Oh, goodness, my pajamas and toiletries and, like, everything — they’re all in those two suitcases somewhere in the vast wide world. Anywhere, if they were placed on the wrong flight.

I have literally nothing in my backpack. Like, a couple of books, some food, my purse, my jewelry. Thank you, Ima, for telling me to put that in my carry-on.

I go back to the carousel where my suitcases should have been — one last, desperate attempt. There’s nothing left, and as I’m watching, the conveyor belt stops moving.

I drag my feet to the exit where Zeidy is waiting. I pass under the sign reading Nothing to Declare. Of course not. I have nothing at all.

I wonder if I’ll ever see my suitcases again.

***

I hear Zeidy before I see him.

“… ages ago,” he is saying. “I just spoke to Mrs. Chaimowitz and they’re already almost home. I just don’t understand where—”

I turn around, and my grandfather is right there, to my left, talking agitatedly into the phone. I see him a split second before he sees me.

“Ashira! Baruch Hashem, I have her! We’ll be home soon,” he says, presumably to Bubby, and then I notice someone else, just behind Zeidy.

Someone tall and dark-haired and leaning against the wall with a casual air, hands in his pockets…

“Yaakov!” I blush, feeling like I should have greeted Zeidy first. “Zeidy. Thank you so much for coming to get me. I’m sorry I was so long… crazy story…”

“Where’s your luggage?” my brother demands, cutting in. “You didn’t leave it behind, did you? You can’t go back through those—”

“I know that,” I say, rolling my eyes at how it’s possible to be so happy to see someone and so annoyed with them already, all at once. Brothers! “My stuff didn’t arrive. I filled in the forms. They’re supposed to call me.”

We stand around for another minute or two, and then Zeidy says, “Well, you must be exhausted, Ashira. Shall we head home? Bubby’s anxiously waiting.”

We’re sitting in the car, Yaakov and I in the back seat, when I finally get to process.

“You came. I can’t believe you came to the airport, that you’re here,” I say.

“Of course I came,” he says, grinning back. “Where else should I be?”

And that’s when, mortifyingly, I burst into tears.

***

I’m so depleted — tired, drained, emotionally done — that the rest of the evening blurs even while it’s happening.

I’m vaguely aware of Bubby’s welcoming hug, of a bunch of people making a lot of noise who, when I force myself to focus, turn out to be two of my aunts and several cousins, all with authentic British accents (okay, duh, but still), of course, right at home in Bubby’s house, while I feel like I’m gate-crashing on a family reunion. (It is a family reunion. With me. I’m a stranger at my own party; how weird is that?)

Yaakov calls home from his phone and I speak to Ima for five minutes — she’s whispering, it’s super late at night back in India. I hang up the phone feeling, if it were possible, even further away than before.

Then Yaakov looks at the time, startles, and says he has to get back to yeshivah. Bubby packs him up some food — we’re about to eat supper, wow, I could do with something hot and homemade and just real, regular, non-airline, non-packaged food — and then the door slams behind him. I’m on my own here.

I sit between Aunt Chana and one of the cousins (I think it’s Tzivi. But it could be Dini. They’re just one year apart and could pass for identical twins), and Bubby serves hot soup and a fancy main course that could easily pass for a Shabbos seudah — chicken steaks and baby potatoes and three salads. I try not to yawn too widely.

I just want some peace, quiet, a bed. Oh, and my suitcases.

“Let me show you your room. You can put your — or rather, you can get yourself settled a little,” Bubby says, catching herself before she mentions my missing suitcases. Is it so obvious that I’m a little overwhelmed?

Okay, make that a lot overwhelmed.

“Ashira, I’m taking you shopping tomorrow, we’ll get you some basics till your luggage arrives,” Aunt Chana announces. That’s nice of her, I guess, but I also feel kind of off-kilter, like why is my schedule being planned for me? I just want to own my space, my time, my life again. Is this how it is in London? Or is this just Aunt Chana? Ima’s totally not like that.

Bubby’s staircase curves gently as we climb; I love her house. It’s so regal, a real British piece of architecture. I hear a muffled giggle from above, and blink when I see two more cousins sitting on the top step, heads bent towards each other.

Wait, there’s more of them?

