Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC)

by Katarina Bivald

  I turn my back to the window.

  “Do you remember the first time we met?” I ask.

  It was the summer I turned seventeen. If I could, I would have stopped time right there. I suppose that’s what we like about memories. Looking back, we can stop time. The days don’t move relentlessly forward, because all days have already been.

  Others would probably say that nothing special happened that summer, and maybe they’re right. It wasn’t the summer of my first kiss. It wasn’t the summer when I learned what love was, or the summer when I was teetering between childhood and adulthood. No one died. No dark family secrets were revealed, changing me forever. In fact, no one changed at all—myself excluded, possibly—and not even I can point to anything concrete and say: Look. Here. This happened, at the very least. Three perfectly ordinary cabins were the only clear sign that anything had happened.

  I’m not even sure we were happy. It definitely wasn’t complete happiness, if that even exists.

  But there was a promise of happiness. Everything was new. Our hearts hadn’t yet hardened. Everything was still possible.

  The motel suddenly was suddenly buzzing with life and activity. Trees were felled and glades were cleared, and Camila, MacKenzie, and I battled with stumps and bushes and weeds until our hands were raw and our backs ached, and then the men arrived to build the cabins.

  “I was terrified of those men,” I say to Michael’s back. “They had dirty nails and spat without warning and knocked back beers in under a minute, crumpling the cans afterward. But MacKenzie loved it. Of course she did. She got in among them until you could barely see her anymore—not surprising, given that everyone was a foot taller than she was. But she had enough balls to make them laugh. She asked them about fishing and hunting and made them tell increasingly unbelievable stories, until every one of them had caught a fish that was at least six feet long. Between the eyes. Caught it with their bare hands. Or their teeth.”

  It’s as though I can see the air quivering in the heat. One of those heat waves where the asphalt burns beneath your feet and people worry about the old folks dropping like flies. Then there was the atmosphere. Something in the men’s bodies. A frustration as tangible as their sweat.

  They had already been forced to accept fewer hours at the sawmill, so it wasn’t hard to convince some of them to swing by after work and build the cabins. When they weren’t lying to MacKenzie, they were busy talking about past and future catastrophes. “There’ll be more people laid off.” “You don’t mean that. What makes you think that?” “Maybe because this whole goddamn country is going down the drain.”

  The men were split into two camps. Those who thought everything was going downhill and would go to crap like it always did, and those who thought everything was going downhill and would go to crap in completely new, enormous ways. “No one will stay here once the sawmills are gone,” one of them said. “People are stupid enough to stay anywhere,” said a second. “People will always need wood,” said a third. “Yeah, but they damn sure don’t need us.”

  “And then Juan Esteban hired Derek and ‘a few other kids,’” I say to Michael. “And my life changed. Just like that. Do you remember?”

  Derek Callahan.

  A local legend. The football hero. The demigod. The natural focal point of every group, well known and celebrated wherever he went.

  I don’t say this aloud to Michael. I don’t want him to hear the irritation in my voice. He always worshipped Derek. Instead, I say: “The news that Derek would be working here perked up the men better than beer.”

  He started one Monday or Tuesday in early July. I had already lost track of what day it was. At four in the afternoon, it was still unbearably hot, and everyone stuck to the shade. No one was working particularly hard. Dolores sent us iced tea and lemonade in sweating containers that clinked with ice cubes, and the men lowered their beers into the river to cool them down.

  There were four high school kids, tumbling out of Derek’s bright-red pickup truck, but all eyes were on Derek. He was the stereotypical American teenager: sun-bleached hair, clichéd blue eyes, polite but cocky, with broad shoulders and a flat stomach and narrow hips that reminded the men that they had once looked like that. They were real men and had worked hard for their beer bellies, but even they had once been young and fit.

  “Derek!”

  “Derek Callahan.”

  “Yo, Callahan!”

  That’s what we heard the minute he climbed out of the truck.

  They gathered around him, hitting him on the shoulder and thumping him on the back and saying that the Beavers would have to watch out, huh, with him on the team, the Ducks were sure to win, yeah, Derek, isn’t that right, Derek?

  “How did you decide which school to pick?” MacKenzie asked. She had secretly always cheered on the Beavers, but like everyone else in town, she was willing to change her mind. Derek thumped her on the back and said, “My little bro picked for me,” and everyone laughed at the joke.

  Juan Esteban knew nothing about football, but he understood people, and he knew how to transform his project into something great.

  “Leisure time is the future,” he said. “Leisure and football. That’s the American dream, as close to freedom as most of us will come.”

  Derek nodded politely at Juan Esteban and hit one of his friends when the older man wasn’t looking. Derek’s friends were trying to stifle laughter, not that Juan Esteban cared, and I, well…I was looking at Michael.

  He was tall and slim and could have been strong if he had been able to get his arms and legs under control. His hair was darker than Derek’s and his eyes more reserved. They were the same shade of bluish-gray as the mountains at dusk, and there was something distant about them that also made me think of mountains. They could seem so close but still felt so far away, even as you moved closer. It was as if you could approach Michael for days without ever actually reaching him.

