walls—all Trisha’s. The knick-knacks on the mantle. Same with the kitchen items. Rachel backtracked and went to the bedroom. Nothing in the closet. Nothing in the bathroom. She knelt to peek under the bed, pulled out the drawers of her dresser one at a time: nothing, nothing, nothing … oh.
She set the red velvet box atop the dresser. She didn’t have to open it to know what was inside. Unable to determine its fate, Rachel had shuffled it from one resting place to another as she had systematically emptied her room. She almost wished she had forgotten it, left it behind for Julia to find when she came to pick up the dresser on Saturday. That would have been fittingly ironic, actually.
When she had turned thirteen Rachel had been baptized before the BCC congregation. After the service her family went to lunch, and just before dessert her mother had handed her the velvet box. Inside was the cross she had seen her mother wear nearly every day of her life. She’d told Rachel about her own mother, and her mother’s mother, and how each of them had worn this cross until the day of their eldest daughter’s baptism. “You come from a heritage of faith,” she’d said as she’d fastened the delicate chain around Rachel’s neck. “I hope this cross reminds you of that. You’re never alone.”
For the last thirteen years she’d worn that cross as though it was attached to her. Her fingers had worried it during final exams and difficult conversations, had zipped it along the chain with nervous energy, and had spun the clasp to the back of her neck thousands of times. Taking it off at night and putting it on in the morning were as automatic as brushing her teeth and getting dressed. Or at least, it used to be.
She took it off the night before leaving for Las Vegas, and hadn’t put it back on since. Occasionally her fingers would search for it, and she’d experience a little stab of panic that she might have lost it. But in the days of packing, when many of the reminders of the faith of her childhood had been chucked in the trash, she’d set this aside to be dealt with later. Over and over she’d run into it, set it aside, put it from her mind, only to find it again—often in places where she hadn’t remembered putting it.
She had procrastinated long enough. It was time to make a decision. Had she been thinking, she would have brought it back to her mother when she’d gone to say good-bye. Though, knowing her mom, it would have found its way back to Rachel eventually.
The doorbell rang. Rachel jumped and dropped the box, then scrambled to pick it up again with a shaking hand. As the shuttle driver hauled the first bag down the stairs, Rachel turned the lock on the doorknob and began to move the other pieces outside. She tried to stuff the box in her purse, then in her carry-on, but both were too crammed to fit the bulky cube. The driver returned again and took the second bag, eyeing the remaining carry-on with annoyance.
Rachel pulled the cross from the velvet pillow shoved it in the pocket of her skirt, then dropped the box on the ground and shouldered her bags.
It was an antique, she reasoned. And who knew—she might need the money.
o
It was raining when Rachel walked out of the terminal at O’Hare Airport and wrestled her baggage cart to the curb. Thunder rumbled off in the distance—or was it a landing jet? Either way, it sounded ominous.
Daphne said she’d pick Rachel up in a taxi. She watched a variety of cabs approach and zoom past for twenty minutes before she started to worry. She tried Daphne’s cell but got no answer. She double-checked her location, thinking she’d accidentally parked herself in some special zone, but no. Apparently Daphne was just late.
Forty minutes had passed when a cab swerved to the curb and she saw Daphne’s face in the window. She hopped out ahead of the cabbie and grabbed Rachel with a squeal. “Soooo sorry, the traffic sucks because of the weather. It’s
She set the red velvet box atop the dresser. She didn’t have to open it to know what was inside. Unable to determine its fate, Rachel had shuffled it from one resting place to another as she had systematically emptied her room. She almost wished she had forgotten it, left it behind for Julia to find when she came to pick up the dresser on Saturday. That would have been fittingly ironic, actually.
When she had turned thirteen Rachel had been baptized before the BCC congregation. After the service her family went to lunch, and just before dessert her mother had handed her the velvet box. Inside was the cross she had seen her mother wear nearly every day of her life. She’d told Rachel about her own mother, and her mother’s mother, and how each of them had worn this cross until the day of their eldest daughter’s baptism. “You come from a heritage of faith,” she’d said as she’d fastened the delicate chain around Rachel’s neck. “I hope this cross reminds you of that. You’re never alone.”
For the last thirteen years she’d worn that cross as though it was attached to her. Her fingers had worried it during final exams and difficult conversations, had zipped it along the chain with nervous energy, and had spun the clasp to the back of her neck thousands of times. Taking it off at night and putting it on in the morning were as automatic as brushing her teeth and getting dressed. Or at least, it used to be.
She took it off the night before leaving for Las Vegas, and hadn’t put it back on since. Occasionally her fingers would search for it, and she’d experience a little stab of panic that she might have lost it. But in the days of packing, when many of the reminders of the faith of her childhood had been chucked in the trash, she’d set this aside to be dealt with later. Over and over she’d run into it, set it aside, put it from her mind, only to find it again—often in places where she hadn’t remembered putting it.
She had procrastinated long enough. It was time to make a decision. Had she been thinking, she would have brought it back to her mother when she’d gone to say good-bye. Though, knowing her mom, it would have found its way back to Rachel eventually.
The doorbell rang. Rachel jumped and dropped the box, then scrambled to pick it up again with a shaking hand. As the shuttle driver hauled the first bag down the stairs, Rachel turned the lock on the doorknob and began to move the other pieces outside. She tried to stuff the box in her purse, then in her carry-on, but both were too crammed to fit the bulky cube. The driver returned again and took the second bag, eyeing the remaining carry-on with annoyance.
Rachel pulled the cross from the velvet pillow shoved it in the pocket of her skirt, then dropped the box on the ground and shouldered her bags.
It was an antique, she reasoned. And who knew—she might need the money.
o
It was raining when Rachel walked out of the terminal at O’Hare Airport and wrestled her baggage cart to the curb. Thunder rumbled off in the distance—or was it a landing jet? Either way, it sounded ominous.
Daphne said she’d pick Rachel up in a taxi. She watched a variety of cabs approach and zoom past for twenty minutes before she started to worry. She tried Daphne’s cell but got no answer. She double-checked her location, thinking she’d accidentally parked herself in some special zone, but no. Apparently Daphne was just late.
Forty minutes had passed when a cab swerved to the curb and she saw Daphne’s face in the window. She hopped out ahead of the cabbie and grabbed Rachel with a squeal. “Soooo sorry, the traffic sucks because of the weather. It’s
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