Suited for a Queen

The way the hinges of her suitcase creaked sounded the same way each time my mother snuck out each night.

“Lock the door behind me. Do you hear me, Elizabeth?”

I nodded my head vigorously and the moment she made it through the opened door, light only pulsing through in that second, my feet ran over and pushed it shut the rest of the way. I swung the latch over with a smile before curling up in the cookie monster blanket that was sprawled out over the arm of the couch, the one side sprouting its dark beige fluff.

In the morning she would always bring something. Donuts. Beads. A plastic tiara that was stuck in her mass of dark roots.

The purple feathers of it withered to the floor every time I twirled on my toes in that tiara. She laid down on the couch, cuddling with the same blanket I did through the night.

“Mommy, mommy I am a princess.” I did another twirl to make sure she saw the way my dirt patched skirt fanned out around me.

“Oh no, Elizabeth. You are no princess.” She said, sitting back up so that her toes to where the only things touching the cold tile floor.

She told me such a thing over and over again. When the little girls and teachers called me Lizzie, she insisted that I correct them. Lizzie is a silly girl’s name. Elizabeth is a name suited for a queen.

She brought home presents less. Then she stopped bringing home anything at all.

Even herself.

I woke up to the sun instead of the sound of a key scraping through the lock. The brightness stung my eyes. My eyes watching the door.

It opened.

Each year nearly the same letter came, Aunt Kate’s long nails sliding it across the table without another word. In the beginning I could tell that she opened them before giving them to me. Later in the night I heard wracking sobs through the wall. She must have been sad that she didn’t get a letter. Even that of one that ended with only a few words.

I am well.

All I knew though, year after year with such notes covered in the bold wisps of cursive, was that I didn’t care. Not one bit when my tenth birthday came around. Not at sixteen, when Aunt Kate couldn’t find time to teach me how to drive. Not when I graduated and heard not a single clap from the crowd. It the silence of a knife gently piercing through my chest.

But still, when my roomate April sorted through mail my heart stopped when she got something with my name on it in her mailbox.

“Lizzie?”

She watched me read each block lettered word. It was short, but longer than anything she had ever written.

“Lizzie, are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine.”

It was the same thing I told the flight attendant when I flopped down in my seat near the back of the plane, letting my eyes drift out the window before coming back to stare at my hands folded in front of me. I was wondering who would have the honor of sitting in the aisle next to me when a bag whacked my knees that were squished together, sticking with sweat.

“Sorry. Did mean to do that.” He said, smiling over at her only after he hastily hooked his seat belt. He yanked it as tight as it would go. “You ever fly before?”

No. “Yes.”

“I hate flying.” He swallowed, “I hate the uncertainty of driving though too. Did you know that you are more likely to wreck your car than in some plane crash?”

I tried not to look up at him. It was only a few hours I had to keep my eyes on my hands, picking at the chipped nail polish on my thumb.

“Maybe you should stay.”

“I wish. Going to my sister’s wedding.”

Nodding, I went back to picking at the one corner of California Blue polish that was being particularly stubborn.

“Where are you headed?” The plane lurched forward, picking up speed off the ground. Eyes widened, his hands gripped both armrests until the machine evened back out. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine. Um, I don’t know yet.”

“Taking an adventure?”

I shrugged. Was it ever really an adventure if in the pit of your stomach all you felt was dread?

“I’m Brandon, by the way.” A hand reached over across the miniscule barrier between our seats.

Carefully I took it. His hand was soft, almost like a woman’s, free of bumps and calluses.

“Lizzie.”

“Nice to meet you, Lizzie.”

I wasn’t so sure I could say the same.

Brandon talked most of the trip about his sister and the guy she was going to be walking down the aisle with. She called him this morning with his mother screeching in the background that if he didn’t leave today he would never make it to the hotel in time to get ready.

“It’s not like I didn’t want to be on time. But seriously, that Dan who’s the best man is an asshole. Not one you would want to be around for more than one night.”

As I sat in the ratty apartment, the suitcase sitting on the unmade bed in front of me, reminded me a lot of how Brandon thought about Dan. Overbearing and unneeded.

My hands were buried in fabric.

Fingers ran across silk scarves and the single cashmere sweater hidden near the bottom. It was long forgotten in the all for glamor. For life. Peeling through the clothing and notes plastered around the edges of its floral lining. It was a dream of a world that I could only guess at while I breathed in the rouse of perfume, as if the smell of dust hidden in the corners of a tomb covered in paisley and glitter stained prints.

It was her. All of her in this little case. From the ribbon tied on the handle to the name plate where it was her handwriting, the same handwriting that I saw every year was printed.

Gwen.

Just Gwen. I forgot her name sometimes. It was always ‘Mommy.’ A foreign word even as I whispered it to myself in the empty room. It was a breath of a name. A second to say.

Elizabeth is a strong name. A name suited for a queen.

Slowly, I pulled out the scarves and crinkled dresses from the suitcase, unpacking each article back into the drawers they once were in. Walking towards the mirror, I yanked my hair back down, waves falling back over my shoulders. There.

Somone would be getting married today.

In the pocket with a broken button I found the pencil, smearing shadows around my eyes until they are dark as coal.

Someone would be wearing white.

Slipping on my mother’s pair of heels, it wasn’t like she was going to mind, I made my way down the narrow set of stairs she must of tripped up each morning.

“Yo, watch it.” A guy at the bottom grunted, connecting with her shoulder before turning towards her. His eyes raked up and down her tight dress. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Someone with a step, would be changing their life.

“Elizabeth.”