  “Do you think that sounds ridiculous?” I ask him now. “Maybe. But that’s how I felt. I couldn’t stop looking at you, and I also couldn’t explain why. With hindsight, I think it was just one of those rare moments in life when you know you’ve found your way home. You were like a clearing in the forest. You might not notice it at first, but you know it’s been there all along. It was as if you’d been there, waiting for me. That’s what it felt like. I’d been following a path, trudging along with no idea of where I was going, and suddenly I arrived.”

  Back then, there was nothing but pine needles and stubborn roots and piles of fresh timber where we’re sitting now. People, too. A chaotic group of noisy men. Then there was me, who always ended up to one side. Suddenly, I could spend my time there watching Michael.

  He didn’t notice me. Not at first, anyway. He gazed admiringly at Derek, ignored Derek’s friends, seemed interested in MacKenzie and fascinated by Juan Esteban.

  “We’re going to build cabins,” Juan Esteban announced. “Fantastic cabins. People will come from all over the country to stay in these cabins. They’re going to be the best cabins the world has ever seen.”

  Camila stood at the edge of the group with her arms folded. Michael looked at her, too. She shook her head at everything Juan Esteban said. She seemed ashamed of his enthusiasm, but MacKenzie loved it.

  And then Michael’s eyes moved on to me. He smiled, surprised, when he noticed me looking at him, and it struck me that he must be used to being in his big brother’s shadow. Just as I was used to hiding behind MacKenzie. I wondered, in that drawn-out moment when his eyes met mine, whether he had chosen to live that way—as I had—or whether he actually longed to be seen.

  Beside us, MacKenzie laughed at something Derek had said, and I looked away in embarrassment, suddenly aware of everyone around us. I knew that Michael was still looking at me. His gaze felt like a soft, cautious examination. It wasn’t at all intrusive, not frightening, just sur
prisingly gentle. As if he wanted to suss me out without bothering me. As if he thought there was something worth approaching slowly and cautiously.

  “Did you know that was the first time in my life I was grateful MacKenzie wasn’t standing in front of me? And when you eventually looked away, I felt it immediately, like there was something missing from my skin. I wished I’d been more exciting or interesting. Enough so you would keep looking at me, at least.”

  That was another first in my life.

  Chapter 20

  The Dreams We Had

  MacKenzie is alone in one of the booths by the window when Camila slips into the seat opposite her.

  “Tell me how the motel works,” she says.

  It’s midmorning, and MacKenzie has a cold cup of coffee in front of her. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling make her skin look drab and her forehead creased. Maybe the coffee has given her a headache.

  “You’re not going to give in, are you?” she mutters irritably.

  “Nope.”

  “I thought that working in a motel was pointless. Juan Esteban wasted his life. Nothing works. You hate this place.”

  Camila shrugs. A new determination has crept into her movements. “A woman can change her mind,” she says.

  MacKenzie sighs. “Fine, but don’t come moaning to me when you’re bored with it all.” She leans back in her seat. “There are two ways to make money as a motel,” she begins.

  Camila leans forward.

  “You can run it at such a high standard that people are prepared to pay more to stay with you. That means microwaves and coffee makers in every room. It’s got to spotless, with a nice check-in area, friendly staff. You employ people so you don’t have to do everything yourself. If something breaks, you don’t swear at it; you call someone to come and fix it. You could run a small, charming bed-and-breakfast, too—with individually decorated rooms, luxury breakfasts. The whole personal, charming thing.”

  “But why… I mean, what are the risks of that approach?”

  MacKenzie almost smiles. “You mean why would anyone choose to run a cheap, shabby motel instead?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  MacKenzie glances around. The only other guest is a woman in her midsixties, with a bright-red sweater and a pair of glasses with thick red frames. When she came in, she had said hello to Dolores in a clear, cheery voice.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” MacKenzie says.

  There are two plates of pie on the table in front of the woman. Life’s too short to choose between apple and pecan, she had said as she ordered.

  “Do you mind me asking you why you chose to stay at our motel?”

  “I just needed to get a few hours’ sleep. I set off a little late yesterday, and I saw you had vacancies as I was passing by.”

  “And if our rooms were twice the price?”

  “Eighty dollars for a motel room?” the woman sounds indignant.

  “Imagine it’s a charming little bed-and-breakfast.”

  The woman looks embarrassed. “Honestly, honey, I probably would have slept in the car. I don’t need a cutesy room. I’m on my way to see my granddaughter in Washington. She…”

  This is followed by a half-hour pause in MacKenzie’s lesson. The woman has a number of grandchildren scattered around the United States, it seems, and she eventually leaves the restaurant with a jolly wave.

  MacKenzie continues. “Ultimately, there’s a limit to how much people are willing to pay for a motel room. There’s a limit to how much they can afford to spend on accommodations, period.”

  “You’ve never wanted to run a charming little bed-and-breakfast instead?” Camila asks. There is something that sounds like longing in her voice.

