Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC)

by Katarina Bivald

Camila stands in the doorway for some time, watching MacKenzie work. At first, I think she is including MacKenzie in her critical evaluation of the motel, but there’s something else in her eyes, something I can’t quite place.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she suddenly says. “I hadn’t exactly planned to go on a drunken rant.”

  MacKenzie keeps working.

  “I guess it’s just being back here,” Camila continues. “I felt like a teenager again. And that’s not something I appreciate.”

  MacKenzie smiles faintly.

  “And everything with the motel. Nothing’s changed. Juan Esteban wasted his whole life here, but what did he get out of it? Just work, work, work, and the motel is still run-down. So I…” She focuses on the fan. “Jesus Christ, is there anything that works like it’s meant to around here? Do the coffeemakers even work?”

  “The one in room 7 is a bit temperamental,” MacKenzie tells her. “But it’ll survive a while yet.”

  “I never grieved for him, you know,” Camila says.

  “I did.”

  “I was too busy hating the motel to see him clearly, and he was definitely too busy with the motel to see me.”

  Camila’s eyes are drawn to the floral curtains over the window. Whatever homey touch they might have brought to the room is canceled out by the gray walls and impersonal furniture.

  MacKenzie follows her gaze. “Henny tried to make the place a bit cozier.” Her voice is blunt. It almost seems as if she is trying to get Camila to say something critical, but Camila just smiles sadly. Silence spreads out between them.

  “Anyway, I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” Camila eventually says. “It wasn’t exactly the first impression I wanted to make. So. Yeah. I’ll get back to…doing something.”

  MacKenzie climbs down from the ladder and turns on the fan. It spins a few times, jolts, and then stops.

  Luckily, Camila has already gone. MacKenzie shrugs and climbs back up. I head off to find Dad.

  * * *

  Pine Creek likes to boast about having more churches than bars, but as MacKenzie always says, that isn’t much of an achievement considering the nightlife around here.

  MacKenzie also says that we have more closet drinkers than real Christians.

  Dad’s church, like the majority of those in town, is on Church Street. At first glance, it’s just a simple redbrick building, but that’s deliberately misleading—the same way old money shuns ostentatious displays of wealth.

  The Pine Creek United Methodist Church looks small because it’s one of Pine Creek’s oldest buildings, but as you come closer, it’s easy to be impressed by the pretty stained-glass windows and the gravestones in the “old churchyard”—where the town’s old money is buried.

  The pastor is wearing a pale-blue shirt, and he looks strong and powerful behind his desk.

  Dad shrinks in his presence. His skin looks so pale that it almost matches his white shirt, and his tall frame seems to be drowning amid all the black. Polished black shoes. Pressed black trousers, black tie, black jacket. There are a couple of stubborn grays sticking up from his otherwise manically neat hair, and it pains me to realize that he hasn’t noticed.

  Cheryl’s T-shirt today reads If you think you’re so perfect, try walking on water.

  “So, this Saturday,” says the pastor. “Have you given any thought to the service? Did she have any favorite songs, anything you want us to play?”

  Dad has brought a list of hymns with him. We’re going to sing “Abide with Me,” “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and “When the Trumpet of the Lord Shall Sound.”

  “Sometimes, when someone so young dies…” the pastor begins. “What I’m trying to say is that it can be nice to include something a little more…modern?”

  “Modern?” Dad repeats in roughly the same tone he would use if the pastor had suggested smoking weed at the church’s morning coffee.

  “A pop song, perhaps? Something Henny liked?”

  I don’t actually think that’s a good idea. Most of my favorite songs are country tracks, and it feels cruel to subject my friends to that when they’re already feeling sad.

  “‘Bye, Bye, Baby’ would be perfect if it hadn’t already been used in Love, Actually,” I say, feeling like I should at least contribute to the discussion. “Or something by The Beatles. ‘Hello, Goodbye.’”

  “How about ‘Fly on the Wings of Love’?” Cheryl suggests enthusiastically. “Or ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’? You know, ‘Sooommmeeewheeere, ooover the raaaiiinbooow’?” She stops singing when she notices Dad’s expression. “Or ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’?”

  “I just want a normal, respectful, traditional funeral!” Dad snaps. “Is that so hard to understand? I want it to be dignified. No pop songs.”

  “Maybe people could wear white?” Cheryl says. “All white. White shoes, white trousers, white…”

  “Black,” says Dad. “Dignified.”

  The pastor scribbles something on the sheet of paper in front of him. It might say black. Or dignified. “Would you like to tell me a little about Henny? What she was like?”

  Dad stares at him in confusion. “She was…well, perfectly normal.”

  “Okay, yes,” says the pastor.

  “A good girl. Always conscientious. Never caused any trouble.”

  The pastor scribbles away. I suppose he’s written perfectly normal.

  “And will her…friend want to say a few words?”

  * * *

  Dad storms down Church Street, his black jacket flapping in the wind.

  Cheryl struggles to keep up. Her eyes are fixed on him, which means she has to move sideways, like some kind of stressed-out crab. She keeps opening her mouth to speak, but then she closes it and shakes her head as though she has tried out a few words in her head and decided not to say any of them.

