say things very clearly. They talk right to Danny instead of just his parents the way other doctors sometimes do. I like the doctors here, even though I don’t like what they’re saying.

  It doesn’t snow, and when I go outside to check early on our fourth day at the clinic, Danny faints in the three minutes I’m not right next to him.

  “I’m getting worse,” he says when they rush me back inside to hold his hand and make him better. I close my eyes and feel our hearts and breaths connect and the thread between us goes taut and I fix him again.

  I am officially scared, though.

  I can’t go to the bathroom without worrying Danny will get sicker.

  I can’t go for a walk or spend a night alone or read at one table while Danny reads at another.

  Danny is right. He’s getting worse. And the worse he gets, the closer I have to be, the less time I can spend away, until even a few feet of space and a few moments of time apart is too much.

  “This is too much,” Danny says.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say, but I want to walk in the brisk Vermont air and talk to a cow by myself. I want to drink hot chocolate on the porch of the clinic and watch the sun set over the mountains without Danny gripping my arm or pressing his knee against mine.

  I wonder if the shrimp and the eels ever feel this way.

  I wonder if they feel tired by how they have to work together, how close they have to be. When I first saw that shrimp in that eel’s mouth, it was beautiful, but now when I think of it I can feel how trapped it must feel, and how choked the eel must feel.

  I would call Mom or Dad and tell them how I feel, or pull Dr. Belinda Denn aside to tell her how tired I am, but I can’t, because Danny is always there.

  On the fifth day, Danny and I sit next to each other on the doctor’s table. It isn’t really big enough for both of us, but it’s safest this way.

  “Do you know what autoimmune disorder means?” Dr. Belinda Denn says.

  “Yes!” Danny says. “Well, no. Sort of. But I know my grandfather had one.”