"Pressure; Pushing down on me"

He tries to direct me, finagling an old-fashioned paper map with limited information. It’s meant for tourists in downtown, not foreigners without cell service trying to drive their way out of the most populated Canadian city. I steer us parallel to the highway, hoping for an on ramp. He looks for an intersecting street. We’re racing against time, but the sprint is halted by lingering vehicles leisurely navigating late-afternoon Saturday summer traffic.

His demeanor is lost, confused, and infuriated with himself. This was not the plan for the day. My words of comfort don’t matter to him. He can’t believe he made such a rookie mistake. We’re supposed to moseying to our next stop. We’re not supposed to be here, like this.

The call came moments ago. We had just exited the gift shop of the Hockey Hall of Fame, a stop on our spontaneous trip away from Niagara Falls. After two full days on the American and Canadian sides of the natural landmark, we ventured away from the popular destination to a new-to-us place. We had already visited the famed CN Tower and Ripley’s Aquarium of Canada. Next, we planned to see Casa Loma and have an authentic dinner in Chinatown.

We stood in a mall-like area with other museum attendees sorting through their gifts, planning their next stop, checking their cell phones, and venturing to another storefront. His cellphone gets service for the first time since entering the city and it dings to life with numerous alerts. One stands out. It’s from the host of the Airbnb.

“There’s like ten missed calls.” Immediately, he dials the number.

“Hi, I just saw your messages …” he trails off. “I’m sorry. I just got service.”

His expression changes from concern to shock. He mouths “FUCK” to me. His face contorts like it’s made of putty.

“No. We’re supposed to check out tomorrow. We’re in Toronto, there’s no way we can be there in twenty minutes. We’re an hour-and-a-half away. Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

He hangs up. His mind steers him in seemingly eight hundred vastly different directions and he’s so consumed with his supposed mistake booking us for departure on Saturday instead of Sunday, he can’t think clearly. He asks “What are we supposed to do?” “How did this happen?” “Did I really make that mistake when booking?” “Where do we go?” He paces and halts abruptly in front of me. “What do we do?”

Unbothered, I buy a chocolate bar – after feeling an afternoon bout of hangry start to transpire – from a convenience store within the mall and calmly present our options. “We’re an hour-and-a-half away. You said it yourself. If we stay another twenty minutes or an hour to do a little more sightseeing, it’s not going to make a difference. Or, if this is really bothering you, we can go, get our stuff, and get a jump on our daylong drive home tonight instead of tomorrow. Or, we can check into a local hotel and spend one last night by the falls. It’s really up to you. I don’t mind.”

He was visibly panicked. “The host said they’d put our stuff in the garage if we’re not back in time. The next family is due to check in a half an hour from now.”

“Okay, so time is irrelevant. We’re in no rush with any option.”

“I’m afraid they might miss something or forget to pack it. Or someone might steal it. Do you have anything of value at the house?”

“Just my jewelry. The necklace and earring set Brian gave me that I wore to our fancy dinner out the other night.” I felt my stomach drop. This conversation hit too close to home and the memories of late January burglary flooded my mind. Instantly I felt sick to my stomach, but I refused to let him see it. He is already stressing out. “It’s on the kitchen table.”

“I’d feel more comfortable if we left. That way, maybe we can still get in the house if the next family is late checking in.”

Two hours later after more traffic than seems necessary, we arrive at the small colonial home in the ghetto of Niagara Falls, New York. The neighborhood, although we’ve been reassured it’s safe, doesn’t appear any more inviting than when we checked in just days ago. Sure, the inside is welcoming, but the outside is daunting.

There are more cars parked in the street than usual and we assume the new tenants have arrived. Following the host’s directions, we pursue the path to the garage, a spot we hadn’t previously explored. As promised, are belongings are arranged in a neat pile. With a hyper sense of urgency, I begin unzipping the suitcase and pulling items out looking for the beautiful and sentimental set of Brighton pieces. The memory of him presenting the earrings and necklace to me inundate my mind. The joy I feel when I put them on make my quest more pressing. After I search all compartments with the intensity of a drug-sniffing dog, I look again. This time, I go through pockets, then his bags, the cooler, shoes, and still they’re not to be seen.

“They’re missing.”

“Well, that’s to be expected," he says nonchalantly. "That’s the host’s commission. It was silly of us to think everything would be returned.”

“Call her.”

“And, what am I going to say?”

“Tell her I can’t find the jewelry. That’s what you say. Look, we’re not going down that road unless we have to. Now, call her.”

Begrudgingly, he does. He reiterates my concern. “She says it’s in there,” he announces with a voice full of doubt.

“Send her a picture. Do you have one? If not, I’ll get my phone. I have it in there.”

As he searches his old texts and photo gallery, a picture comes through on his phone. “Oh wait,” he says. “Is this it?”

He shows me the photo of the set on the kitchen table inside the home. “Yes!” I exclaim.

“She says the cleaning staff put it in the suitcase.”

Seconds later, he digs through his bag again. Sure enough, tucked between pieces of dirty laundry is a sandwich-sized plastic bag with the pieces inside.

I immediately exhale a sigh of relief.

“Wow. I didn’t expect that. I’m so giving her five stars.”