  “It’s…” she begins, but when Dad turns to her, her voice trails off.

  “What, Cheryl?”

  “I just want you to know that if you need anything, I’m here. Anything at all.”

  “I’m going home. What could I possibly need right now?”

  “I meant later. In general.”

  “You always follow me to these meetings, don’t you? Whether I want you there or not.”

  “Yes, but if there’s anything else I can do…”

  “You’ve said that thirteen times already.”

  “Not that many,” she protests.

  “Thirteen. I counted. You’re going to crash into something if you insist on walking like that.”

  “Yes, Robert,” she says.

  Dad looks tired, angry, and sad. Far too many feelings for him to be able to keep them completely hidden.

  “Everyone will talk when she shows up at the funeral,” he eventually mutters.

  He is careful not to look at Cheryl.

  “There’s not an ounce of shame in her body! It makes no difference how well I plan the funeral. Henny was completely innocent. Everyone knows that, but people will still talk and whisper and gossip, all because of her. She stole my Henny from me, and now she’s going to turn my funeral into a spectacle.”

  “Um, don’t you mean Henny’s funeral?”

  “All my life, I’ve tried to do the right thing. I’ve never complained or moaned, unlike certain others. All I’ve asked is that people leave me in peace, that they respect me and don’t gossip about me like they do about everyone else. Henny was a good child. No one had a bad word to say about her. She always said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and didn’t bother anyone. But that won’t matter when she turns up. All anyone will remember is that old story, and I guarantee she’ll say something inappropriate, too. She’ll give a speech or something. Say that Henny is named after a cognac or some other nonsense!”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad,” I say. “It was a joke.�
��

  “I just want a dignified funeral. Is that too much to ask? My daughter is dead. My daughter!”

  * * *

  I walk right back to the motel, but I don’t go inside. Instead, I walk around the back, toward the river. I just have to get away from it all for a while.

  “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” I say to myself. My voice sounds unsteady and oddly distant.

  I swallow. “God doesn’t give us more than we can manage.”

  I falter and lean against the silver birches. Close my eyes. Take a deep breath. When I open my eyes, the mountains are looming above me, and suddenly I know what I need to do.

  I have to take this up with God.

  I cross the river without pausing to think. The icy water comes up to my knees, but I don’t feel any chill. I cross the neighbor’s land and stride past chewing cows.

  I’m going to be completely honest with God, I decide. I’ll admit all my faults and shortcomings. If this is a punishment, I at least want to know what I’m being punished for. Unless…maybe there’s some purpose to this test. Some lesson to be learned, and if I can just find the right argument to convince him, God will let me come back and then we can all be happy again. It can’t be too late for him to fix this.

  I walk and walk, my eyes fixed on the purplish-gray mountains in the background, still in the background, even though the sun has passed its highest point and has started to swing to the west. I’m going to get to those mountains, climbing so high that I can touch the clouds, and then I’m going to force him to fix this.

  If that’s his will, of course.

  Don’t demand anything. Be humble. Reasonable.

  The mountains tower up in front of me, but they’re still several miles away. I compromise and climb onto a small boulder instead, turning my face toward the cumulus clouds.

  “Dear God,” I begin.

  But then I can’t think of anything else. Everything I prepared is gone.

  “I’ve never been interesting or exciting. Maybe that’s one of my shortcomings? I’ve been given every opportunity in life, but I haven’t done anything with them. I haven’t traveled. I’ve barely even left the state. Well, MacKenzie and I once went to Cottonwood, Idaho, to stay at the Dog Bark Park Inn. I guess I can always say that I’ve slept in the world’s biggest beagle. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  I stubbornly continue. “I guess I should have given more money to charity. I’ve tried to help when I could, but I know I could have done so much more. I’m not going to make a secret of that. Is that the lesson I’m supposed to learn? Give more money, help my fellow men and women? Because I’d love to do that if I could just come back. Right now, I’ve got exactly 147 dollars and thirteen cents in my account, but I’ll give it all away, the whole lot. It’s not a problem.

  “I…I haven’t taken care of Dad the way I should have. I should’ve gone to see him more often. But I’ve spent every Christmas and Thanksgiving with him, despite MacKenzie celebrating alone with pizza at the motel. If I can just come back, I’ll take better care of him. I’ll eat dinner with him every weekend. Every day! At least!”

  I don’t know what to say about Michael. It’s difficult, because I think God might be expecting some kind of sacrifice, and I can’t give him up. Eventually, I tell the truth.

  “I’m selfish, I know. I want Michael. But other people get to love without having to die for it, so I… No, I’m not going to apologize. I want him to stay here and be mine, and I don’t care whether he would be happier somewhere else, because I’m not going to let him go again.”

  I glance around in search of some kind of sign that God has heard me. A flash of lightning or a choir of angels or a sea that has suddenly parted. Even some kind of divine wind that can pick me up and carry me back to that Sunday afternoon, so I can look up one minute earlier and not cross the road and turn up in reception, where MacKenzie will be slightly shocked that I am suddenly hugging her…

  But I’m still just surrounded by cows.

