Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC)

by Katarina Bivald

  Something in their quick dismissal of him, in only speaking to Bob, seems to spur Derek into action.

  He excuses himself and pulls out his phone, taking a couple of steps away from the women and leaving Bob to drum up every ounce of charm he has.

  “Ned!” Derek says. “Do you have a minute? Dad says hi, by the way. No, haven’t managed to fit much in golf lately. The knee’s been playing up again, you know how it is. Yeah, we’re all getting older. Listen, you couldn’t do me a favor, could you? No, I don’t want to sell you anything. I’m trying to get hold of some paint. Outdoor paint. For the school. Yeah, of course it was MacKenzie. One of her jokes. No, no, not funny at all. Of course not. Ah, you’ve got a can of the pale-blue paint left. But I was thinking we should be a little more ambitious this time. If I can get together a team of guys for the painting itself, do you think you’d be able to sponsor the paint and a couple of brushes? I was thinking the football team could help out. As a personal favor to me. Would look good for you in the Gazette. You promise to think about it? Great. Say hi to the wife.”

  Derek hangs up. Everyone is staring at him.

  “He’ll go along with it,” Derek tells them. “He just needs a little time to convince himself it was his idea.”

  The woman with the child allows herself an appreciative smile before she sets off to continue her chores. Bob seems to be hoping that Cheryl will leave, too, but she is still lingering.

  “Derek,” she says eagerly. “What do you think of the motel?”

  “I, uh, don’t really have an opinion.”

  “I have an idea,” Cheryl continues. “And it strikes me that you could be the perfect person to do it. I need someone who can make things happen and who has the right ambitions. Someone has to do something about that darn motel.”

  “Excuse me, Cheryl,” Bob quickly butts in. “We’re already late for another meeting. Now that Derek seems to have solved the problem with the school…”

  “But that’s precisely why I want to talk to him about—”

  “Gotta dash!” Bob practically drags Derek away with him.

  “Why didn’t you want to listen to what she was saying? Wasn’t that the whole point of politics? Listening to people’s problems and seeing how you can fix them? I managed pretty well with the school.”

  “I know what she wanted to say. She’s already talked to me about it.”

  “So…? Did you fix it already?”

  “It’s unfixable.”

  “Maybe you just need some new ideas.”

  “Let me tell you about… Let’s call them special interests. People can be very convincing. And very, very enthusiastic. It’s easy to get drawn in, but if something goes wrong, it’s you who’s left with a whole street of shrunken elms.”

  “What if they have a point, though?”

  “They always do. From their point of view. The problem is that they’ve got no sense of proportion or perspective, no idea that someone might see things different from them. They’ve got their ideals, and they aren’t interested in meeting or compromising or even discussing the problem.”

  “Yeah, we couldn’t possibly bring ideals into politics,” Derek mutters. “How would that look?”

  “What I’m trying to say is that there are a lot of folks with a lot of different ideals, but we all have to live together. And they want their issue to dominate everything.”

  “So what’s her issue?”

  “The motel.”

  “MacKenzie’s motel? Because of the rainbow flag?”

  “That just gave her fuel for the fire. What she’s really upset about is the fact the motel tempts the town’s kids—and older people—into ruin. She sees it as an entry point into alcohol, drugs, and bad morals.”

  “I had no idea the motel was so exciting. Maybe I should move in there myself.”

  “Don’t joke about it when Cheryl’s around. That’s what happens when you have strong convictions. Your sense of humor’s the first thing to go.” He smiles as he says it. He is relieved that Derek doesn’t seem to have been infected by Cheryl’s enthusiasm. “I told you, didn’t I?” he adds. “Mad obsessions!”

  Derek shrugs. He has already lost interest. He is still thinking about his first political victory.

  “At least they didn’t complain about my smile this time,” he says, thumping Bob on the back.

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to paint the whole damn school,” Bob reminds him. Still, he sounds impressed. He sizes Derek up. “Talk to Stacey. I’ve got a couple of dinners I thought you could tag along to. Purely social. With the most important people in town. You’ll need their support if you’re going to make it as a politician.”

  * * *

  Exactly twenty-four hours later, Stacey storms into check-in with two canvas bags over her shoulder.

  “Do you know what he said?” is her opening phrase.

  MacKenzie is busy showing Camila how to do something on the computer, and both look up at the same time. Camila’s hand is resting gently on MacKenzie’s shoulder.

  Stacey throws her hands up in the air, clearly grateful to have an audience.

  “Uh, who?” MacKenzie asks.

  “Derek! My good-for-nothing, alcoholic, cheating husband. He said that I should dress differently.”

  “He’s dumber than I thought,” MacKenzie reluctantly whispers to Camila. “And braver.” Then, to Stacey, she says, “Is he still alive?”

  “Yeah, which is more than he deserves. He thought I should be more ‘representative.’ Me! All because he wants to be a politician. What about what I want? I asked him. What am I meant to do? Be some politician’s wife? Like hell, I still have some pride!”

  Stacey drops her bags with a loud thud.

  “So you want a room?” Camila asks.

