“Brandon,” she said.
He started to unzip it.
“Brandon, don’t.” Her voice had changed completely. “Don’t
open that here.”
And I remembered, in a rush, Lisa standing guard over this exact suitcase the night before. You’re not allowed to check it, Mommy. And I looked at Barbara’s face, which had gone pale and frightened, and I thought, for the first time, what on earth is in that bag.
“There’s something you all need to see,” Brandon said, quiet but clear, so the whole room could hear it. “Before anyone says another word. Especially you, Mom.”
And he pulled the zipper the rest of the way open.
Inside was exactly what you’d expect a seven-year-old to pack. Pajamas, folded messily. A stuffed
rabbit with one ear worn soft. Two little shirts. A ball of mismatched socks. A pair of glittery sandals she’d been dying to wear all summer.
Brandon moved the clothes gently aside.
And underneath, at the bottom, was a handmade picture frame.
Bright blue cardboard.
Gold glitter shedding all over everything. Plastic craft jewels glued on
unevenly around the border, some of them already peeling off. The kind of thing a kid makes at the kitchen table over the course of a whole careful afternoon.
