a black cloth from his bag and laid it out in front of the suitcase, then set up another tripod for a second light. Peg gave Izzy a pair of plastic gloves and asked her to help rearrange the bonnets, pictures, and silverware on the cloth. Izzy was thankful for the gloves, carefully picking up the fragile items. She wished she had one of the paper masks Peg always wore while restoring paintings or scrubbing dirt from an old artifact. It was probably foolish, but she didn’t want to breathe in the decades-old dust or smell the arid odor of decay radiating from the insides of the suitcase and the yellowing baby clothes. The dry, pungent aroma and bitter tang of death reminded her of old graves, and her parents’ sealed bedroom.
At least in the museum the antiques were on display pedestals or behind glass. You weren’t supposed to touch them. This was different. Now, like one of the first archeologists on a dig, she was handling things that hadn’t been touched by another human in decades. She was helping unearth buried secrets, coming in direct contact with items once owned by people who were now nothing more than a pile of rotting bones in the ground. Not to mention the fact that the owner of these items was insane. She knew it was crazy, but she pictured microscopic particles wafting up from the baby bonnets and silverware, floating through the air and entering her lungs and bloodstream, starting a psychotic chain reaction that, when the tainted molecules reached her brain, would seal her to her mother’s fate. She felt light-headed and tried not to take deep breaths, hoping the day would fly by, so she could go home and shower.
Peg and Izzy finished rearranging the items, then Peter and Ethan took pictures. Izzy and Peg stood back, waiting for Peter to tell them if the items needed to be repositioned. Together, the four of them worked in silence, hovering over the baby bonnets, silverware, photographs, and Bible like a group of surgeons and nurses over an operating table. Once Peg was satisfied with Peter’s pictures, she and Izzy gently returned the contents to the suitcase, closed the lid, and moved on to the next piece of luggage.
While the process was repeated over the next four suitcases, Izzy became aware of every breath and movement; every position of her hands and legs. She felt Ethan watching and could smell his masculine cologne, the woodsy, spiced fragrance reminding her that they were young and a long way from death. She wanted to stay near him, to breathe in his scent instead of the bone-dry stench coming from the suitcases. Sometimes, she accidentally brushed his arm or got in his way, and he smiled at her, a wide, white grin. She ignored him and looked away, irritated that her face was turning red. What was it about him that made her feel so vulnerable, shaky, and exposed?
The butterflies in her stomach reminded her of the way she used to feel talking to her caseworker. But this was different. It didn’t make sense. Ethan didn’t know anything about her. He didn’t know about her past, her present, her trials and journeys, her hopes and dreams. And he never would. He was a spoiled bully, just like his girlfriend. Izzy didn’t want anything to do with him. She needed to pull herself together, especially since they had to go through two hundred more suitcases. Between having Ethan in such close proximity and the discomfort of handling the personal belongings of long-dead, mentally ill people, her thoughts were disjointed and scattered. Every movement took all her concentration.
The suitcases held letters and photographs, silverware and Bibles, suspenders and alarm clocks, buttons and shoes, embroidered handkerchiefs and shaving mugs, a small statue of a dog and a porcelain teacup, a homemade quilt. Izzy wrote every item down, frequently blinking against the moisture in her eyes. She couldn’t help but imagine the parents and spouses and children of the suitcase owners, confused and mourning their
At least in the museum the antiques were on display pedestals or behind glass. You weren’t supposed to touch them. This was different. Now, like one of the first archeologists on a dig, she was handling things that hadn’t been touched by another human in decades. She was helping unearth buried secrets, coming in direct contact with items once owned by people who were now nothing more than a pile of rotting bones in the ground. Not to mention the fact that the owner of these items was insane. She knew it was crazy, but she pictured microscopic particles wafting up from the baby bonnets and silverware, floating through the air and entering her lungs and bloodstream, starting a psychotic chain reaction that, when the tainted molecules reached her brain, would seal her to her mother’s fate. She felt light-headed and tried not to take deep breaths, hoping the day would fly by, so she could go home and shower.
Peg and Izzy finished rearranging the items, then Peter and Ethan took pictures. Izzy and Peg stood back, waiting for Peter to tell them if the items needed to be repositioned. Together, the four of them worked in silence, hovering over the baby bonnets, silverware, photographs, and Bible like a group of surgeons and nurses over an operating table. Once Peg was satisfied with Peter’s pictures, she and Izzy gently returned the contents to the suitcase, closed the lid, and moved on to the next piece of luggage.
While the process was repeated over the next four suitcases, Izzy became aware of every breath and movement; every position of her hands and legs. She felt Ethan watching and could smell his masculine cologne, the woodsy, spiced fragrance reminding her that they were young and a long way from death. She wanted to stay near him, to breathe in his scent instead of the bone-dry stench coming from the suitcases. Sometimes, she accidentally brushed his arm or got in his way, and he smiled at her, a wide, white grin. She ignored him and looked away, irritated that her face was turning red. What was it about him that made her feel so vulnerable, shaky, and exposed?
The butterflies in her stomach reminded her of the way she used to feel talking to her caseworker. But this was different. It didn’t make sense. Ethan didn’t know anything about her. He didn’t know about her past, her present, her trials and journeys, her hopes and dreams. And he never would. He was a spoiled bully, just like his girlfriend. Izzy didn’t want anything to do with him. She needed to pull herself together, especially since they had to go through two hundred more suitcases. Between having Ethan in such close proximity and the discomfort of handling the personal belongings of long-dead, mentally ill people, her thoughts were disjointed and scattered. Every movement took all her concentration.
The suitcases held letters and photographs, silverware and Bibles, suspenders and alarm clocks, buttons and shoes, embroidered handkerchiefs and shaving mugs, a small statue of a dog and a porcelain teacup, a homemade quilt. Izzy wrote every item down, frequently blinking against the moisture in her eyes. She couldn’t help but imagine the parents and spouses and children of the suitcase owners, confused and mourning their
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