The black vinyl suitcase on the carousel had three yellow ribbons tied to the handle, but I missed it twice because my thumbs would not stop twitching against my purse strap.
Lola reached out and grabbed the heavy bag off the moving metal slide, her own wrists strong from twenty years of lifting probate files at the office.
“Your hands are doing that thing again, Maureen,” she said, setting the suitcase upright on the gray concrete floor.
“It is just the coffee from the rest stop,” I said, adjusting my wedding ring, sliding the thin gold band up to my knuckle and back down again.
“You did not drink the coffee,” Lola said, tapping her ballpoint pen rhythmically against the side of her leather clipboard as we waited for her own bag to appear. “You bought a bottle of water and did not even open the cap.”
“Sarah is not answering her texts,” I said, looking toward the exit doors where the late afternoon light was already turning gray. “She was supposed to meet us at the arrivals gate.”
The baggage carousel gave a loud, metallic grunt and stopped moving, leaving the terminal suddenly quiet except for the distant chime of the airport paging system.
“She is eighteen and moody, Lola, it is just a phase,” I said, repeating the words like a prayer I did not believe.
“Nineteen-year-old college students do not leave their mothers on read for forty-eight hours when they need car insurance money,” Lola said, looking directly at my hands.
“She was studying for her chemistry midterm,” I said. “She probably just turned her ringer off.”
Lola pulled her black canvas bag off the belt with a single, practiced jerk of her arm. “Let us get to the car.”
We walked out into the damp October air, the smell of jet fuel and wet asphalt thick in the terminal breezeway.
We were ten miles south of Naperville on Route 59 when I finally played the voicemail.
I held the phone close to my ear, trying to block out the hum of the tires against the highway and the sound of Lola shifting gears.
