The Yellow Suitcase Read online

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-09837-424-2 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-09837-425-9 (eBook)

  For my friend, lover & husband

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-FOUR

  About the Author

  ONE

  January 1995, Eastern Europe

  It was New Year’s Day around noon when I woke up. The air was cold, my body was sweating and my mouth was dry. I didn’t want to see the world that day. I had a major hangover and was feeling so embarrassed that I just wanted to disappear from this place and the people around me.

  I know it sounds dramatic but that’s the way I felt. I was sick, moody and angry. All negative stuff. It started when a few of my girlfriends and I decided to celebrate New Year’s Eve together. No brothers, sisters, cousins or any other relatives. Every other celebration followed the same tradition—lots of food and drinks with family, relatives and close friends. Every year we’d go to someone’s home or rent a place. These were good times. But now we were older and (somehow) still single; we thought we should break with the tradition and go out to a club, do some dancing, and maybe meet someone interesting.

  The four of us were best friends and neighbors, and our parents, brothers and sisters were close as well. We were all pretty and charming (if I do say so myself). All of us were coming from traditional families where there was lots of love and support for each other. “Traditional family” also means that one day you’re supposed to have your own family, which meant getting married and having kids.

  Back then it was almost tragic if you were twenty-one or something and still not married. To make it worse, most of our other friends were already married and even had one or two kids. Some even got married when they were eighteen. It was that kind of lifestyle. There was nothing else to do, so getting married was one of the fun parts of life, especially if it came with a big wedding. Most parents would throw a wedding no matter what. If they were tight with money, they would borrow some. I guess the parents wanted to have some fun too.

  We all graduated from college and had jobs, but no matter what kind of work you did at that age, you never had enough money, unless your parents gave you some. Most parents would support their kids financially if they needed it, even though they were adults, and even if they were married.

  I think it was a bit much, but the parents didn’t have much to do either. I think some of them liked having their children dependent on them, so they could still have control, and so they wouldn’t move away from them. We’re all a little selfish, right? So, this “support each other” thing seemed to work pretty well.

  After asking around, we found a nightclub where there was going to be a New Year’s Eve party with a DJ and that was affordable. Since I was the only one in my family with a job at that moment, I supported everyone, and I rarely had any extra money to indulge myself with things and doing stuff. But what I did have was a lot of friends in the city. I mean, I was well connected with many people. So even if I couldn’t afford many things, I was always invited to parties, concerts and events, and my friends would take care of me.

  It was a time when many people couldn’t find work and families were struggling with money. Mine was one of them. Every day was difficult. The economy was really bad in the country. It wasn’t that people didn’t want to work. They weren’t lazy. It was just really hard to find even some elementary work. I was lucky. I had a job, sometimes two. But when it came time to buy an event ticket, I barely had enough money.

  We got the tickets but kept our New Year’s Eve plans a secret until the last minute, to avoid all the questions about why everyone wasn’t going to be together. And what was the most important reason for the four of us to go out on our own? You can’t flirt with guys and be free to do whatever you want if you’re out with an older brother or sister.

  Let’s say you’re feeling good and want to go a little crazy. You can’t do that with family there. You’ll hear a lot of criticism, which I hated. We weren’t bad girls. We wouldn’t do something stupid or unacceptable. I guess we just wanted our freedom.

  Yes, that’s it. Freedom. Parents are great, and so are brothers and sisters. But sometimes they can drive you crazy. Especially Moms. Most Dads couldn’t care less what their kids are wearing or what their hair looks like. But Moms? They care about all of it. They want you to look, dress and do your hair just the way they want, so they can be so proud of you. What can you do? Even if I didn’t want to go out looking the way she wanted, in the end I would, so I could make her happy.

  The party tickets only got us in the door. Food or drinks weren’t included. We couldn’t afford the drinks, so we brought a bottle of vodka. One of my friends hid the bottle in her coat. That worked, and we all got so excited as we made our entrance into the room. The club was small, with only two rooms. One was with a bar and a couple of couches. The other was a bigger space with the DJ. They said there was a DJ, but I never saw one.

  It was black inside. We could barely see each other. Every so often you could see because of some kind of disco lighting, which I guess was pretty cool. When it was dark we would sip a little vodka so we could get a buzz and some liquid courage to break free from being shy and insecure. Then we could dance and flirt with ease. I sipped a few times and sat down on the couch to wait for a buzz.

  I’m not feeling a thing. Hmmm ... maybe I didn’t drink enough? I should have some more.

  I went back to the dark room and drank some more as I watched all my girlfriends feeling buzzed and happy. I wanted that buzz too, and I was in a hurry. I had another drink and then another. I stayed there with my friends and danced and finally started to feel this nice buzz as the music played. As I looked around, the room was packed. Everybody was dancing, happy and drunk.