  “Why else would I be here? This is a motel, isn’t it? Very fitting name, by the way. Sums up my life.”

  MacKenzie rolls back in her chair so that Camila can get to the computer, and she points out where things need to be filled in. Name, license plate, room number.

  Stacey continues her monologue as they work.

  “You’re probably not even registered to vote, I told him, but he just went on and on about how he could learn and how he wanted to make something of his life. To be respected again; do you hear that, huh?”

  She looks a little defensive. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with wanting to do something, you know? People would respect him if he just stopped selling crap. But turning up at home and announcing that I need to buy new clothes—boring clothes. All because I’ll have to stand there next to him, smiling and nodding like an idiot? No, that crosses the goddamn line.”

  “We hope you’ll enjoy your stay here,” Camila says, handing her the key.

  “Ah, I’ll probably just pine away,” Stacey says, hauling her bags back onto her shoulder.

  * * *

  MacKenzie has given Stacey the room next to Dad’s, and despite the stubborn drizzle outside, Stacey’s door is wide open. I don’t know what she’s thinking right now, but I doubt it’s anything nice.

  She is standing in the middle of the room, hemmed in between the bed and the desk, glaring at her surroundings. As she makes her way into the bathroom, she stubs her toe on the bed and swears loudly to herself.

  “Goddamn piece-of-crap bed.”

  When she decides to unpack, she opens the first bag and pulls out something at random. A makeup bag, I think. It ends up on the desk. She finds a dried-out mascara in her handbag, and throws that onto the bedside table. She also finds: three old napkins, an open box of throat lozenges that have spilled out into her bag, lipstick, receipts, and around three dollars in small change.

  She picks up her suitcase and shakes it out onto the bed. Two pairs of jeans, five T-shirts, a strange orange dress, two pairs of tights, an unsorted jumble o
f socks, and two summer jackets tumble onto the bedspread.

  Dad, who is passing by, pauses long enough to snort disapprovingly.

  Stacey stares at him. Then she grabs the pile of clothes in her arms and throws it up in the air. Her things land all over the floor, and Dad hurries off to the restaurant in indignation.

  * * *

  The smell of chocolate chip cookies drifts out across the restaurant. Dolores is baking again. Despite the gray weather, the smell makes me think of sunny childhood afternoons, getting home from school, and seeing Dad in his neat apron with a tray of cookies in the oven. I find myself smiling as I step into the restaurant, just like everyone else in there.

  Everyone but Stacey. She pulls a face as she notices the comforting scent. She pauses in the doorway, letting in a gust of chilly autumn air that makes Dad shiver in his too-thin suit.

  She spots him sitting alone in a booth and walks over and slips into the seat opposite.

  He gives her a disapproving look, as though to remind her that he didn’t invite her to sit down.

  “So what’ve you done?” she asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “To end up here.”

  “I haven’t done anything!”

  “Innocent, huh?” Stacey says. It’s like they’re in some kind of terrible prison movie. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  Dolores comes out and serves her a cup of coffee. “Cookies in ten minutes.”

  “Like one big, happy family,” Stacey mutters sarcastically once Dolores is out of earshot.

  “What’s the problem with that?” Dad asks. “Surely you can’t have anything against families?”

  “No? What the hell has family ever done for me?”

  “You know, cursing makes a very bad impression,” Dad says almost automatically.

  Stacey blushes.

  “And family is the very foundation of our society!”

  Stacey is glaring at him now. Dad notices and continues, “What’s wrong with family, order, rules, and traditions? They make life easier. Family is the foundation of our society, and the trouble with this country is that people don’t respect that.”

  “What a goddamn shame,” Stacey says. “You old idiot.”

  With that, she storms out of the restaurant.

  “Another harmonious day at the Pine Away Motel,” MacKenzie says cheerily. She snatches a cookie from the tray before Dolores has time to bat away her hand.

  “They need to cool down!” Dolores says, but she puts a couple onto plates, pushes one toward MacKenzie, and takes the other over to Dad.

  He is still at his table, completely confused. “What did I do wrong?” he moans.

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” MacKenzie asks. She takes her plate and walks away before Dolores has time to say anything.

  “Surely there’s nothing wrong with telling someone to behave like a civilized person? Some things are just right. When did common decency become something ugly? It can’t be wrong to point out that it makes a more polite, decent impression if you aren’t swearing all the time?”

  “Take a cookie, Mr. Broek,” Dolores tells him.

  Chapter 31

  Michael’s Memories

  The pretty purple bouquet is from Michael. It looks so sad in front of my gravestone.

  “This is the first time you’ve ever given me flowers,” I tell him, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes.

  He spent the whole morning moving restlessly around the cabin, unable to focus on anything. He tried to wash the dishes, but he spent more time wandering around with the brush in his hand than actually cleaning anything. Eventually, he paused by the table and stared down at a dirty coffee cup as though he was trying to work out what to do with it. Coffee cup. Dirty. I’m holding a brush. What am I supposed to do here?

  And then he just left the cup there.

  I think the weather is making things worse. A thick layer of clouds has settled over town, and the sky itself seems to be bearing down on us. Michael stared at the walls as if they were closing in on him.

