Nine by Fourteen

A suitcase shouldn’t scare anybody.

Especially me.

I’ve stood in front of three hundred people and dismantled the opponent before they could comprehend a rebuttal. I’ve traveled across the seas, grinding medicinal herbs that would likely kill me if I hadn’t had the guidance from Mom.

I even have a thriving Weeping Fig in my reading nook.

Flinching isn’t in my vocabulary.

This nine by fourteen heathen blankly staring back at me raises my pulse by the second. Anything I want to take with me must fit in this microscopic thing.

Everything else—gone.

Matthew insisted we only need what can fit into a suitcase.

I wonder if amnesia runs in his family.

I make a mental note to pull up his ancestry board. There must be. How could he forget we live in a townhouse? It’s a three-floor shrine of my life. His life. Ours. He steps over the same laundry pile on the way to his own bathroom. The spaghetti sauce on the ceiling is from him forgetting… oh… there it is.

I knew it.

“We’re not staying here, babe. We’re going to a completely different world!” He rakes his fingers through his sandy blond hair. The same hue the sandy beaches have at the Morroca’s on a sunny day.

We’re supposed to visit my aunt there this summer. Just like we’ve done for the past two years. He encouraged me to learn to surf there. It’s also where I wiped out, crashed into a turtle. It nipped at my toe for the intrusion and left a nifty scar as proof.

But where we’re going won’t have the sparkle from the water when the sun says goodnight. It won’t have any water. I don’t even know if it’ll have a sun.

“This is unreasonable!” My temper rises as my arms do. “Our whole life…” a tear slips. My knees cave, and I collapse onto the floor. I curl into myself, wrapping my arms around my knees. “It’s not fair.”

He settles beside me, his warmth soothing my nerves.

“It’s not.” His palm moves across my back in small circles. “It’s fucked. But your Mom secured our spots. Most people are stuck here. You really want to take the extra space for things? Or give that space to someone who can live?”

Sandalwood disappears from the air as he rises, stepping toward the door.

I’ll miss that body wash.

“The memories are in you, Rue. Not in these things.”

His last words before leaving me to my pity party.

The trek to my closet is equivalent to a dead woman walking. The dresses, of all shades of orange, didn’t just represent my sorority, Kappa Delta Chi, but the debates I won—and lost. Banquets Dad held for donors to his college. And my favorite on the rack, the one I wore when Matthew proposed to me.

The air on this new world isn’t sustainable to wear clothes like this. Now, bodysuits, gloves, and a helmet are all the fashion starting tomorrow.

Liquids are not an option.

The lingering presence of Sapphire Dreams, an elegant blend of honeysuckle and ocean mist, on the clothes I’m wearing will be what’s left of my favorite perfume.

My stomach drops.

My phone.

The electromagnetic field prevents the ability to use any of our technology. I’m still bringing it. False hope, sure. But I’d like to believe the smartest people in tech will figure out something once we settle in.

If we’ve evolved on this place, surely we can on another?

I lucked out on finding dry products for my hair. I guess I have that going for me. People will know me as the woman with great curly hair. Maybe I should’ve bought an extra bottle. I could give it to the other women going.

No.

I shake my hands at my side.

There’s only so much space.

No shoes. They’ll give us the special design footwear to keep us grounded once we’re there. Of all the worlds we could’ve chosen, the powers that be chose one with no gravity.

What an inconvenience for my closet.

I turn away from it; nothing in there is worth bringing.

My steps falter when something catches my eye.

Faded green fabric. Stuffing that has flattened over the years of too many hugs. An eye hanging on by a thread.

Robo the Lizard.

My heart leaps into my throat.

Maybe I could skip this expedition. Surely in twenty years, when the shuttle returns to send another crew off, I’d make peace with my favorite stuffie.

Robo’s been with me since I was five. He helped soothe the pain from the doctor ripping my tonsils out.

Just like Mom did when she called this morning, urging me to pack because we’re leaving before the decay reaches our city. The bacteria feeds on everything it touches. The more it absorbs, the quicker it spreads.

Careful not to squeeze too hard, I place Robo under my arm and head to the first floor.

Books of every genre imaginable overstuff the wall lining my office. But my favorite rests on the table. Its pages barely held together by the glue. It’s one draft away from falling apart. But it’s what I grab when life forces hard decisions, and I’d rather fly into a world that isn’t so demanding.

It’s impossible for them all to fit. Carrying them is another burden I can’t carry. The writers joining this expedition will log everything once we set foot on the spaceport.

New history. New experiences.

Wouldn’t they want to preserve the literature of our home? Generations to come wouldn’t know who Tinker Bell is. Or the discoveries of Earth we’re still uncovering.

I slip the book under my arm, praying it can survive the trip through the house.

I could bring CDs, or the old cassettes. They’ll have outdated devices on the station.

But that’s just it.

Bringing a speck of my life is simply that. Outdated.

My award from last summer’s LD competition, given to me by Dad, hangs on the wall alongside my thriving ghost orchid. He was so proud of me in this moment. It was a grueling debate that I thought I’d lose.

If he could see me now, sulking over an empty suitcase, he’d whip up a diagram on how to make the most of the space available.

Air vacuum included.

I never thought I’d stare at them and realize how meaningless they’ve become. The meaning is what I hold. Not the trophy. Not the photograph. Not even the orchid the florist insisted I’m insane for wanting.

There won’t be opportunities like this in this new world. It’s asinine to think we can bring anything but ourselves. We hold the experiences. The knowledge.

My fingers brush along the offshoot of the orchid. Even if it doesn’t know that it’ll die from the decay, it still chooses to grow. I grab the offshoot from the plant, then shoot a text to Dad with a detailed list of care instructions. Even if I won’t get progress reports, I know he’d still do them.

But I can make those opportunities.

I pad across the wood flooring to my bathroom, passing my favorite spot. A bay window with plants of all shapes and sizes lining it. A cozy nook where I recently read The Principles of Life.

It was odd for Mom to drop it off on a random Tuesday, insisting I read it. Not so odd, now. She was preparing for this moment. Growing up with her taught me to enjoy the experiences, not the inconveniences.

Most of those involved Dad, but through her guidance I learned to appreciate his rigid lines, his precious spreadsheets, and his need for tangible proof of existence. If he could create a pie chart on why his day is going to hell, he’d do it. I’m sure he already has.

Their worldview shaped me.

And today I get to decide if I continue to have this world shape me, or welcome a new view from a whole new world.

I met Matthew while rock climbing. Or a sad attempt at it. After the fourth slip, he walked over with a charming smile and offered his hand—and bandages. He admired my unwillingness to be defeated by a rock, he said.

The scars along my legs remind me of all the times my defiance won. Those can’t be stuffed into a small box. Just like the pink butterfly tattoo on my elbow. It covers the scar from the snowboarding accident.

Everything I know isn’t from these things filling up space in a home that is no longer mine. It’s within me.

I brush my teeth for the last time. Silently hoping we’ll have hygiene products when we get there. It’s a three-day trip. I can only imagine what my breath will smell like after the second.

One last look in the mirror.

The pink hair dye dotted from last Halloween shows a woman living her last day on earth.

Striped puffy slippers. Palm tree lounge pants. Black sweatshirt with UNSUBSCRIBE threaded across the chest.

It’ll do.

I wipe the last of my tears from my cheek.

Pointless now. No more debating. I know my picks.

The suitcase taunts me on the bed.

“Matthew! I’m ready.” I let out a hard breath.

And close the suitcase.

My life on Earth summed up in four things.

Dying phone. Robo the Lizard. The baggie with the orchid offshoot.

And a worn book of Peter Pan.