  I feel happy too. But I don’t like this spinning disco light. It’s making me dizzy. I’m going to take a break. Oh … uh oh.

  Suddenly I felt buzzed, and not in a fun way, but in a sick way, when you want to find a bathroom—fast. I went to the bathroom. I felt sweaty and dizzy. I stayed in the bathroom for a while, just sitting on the toilet hoping the sick feeling would go away. It didn’t, but I made myself believe I was all right. I forced myself to get up. I didn’t want to miss all the action out there. I went back to the dance floor and pretended everything was just fine, but it hit me again. I didn’t feel right and went back to the bathroom.

  Then I threw up. I thought it would help get rid of the alcohol in my body, but nope. I felt even worse. I sat down on the toilet and couldn’t move. I couldn’t even open my eyes. I tried but I just couldn’t do it.

  I stayed in the bathroom sitting on the toilet and leaning my head on the wall. I don’t remember how long I was in there, but it seemed like all night. Every once in a while, one of my girl
friends would come into the bathroom and yell to be heard above the pounding music.

  “Alyssa!! Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m OK. I’ll be right out.”

  The girls were having a good time, and since they were taking turns looking for me, I don’t think they realized I was in the bathroom for so long. I guess I bought the New Year’s Eve ticket to use the bathroom all night.

  After what seemed like forever, one of my girlfriends came in again. She already knew which stall I was in and told me that we were leaving the club. One of our friends was on his way to pick us up so we could go to some other place. I had no choice now. I needed to force my eyes open, get up and pretend that I was doing just fine.

  When I got out of the bathroom and walked through the club, it seemed like there were fewer people: Some drunk people, a few boys and girls standing by the bar. A few couples were having pointless conversations. You know: the kind of passionate, drunken discussions that have no meaning whatsoever, if you can even remember them.

  It seemed very late. My girlfriends were pretty buzzed, and they couldn’t figure out how long they had been dancing and chatting with others. I got my coat and went straight to our friend’s car. I sat in the back seat by the window so I could put my head on something. My head was so heavy I had trouble keeping it up.

  As soon as we took off, I closed my eyes. It was night and dark in the car so no one could see my face. The girls were so loud and so was the music playing on the radio. The car was going so fast, but I didn’t care about any of that.

  All I cared about was getting home without them noticing how drunk I was. The strange thing is, I remembered everything that happened that night, every single moment. I think I was poisoned by the vodka. I just got sick from it. Maybe it’s because I didn’t eat much before going out, but whatever the reason, it was a really bad feeling. It was a long time before I had another vodka.

  We soon approached another place to continue partying. Everybody got out of the car and I was next, but I just couldn’t move. I couldn’t even say hello to some other friends as they approached the car. They were knocking on my window and kept saying, hey, get out, hurry let’s go. I tried really hard to open my eyes, but it was impossible.

  “Hey Ivan,” I said to my friend who drove us. “Can you do me a big favor and take me home? I’m really tired.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Great, thanks,” I said.

  “Hey guys,” he said, “I’m going to drop Alyssa off. I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, OK. We’ll take a ride, so you won’t be alone on the way back,” some said, and they all piled into the car.

  Great, now there are even more boys in the car. More people around so I can be even more embarrassed.

  I know it’s not a big deal to get drunk or sick. So what? But I’ve always been a proud person and maybe a little insecure. I thought this was such a big deal that the next day the whole city would talk about me and laugh. I was so ashamed and mad at myself for having even drunk the stupid vodka. It’s just not cool or sexy for girls to drink like that. I understand having a cocktail at the bar, sipping it slowly, and being all feminine, which was the way I was, mostly. That’s why I was disgusted with how I behaved at the club. I criticized myself all the time.

  The guys in the car were as loud as the girls. They were buzzed too, so they didn’t pay much attention to me. I would open one eye once in a while to see how far we had to go. Finally, we had approached my house.

  I got out, said thank you, and pretended everything was fine. I went into the building, pushed the elevator bottom and guess what? It wasn’t working. Of course. Out of order. Typical. It took me a long time to walk up to the seventh floor. I was struggling with the steps and trying hard not to fall. I couldn’t even keep my head up. I eventually made it and went straight to my room and crashed.

  Now I’m (barely) awake, wearing the same clothes from the night before and I stink.

  Even before I opened my eyes, I knew I hated everything. I hated myself, my life, my home. Everything. This was one of the biggest moments of my life. I made a major decision. And what was it? Let’s go back.

  TWO

  I was 21 and single. I had a decent job with just enough income to support my entire family. I had a relationship with a guy. I thought we were in love. But after some kind of silly conversation, we broke up. Just like that. No reason.