“Raizy, Bella, there you are,” Bubby says, patting the nearer one on the head as she passes. “We thought you’d gone out or something. You haven’t said hello to Ashira yet.”

Oh my, seriously, this is beyond cringe. Raizy’s my age. I haven’t spoken to her in three years. And Bella’s younger than we are, and it’s been even longer since I exchanged a word with her.

The girls both giggle, even as they flutter their eyelashes and say, “Hi, Ashira,” in an overly-sweet chorus.

Boy, oh boy. “Hey,” I say lightly, and I climb on past them. If they’re not happy to have me here, I’m not going to get in their way any longer.

It’s not like I care about being buddy-buddy with them. My cousins with their sweet British lives and giggles and secrets, sitting at the top of the stairs in Bubby’s house. My house, now.

“Welcome home,” Bubby says, throwing open the door of the second bedroom.

Home?

I look around.

This is Ima’s old room; it’s been a guest room for years, but there are still comforting traces of her that linger: the pastel-sunset shaded wall that I think she painted herself as a teen, the teddy bear collection on a shelf in the corner, the cute quotes stuck to the mirror and on the inside of the closet doors.

I have a vague idea that it would be nice to look around, explore the room from every angle, get to know it now that it’s mine for the foreseeable future, but right now, I don’t have the headspace for anything but sleep.

I sink onto the bed, fully dressed, and kick off my shoes.

Bubby blows me a kiss and retreats.

Welcome home. The words echo in the empty space around me.

My last coherent thought, before sleep grabs me, is that home has never felt so far away.

to be continued…

***

The man at the counter is helpful, but also, totally not.

“So if you’ll just fill out these forms here, I’ll put the query through for you, and we’ll get back to you within 48 hours,” he says, once I’ve finally convinced him that yes, I was waiting at the right carousel, and no, my suitcases definitely did not come out without my noticing.

Wait, what? “Forty-eight hours? Until my suitcases arrive?”

“Eh, not exactly. Forty-eight hours until we get back to you with some information,” the helpful-not-helpful man at Lost Luggage clarifies, nodding very quickly. “It might be sooner, of course, there’s just no knowing with these things.”

“But you’ll find it?”

“We do hope so, miss. Generally, missing baggage is sent on the next available flight, and we deliver it within the week or so. But not always. It depends.”

I give up and scrawl my information as best as I can across the page. I don’t know Bubby’s phone number by heart, so I give Ima’s, Abba’s, and my brother Yaakov’s, and hope the message gets through to me somehow — even if it has to come via India.

“So that’s two suitcases, Mumbai-London flight number 51834?” The man — his name tag reads Jonathan — confirms. “That’s all, then. You can leave now, and we’ll be in touch as soon as we have information for you.”

I don’t want to leave. I want my suitcases. My clothing. My winter coat. My accessories and a couple of my favorite books and my cozy sweatshirt that feels like a giant teddy bear.

Oh, goodness, my pajamas and toiletries and, like, everything — they’re all in those two suitcases somewhere in the vast wide world. Anywhere, if they were placed on the wrong flight.

I have literally nothing in my backpack. Like, a couple of books, some food,

my purse, my jewelry. Thank you, Ima, for telling me to put that in my carry-on.

I go back to the carousel where my suitcases should have been — one last, desperate attempt. There’s nothing left, and as I’m watching, the conveyor belt stops moving.

I drag my feet to the exit where Zeidy is waiting. I pass under the sign reading Nothing to Declare. Of course not. I have nothing at all.

I wonder if I’ll ever see my suitcases again.

I hear Zeidy before I see him.

“… ages ago,” he is saying. “I just spoke to Mrs. Chaimowitz and they’re already almost home. I just don’t understand where—”

I turn around, and my grandfather is right there, to my left, talking agitatedly into the phone. I see him a split second before he sees me.

“Ashira! Baruch Hashem, I have her! We’ll be home soon,” he says, presumably to Bubby, and then I notice someone else, just behind Zeidy.

Someone tall and dark-haired and leaning against the wall with a casual air, hands in his pockets…

“Yaakov!” I blush, feeling like I should have greeted Zeidy first. “Zeidy. Thank you so much for coming to get me. I’m sorry I was so long… crazy story…”

“Where’s your luggage?” my brother demands, cutting in. “You didn’t leave it behind, did you? You can’t go back through those—”

“I know that,” I say, rolling my eyes at how it’s possible to be so happy to see someone and so annoyed with them already, all at once. Brothers! “My stuff didn’t arrive. I filled in the forms. They’re supposed to call me.”