  “What would I have done with the motel if I had? The other approach is to cut out any unnecessary expenses and compete by being as cheap as you can. People get what they’re paying for, and that’s what you can mutter if anyone complains. You only deal with the really urgent repairs. The bare minimum of general maintenance, too. If you can find relatives who are willing to work for room and board, that’s a bonus. Otherwise, you do as much as you can yourself.”

  “Well, Juan Esteban managed to find one relative at the very least,” Camila mutters, but so quietly that I don’t think MacKenzie hears.

  “Most of our guests just pass through. They need a place to stay for the night, nothing more. And then there are those who stays in a motel for weeks, because they have no place else to go. Some are new in the area, unable to find a place to rent long term before they’ve cashed a few paychecks. Staying in a motel is seldom cheaper than renting your own place, but we never require a deposit, and you can always check in right away. Juan Esteban never really liked those guests. Felt he was taking advantage of people’s desperation. So we have a fixed, low-price option for people who need to stay here longer.”

  “Like Clarence?”

  “Oh, he can afford it. Sold his house when the wife died. Has some sort of pension. Claims he saves money by living here, but I think he just doesn’t like to be alone. Or possibly just likes to be able to drink full time without having to clean or cook for himself.”

  MacKenzie actually seems invigorated by the conversation. For a moment, I can see the old MacKenzie in her expressions and movements. The way she was before her defensive walls became so high, before I died, before all this. Somehow, Camila has managed to find the right thing to talk about. MacKenzie has always loved both the motel and the madness required to run it.

  MacKenzie seems to be debating something with herself, but then she gets up and says, “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They head upstairs. At the top of the stairs is a short, cramped corridor. On one side is the door into what used to be Juan Esteban’s private apartment, where MacKenzie and I now live. Where I lived.

  On the other is a door that has been closed for years.

  “If you’re going to stay, you’ll need an office,” says MacKenzie. She opens the door. “We haven’t used it since Juan Esteban died.”

  “Jesus Christ,” says Camila.

  “You said you wanted to help. You can start by cleaning in here.”

  * * *

  Juan Esteban’s office has remained frozen in time, but it’s unclear exactly which time that is.

  An enormous computer screen dominates the desk, only marginally more modern than the typewriter. Brochures from the Cross Country Inn and other motel chains are spread out to one side of it, glossy and colorful, with convincing diagrams showing the benefits of joining the family. Everything is covered in a layer of dust.

  Camila has changed into a pair of old jeans with holes in the knees and paint flecks on the thighs, plus a washed-out old T-shirt. She ties up her hair with a scarf and surveys the room in front of her.

  She closes her eyes. Opens them again. The mess is still there.

  “Right,” she says. “I want you to know that you don’t scare me. This is my office now.”

  I don’t know if she’s talking to the room or the spirit of Juan Esteban, but she immediately heads off to hunt for some cleaning products. That’s one thing we have plenty of.

  We keep everything in a large room beneath the office. None of the guests will ever set foot in there, so we haven’t wasted any money making it look nice. The concrete floors are bare, and the shelves are made of untreated wood, barely even sanded.

  Camila drags one of the cleaning carts up the stairs and swears quietly to herself. Then she heads back down for the vacuum cleaner.

  The blinds in Juan Esteban’s office work well enough, but the room looks even worse once she manages to open them.

  A large faux-Persian rug covers most of the floor, possibly the only frivolous item in the entire motel. The bright reds and blues are dull with dust, even after s
he vacuums it.

  It takes Camila several hours, but eventually the room is clean enough to be able to work in. The colors of the rug are visible again, and the big desk is gleaming in places.

  The computer is a different story.

  She grabs the huge screen and tries to haul it away, but it’s heavy and wide and clearly evil. The cord keeps catching on things, the screen constantly threatening to slip through her fingers. She has to stop halfway down the stairs to wipe her palms on her jeans and readjust her grip. Her face turns redder and redder.

  Outside, in the sun, MacKenzie is leaning nonchalantly against the wall. “If I were a gentleman, I’d offer to help you with that, wouldn’t I?”

  Camila’s jaws are tense with effort. “Never. Thought. You. Were,” she manages to mutter.

  “That hurts! And I’ve just had a thought: Shouldn’t I be worried that you’re stealing motel property?”

  “You said it yourself. It’s my motel.”

  The computer screen slips out of Camila’s hands and falls to the ground. “Crap,” she says.

  MacKenzie laughs and shakes her head. “Come on. Give it to me. I’ll get rid of it for you.”

  Camila shakes her head, but she doesn’t argue when MacKenzie takes one side of the screen.

  “Where are we going?” MacKenzie asks.

  “I don’t know. Not too far. I guess we’ll have to put it in my car until I can find somewhere to get rid of it.”

  “Put it in mine. There’s a dumpster in town. I’ll get rid of it later.”

  They haul the screen over the edge of the truck bed.

  “Don’t make me go back up to that damn office,” Camila pleads.

  “You’re the one who said you wanted to help out.”

  “Did he never throw anything away?”

  “Not during the last few years,” MacKenzie tells her. “We vacuumed after he died, and his lawyer went through the papers we needed. But we just ignored the rest.”