  He needs me; that much was worryingly clear. I would have been able to make him relax. I don’t think too much. If there’s a dirty coffee cup, I’ll wash it. Life isn’t a list to be ticked off, one point at a time.

  Suddenly he got up, grabbed his coat and car keys, and set off to deal with the next item on his Remembering Henny list.

  Michael’s flowers are competing for space with roses, lilies, and a sad little Tupperware box of enchiladas. Clearly Dolores is worried that I’m not getting enough to eat in heaven.

  Grief is a strange thing, I think to myself. I could have sworn that Michael was happy with MacKenzie and Camila, but now he seems to be refusing to let himself feel like that. As though grief has to be experienced in a particular way. Unhappily. Alone.

  In the rain. A heavy drop of water lands just inside Michael’s collar, but he doesn’t react.

  I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to find here in the churchyard. If he’s looking for memories of me, he would be better off going for a beer with MacKenzie and Camila.

  But maybe I just have to leave him alone here to be lonely and unhappy.

  Maybe people need to be sad from time to time.

  The other headstones look abandoned in the grayness surrounding us, though the cemetery as a whole seems well cared for: neat grass, carefully planted flower beds, small bouquets in front of some of the headstones, and not a single weed as far as the eye can see. The cloud cover is so low that the church spire looks as if it might pierce right through it.

  I walk a little uncertainly down the neat gravel paths between the graves, wondering again why I haven’t seen any other ghosts. Surely I can’t be the only person who can’t bear to leave their loved ones?

  Maybe we just can’t see one another, the same way Michael and Camila and MacKenzie can no longer see me. Maybe we all move on eventually, disappearing to…someplace else.

  “Michael,” I begin, but when I turn toward him, I see that he is already walking away.

  I have to run to catch up with him.

  * * *

  The schoolyard is deserted in the drizzle.

  We stand together, staring at the asphalt and the basketball hoop and the doors into school. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but we’re still the only people here.

  I know what we’re doing. We’re hunting memories together. Now that he has talked to others about me, he’s searching for the people we once were.

  If I really make an effort, I can see the outlines of a young Michael and Henny up ahead. We’re in the middle of the schoolyard, chatting eagerly about geology or the Measure Nine campaign or something. The clouds seem to break right before me, the sun like a spotlight on my memories of us.

  Then I make the mistake of looking at the real Michael, and the sunlight dissolves into rain.

  I can tell that he’s trying to see us, but his face is hard and lifeless. There’s no way he could see the ghosts of us and not smile.

  He doesn’t even go over to the gymnasium where we danced together at prom. Something in his expression or in the grayness all around us must have infected me, because I’m thankful for that.

  I don’t want to think about that evening, either. My superstitious mind manages to avoid the happy memory of the only time we ever danced together. I suppose it’s because that dance was the end of our story. I don’t want to think about what happened next, but my brain knows. He left me. He came back. I died.

  As he returns to his car, I’m as relieved as he is.

  When he gets to Broadway, he doesn’t even get out. Through steamed-up windows, we see the house where Pat and Carol lived and remember the sign that stood outside his father’s house. Yes to Measure 9. Signs in front of all the other houses, too. Proud and open.

  On
Elm Street, he wanders around for several blocks before he finally manages to find the place where the candy shop once was. It takes him some time to realize that it has become the ice-cream parlor he and Camila were standing outside of just the other day. He pulls a face when it dawns on him.

  “It didn’t mean anything,” I protest. “I was just a little upset.”

  That has to be enough now, I think. I can accept that he needs to grieve in peace, but why is he using his memories of us to torture himself? It’s like picking at a wound. He is welcoming the pain. No, worse: he’s actively looking for it. He is using our past to flog himself, and I wonder whether he thinks it’s going to make him stronger.

  He doesn’t even go to our place! A guided tour of our memories, and he can’t even be bothered to go to the place we kissed for the first time, the place where my indignation led us that day.

  “Michael,” I say. “You don’t need to fight so hard to remember me. You’re grieving enough as it is. It’s okay to relax from time to time. Let yourself have a bit of fun.”

  I glance at the tragic figure beside me and realize that “have a bit of fun” is probably too much to ask.

  “Maybe you should try to do something instead,” I say. “Sometimes it’s better not to think too much. Just do something. Anything. Like Camila’s work at the motel, or MacKenzie’s rainbow flag. Okay, so we probably don’t need any more rainbow flags. It would’ve been funny to paint them all over town, but I think Cheryl is upset enough as it is.”

  I sigh. I don’t think anything I’m saying is getting through. I think he’s trapped between two conflicting impulses—grieving me and being a part of life here—and he doesn’t even realize that the two aren’t incompatible. They belong together. He will learn more about Pine Creek and me by hanging out with MacKenzie and Camila, or even with Derek, than he will by loitering on Elm Street in the rain.

  I think he feels guilty every time he has even the slightest bit of fun, and I’m worried that if he continues to put pressure on himself like this, he’ll give up and run before long.

  There’s also nothing I can do about it.