We stand around for another minute or two, and then Zeidy says, “Well, you must be exhausted, Ashira. Shall we head home? Bubby’s anxiously waiting.”

We’re sitting in the car, Yaakov and I in the back seat, when I finally get to process.

“You came. I can’t believe you came to the airport, that you’re here,” I say.

“Of course I came,” he says, grinning back. “Where else should I be?”

And that’s when, mortifyingly, I burst into tears.

I’m so depleted — tired, drained, emotionally done — that the rest of the evening blurs even while it’s happening.

I’m vaguely aware of Bubby’s welcoming hug, of a bunch of people making a lot of noise who, when I force myself to focus, turn out to be two of my aunts and several cousins, all with authentic British accents (okay, duh, but still), of course, right at home in Bubby’s house, while I feel like I’m gate-crashing on a family reunion. (It is a family reunion. With me. I’m a stranger at my own party; how weird is that?)

Yaakov calls home from his phone and I speak to Ima for five minutes — she’s whispering, it’s super late at night back in India. I hang up the phone feeling, if it were possible, even further away than before.

Then Yaakov looks at the time, startles, and says he has to get back to yeshivah. Bubby packs him up some food — we’re about to eat supper, wow, I could do with something hot and homemade and just real, regular, non-airline, non-packaged food — and then the door slams behind him. I’m on my own here.

I sit between Aunt Chana and one of the cousins (I think it’s Tzivi. But it could be Dini. They’re just one year apart and could pass for identical twins), and Bubby serves hot soup and a fancy main course that could easily pass for a Shabbos seudah — chicken steaks and baby potatoes and three salads. I try not to yawn too widely.

I just want some peace, quiet, a bed. Oh, and my suitcases.

“Let me show you your room. You can put your — or rather, you can get yourself settled a little,” Bubby says, catching herself before she mentions my missing suitcases. Is it so obvious that I’m a little overwhelmed?

Okay, make that a lot overwhelmed.

“Ashira, I’m taking you shopping tomorrow, we’ll get you some basics till your luggage arrives,” Aunt Chana announces. That’s nice of her, I guess, but I also feel kind of off-kilter, like why is my schedule being planned for me? I just want to own my space, my time, my life again. Is this how it is in London? Or is this just Aunt Chana? Ima’s totally not like that.

Bubby’s staircase curves gently as we climb; I love her house. It’s so regal, a real British piece of architecture. I hear a muffled giggle from above, and blink when I see two more cousins sitting on the top step, heads bent towards each other.

Wait, there’s more of them?

“Raizy, Bella, there you are,” Bubby says, patting the nearer one on the head as she passes. “We thought you’d gone out or something. You haven’t said hello to Ashira yet.”

Oh my, seriously, this is beyond cringe. Raizy’s my age. I haven’t spoken to her in three years. And Bella’s younger than we are, and it’s been even longer since I exchanged a word with her.

The girls both giggle, even as they flutter their eyelashes and say, “Hi, Ashira,” in an overly-sweet chorus.

Boy, oh boy. “Hey,” I say lightly, and I climb on past them. If they’re not happy to have me here, I’m not going to get in their way any longer.

It’s not like I care about being buddy-buddy with them. My cousins with their sweet British lives and giggles and secrets, sitting at the top of the stairs in Bubby’s house. My house, now.

“Welcome home,” Bubby says, throwing open the door of the second bedroom.

Home?

I look around.

This is Ima’s old room; it’s been a guest room for years, but there are still comforting traces of her that linger: the pastel-sunset shaded wall that I think she painted herself as a teen, the teddy bear collection on a shelf in the corner, the cute quotes stuck to the mirror and on the inside of the closet doors.

I have a vague idea that it would be nice to look around, explore the room from every angle, get to know it now that it’s mine for the foreseeable future, but right now, I don’t have the headspace for anything but sleep.

I sink onto the bed, fully dressed, and kick off my shoes.

Bubby blows me a kiss and retreats.

Welcome home. The words echo in the empty space around me.

My last coherent thought, before sleep grabs me, is that home has never felt so far away.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 945)