  “Come on, God,” I say. “It’s not exactly like you’re entirely innocent yourself, is it? How’s it going with all those wars and famines and followers who seem more interested in harassing LGBT people than anything else? All right, so I wasn’t perfect, but do you really think this is a fair punishment? Whatever happened to ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone’? Huh? Huh?”

  I run my hand over my eyes. That wasn’t what I had planned to say. I’ve annoyed him now. But there still isn’t any lightning, and honestly, what can he do to me that he hasn’t already done?

  I’m dead.

  I’m going to be cremated.

  Fire and heat. Then nothing.

  Chapter 12

  Fire and Heat

  It had been exquisite torture to sit next to Michael in the car on Saturday morning. We had woken up twisted around the sheets and each other, and he had suggested a day trip. I didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to stop touching him now that I had finally been given the chance, but as I sat next to him in the car, I felt good. I decided that I liked looking at him with his clothes on, too. It was fun being able to fantasize about taking them off.

  His hand was on my thigh. It felt natural, as though we were an old couple out for a ride. We both smelled of the same shampoo. I had borrowed his deodorant, too, and every time I moved, I thought of his body. On top of me, inside me, not innocently sitting next to me in the car.

  I was more awake than I had ever been before, but also so tired that my legs ached. I was relaxed and excited, and time had ceased to exist. I thought, Michael is here, and felt the kind of irresponsible happiness you only feel after having sex all night.

  Michael turned to me, smiled, and shook his head. I didn’t know if it was at me or himself.

  I gazed out the window. “Tell me how everything began,” I said.

  The asphalt up ahead of us glittered in the sunlight, and the trees were like dark shadows on both sides of the road. I started the story for him: “Once upon a time, long ago,” I said, “when all of the land on earth was gathered together in one big supercontinent called Pangaea…”

  “You remember its name?”

  I remember everything you told me, I thought.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, this was a long, long time before that.”

  “Hundreds of millions of years ago?”

  “Much longer than that. Four point five billion years ago.”

  “What existed back then?”

  “Nothing. Just fire and lava and smoke. The earth was so hot, it didn’t even have a crust, and it was constantly being bombarded by meteorites.”

  His voice was confident, calmly telling a story about the beginning of the earth. It transported me into a parallel world until we seemed to be driving backward through history, a few million years per mile. The straight road and the pines all around us transformed into a hellish inferno, but I was safe beside Michael. I already knew that water would soon cool the surface of the earth.

  “Earlier than we thought, in fact,” Michael said. “Maybe even as early as 150 million years after the earth was formed. But there was still no oxygen in the air. So we need to jump forward in time, to western Australia.”

  “One of your rocks was from Australia, wasn’t it?”

  “Australia is fantastic. There’s so much of it that still hasn’t been explored. There’ll be enough work there for generations of geologists to come, finding answers to questions we haven’t even asked ourselves yet. The entire continent is like a constant reminder of how small and insignificant we are, and how little we know. Just think of all the amazing things we still have left to explore. One weird thing that has already been discovered are the stromatolites in Shark Bay in western Australia.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Yeah,” he said eagerly. “Im
agine a completely unforgiving landscape.”

  His eyes glittered with some kind of internal fervor, and the words started flowing more quickly. He even took his hand from my thigh so that he could use it to gesture.

  “Scorching sun, red rocks, everything is dry and burned, and the shallow water in the cove is unbelievably salty—more than twice as salty as the sea beyond. But those relentless conditions are the reason the stromatolites are still there. They survive because nothing else does. At one point in time, they dominated all life on earth and fundamentally changed the planet’s climate. They’re the reason for most of the life that came after them, the reason we’re here in Oregon in the twenty-first century, driving a car and thinking about how everything began. And they were definitely the reason for my work in Australia.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They gave us oxygen. In the ocean at first, then in the air, until the conditions were right for the earth to explode into life. The stromatolites are one of the earliest examples of photosynthesis. They took light from the sun and created oxygen. Back then, the ocean was still full of iron. Iron and oxygen… I’ll let you guess what happened next.”

  “Rust?”

  “Yup. It rusted. Year after year for millions of years, layer upon layer at the bottom of the ocean. You can actually still see those deposits in certain places today. It’s like being able to see the planet breathing. The first-ever breaths in the biosphere. That rust is why Australia has such enormous iron reserves. I spent a year working on Mount Whaleback as a result of that. I… Henny! You’re laughing at me. You got me going on purpose, didn’t you, so I’d go on and on about geology again?”

  I smiled. “I’ve missed it.”

  Then I leaned back and closed my eyes and thought about how freedom is being able to drive a car without any idea where you’re going. For this one short weekend, I wasn’t working at the motel, and it felt amazing. Freedom was having Michael’s body beside mine rather than cleaning rooms like usual. It was involuntary yawns as a result of too little sleep and a straight road through the forest.

  * * *

  I know that deep down, Michael does like Oregon, because he took me to Crater Lake, which was formed 7,700 years ago. The Native Americans saw it happen. I know that a place is geologically uninteresting to him if people were around to see it take shape. And he would never go anyplace uninteresting for himself.