  That kind of break up is the worst. When you don’t even know what happened or why. There are so many questions and doubts spinning in your head. It drives you nuts. Somewhere you have some glimmer of hope that you might get back together one day. And that hope makes you so impatient and distracted. I thought my life was over and I’d never fall in love again. I thought he was the one and no one else. I guess I wasn’t happy with my life. That’s why everything was so dramatic.

  My family’s lifestyle changed when my father died unexpectedly from a heart attack. He was forty-four years old. I was twelve. He was highly educated and a well-known, prosperous businessman. Before he died, my siblings and I lived an upper-class life and didn’t want for anything. As we grew up, we were given the best education and were taught the right manners and etiquette. We had a summer house in the country and a private house in the city. Our family was the center of attention for many people in the city.

  We had caviar for breakfast and high-quality meats for dinner. We had a private tailor for clothes and shopped for the best shoes. We even had a car with a private driver. We had fun and a love for sharing with others. My mother never worked. She stayed at home and took care of us, with love and attention. We had it all, until my father died. And we quickly went from an easy life to a difficult one.

  Back then in my country, no one had life insurance or much savings. Why bother? What could possibly go wrong, right? Well, all the income died with my father. Once he was gone, so was everything else. Even his well-connected friends and the people he had done so much for slowly faded away from us. People are like that. When you have power, everybody’s your friend. Once you don’t? They forget about you. At least that was my experience.

  It’s really hard when your life suddenly transitions from comfort to fear. Instead of a carefree life, we lived day to day, making sure we had a place to live, food to eat and decent clothes to wear. We sold everything we could—the house, furniture, clothes, jewelry, silverware, dishes—for living money. I no longer lived in a nice house, with my own room and nice clothes. I remember once my mother wanted to take the bus and I started crying, begging her to call a taxi. I wasn’t used to public transportation.

  But through it all, we always had each other and love. I had a great family and great friends. Some of my friends came from families with money. They would always invite me wherever they were going, so at least I had something of a social life.

  As I grew up, I became more and more ambitious to get back to the same safe, nice life that I had before. I wanted more, but I wanted to get it on my own and not from my friends. I wanted to be the person who paid for my friends and not the other way around.

  So, what was my major decision that New Year’s morning, when I was tired and disgusted with myself and my life? I was going to do something about it. Continuing to live like that was not an option. I spent a lot of time over the next few days doing some serious soul searching.

  What do I really want? How can I make my life better? What options do I have? I need to be honest about money. Let’s face it, money is power and freedom. It will let me do what I want, when I want. I can study for a career or open a business. I can improve my image with the right clothes and styles. Even if I get sad I can just go away for a while, to snap out of it. I need money, but not just for myself. I need enough to help others. Not only for my family, neighbors and friends, but also for people I don’t even know. I want to give back—to society and to people who struggle. To be so financially stable that I can do whatever I want, and to make others happy, which would bring me happiness.
>
  All these thoughts were racing through my head, but I couldn’t see any path to my dreams. This country didn’t provide opportunities to break through and succeed. The most common way was to get married to some rich guy, but even that wasn’t easy. Even if I could find him, it couldn’t be just anyone. I had to have feelings for him. I wasn’t lucky to find love and money at the same time. Besides, even when life was easy, somewhere inside, I had doubts that I belonged here. I didn’t like the traditions, the old-school mentality or atmosphere. I’m not saying it was bad for everyone. It just wasn’t my cup of tea, that’s all.

  While I struggled to find a way forward, I always believed that once you start searching for something, somehow people, things and opportunities come to you, no matter what it is. You are what you think, so I changed my mind. I thought about how to make my life easier, pleasurable and more interesting. I thought about it day and night, and I waited. Then one hot summer evening in 1995, I got a call.

  “Hi Alyssa,” my friend Niki said. “What are you up to?”

  “Not much. Just finished dinner, doing the dishes. How about you?”

  “Same, but I did have an interesting chat with my relative Blanka. I think you met her once? She said she met a woman who could help get a U.S. invitation letter to apply for a visa. Isn’t that cool?”

  I had thought about going somewhere, but I wasn’t sure where. Maybe work in another country? If I go to America, I could learn English, which is always useful in business. Come back with a little savings and experience so I could get a better job or even start a business. I could help my family and myself.

  “That is interesting,” I said.

  “I would love to go to America.”

  “Me too, especially to New York. I’m sure it’s fantastic. Well, at least based on the movies we’ve seen.”

  We laughed and continued chatting into the night. When I went to bed, I thought about the conversation. Niki said if you got the visa, the lady could also help you find a job when you got to the U.S. But getting a visa from the American consulate was challenging. There were always a lot of applications and they only approved a few, so the odds were against you. But there was always a chance.