by Sean Easley
But the happiness quickly fades. The door in the tree trunk is coming toward me now, fast. I turn to run away, but it catches me. I’m drowning in a swirling vortex of chandeliers and marble and kids in fancy suits.
• • •
I’ve made a huge mistake. Some stranger shows up at my window and I place all hope of finding my dad in him . . . how is that supposed to end well? I thought the hotel was some sign, a clue that this ridiculous hope wasn’t for nothing. I should have known life doesn’t work that way for us.
Two days pass, and nothing. No word from Nico. I’ve gone by the Dallas Door four times, bundled against the winter chill, but every time I look through the glass all I find is an empty concrete building. No evidence of anything existing beyond those doors.
I can’t believe I trusted him. And I’ve lost Dad’s coin, to boot. This is what I do . . . I make dumb decisions. I lock myself in lockers and give away what’s important and trust the wrong friends. It’s why I never want to do anything in the first place.
On the third morning of break, I wake to Oma hovering over me.
“Get up.”
“Is it time for breakfast?” I ask—the only logical reason she’d have for waking me before noon.
“You need to get up!” Her relentless smile is like a blowtorch. I’m in danger of being lit on fire with her enthusiasm. “Can’t sleep your whole vacation away.”
Now that I’ve lost my last connection to Dad, that’s exactly what I want to do.
Then I notice the flour on her nose. Nose-flour can only mean one thing: biscuits and gravy. Oma must really want to cheer me up—she never makes biscuits and gravy anymore because it’s not on her current diet plan.
I get dressed and head to the kitchen to help. Cass rambles on about some waterfall in South America while I start to crumble sausage. My gaze wanders to the gray, mottled coin dangling between her collarbones. At least Cass still has Mom’s coin.
I dump the sausage into the frying pan. “Oma, how did Mom die?”
“Hmmm?” She looks up and wipes more flour on her cheek.
This topic is usually off limits, unless Oma’s telling us her stories, but now I’m committed. “You’ve never told us how Mom died.”
Cass cocks her head to listen. We’ve asked these questions before, but Oma never gives us much. She only wants to talk about far-fetched adventures and places around the world . . . how Dad was wild and free-spirited, and his life was too big to be kept in one place, and how Mom was rooted into the soil of the earth. They always sound like fairy tales. But whenever the fateful events that led to his disappearance come up, she goes silent.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she says. “Your father didn’t tell me. And if he had, those secrets wouldn’t be mine to share.” She grabs a strip of bacon cooling under a paper towel and passes it to me. “Chewy enough, or should I make more?”
Cass scoffs and rolls into the attached living room to watch a bunch of barely clothed men riding in a Jeep, armed with spears. Oma lets her go. We both know what happens when Cass starts dwelling on our parents.
I wish Cass didn’t hate Dad. There are times I want to hate him for not being here, too, but then I picture him rotting away in some dank, wet cell, and I can’t. Flesh rot: WWTD number 340. Rare, but extremely gross.
Oma returns to kneading the dough. “You know, your father used to make all sorts of food I’d never seen before. He’d fry up these little meat pastry things . . . oh, what were they called . . . sammy-so-somethings.”
I’m not going to let her dodge my questions again, though. She has to tell us eventually. “If you don’t know what happened, how do you know for sure she died?”
Cass turns her head slightly, pretending not to listen.
“Reinhart told me so,” Oma says, calling Dad by his first name. “When he dropped you off, he said that Melissa . . . ” She trails off, as if she forgot what she was saying. “How is that bacon?”
“But he didn’t say how?” I ask.
Oma sighs and flops the dough over on the flour-dusted counter in a huff. “He was in such a hurry. Said they’d be coming for him soon, and that those coins would keep you safe. Always wear the coins. Always, always. They’ll protect you kids.” She points to the fridge. “Could you get the milk out, please?”
My shoulders slouch. Nothing new. No mention of hotels, or who might have taken him. And of course, still nothing about Mom.
I head for the refrigerator. “But if he left his coin with us, doesn’t that mean he’s not protected?”
“That’s different,” she says. “Reinhart wanted you to be protected. Those greedy spirits would possess the world if they could, but as long as you’ve got your coins, they’ll think you’re already owned, and they’ll leave you alone.”
I pull my collar up to hide my coin-less neck, and finger Nico’s coin in my pocket. Is this why Nico carries one too? So the spirits will think he’s “owned” already?
“If you could find Dad,” I say after a moment, “would you?”
Oma shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“But—”
She sighs again and wipes her forehead. “Your father is a good man. If he could be here, he would.” Oma presses her knuckles into the dough with more force than necessary. “I would pay any price to have my Reinhart back.”
• • •
By the time afternoon rolls around and my biscuits are half- digested, I’m back in my room, turning Nico’s coin over and over and wishing it would magically transform into Dad’s.
A knock comes at my door, and I shove the coin back in my pocket before Oma enters. “Cammy, you have a guest,” Oma says. “Nice boy. Very snappy dresser.”
Nico! I hop off the bed with a “Thanks!” and rush to the living room. Sure enough, there he is, sitting on the couch in the tailcoat of his hotel uniform, a cup of Oma’s tea pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
“Hey there, Mr. Cam.” He nods toward Cass, sitting across from him. “I was just getting to know your sister.”
“I—” I pause, unsure what to say. Part of me wasn’t even convinced Nico was real, and here he is, talking to my sister, who is one hundred percent the last person I want to know about the Hotel. “What took you so long?”
Cass laughs nervously. “Don’t be rude, Cam.”
Nico gives her a wink, a sparkle in his eye.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Could he really have found some information about Dad? But Cass can’t know anything about that. She’ll pitch a fit, and probably think I’m nuts—trusting strangers who claim they can do magic.
Am I nuts?
“How’d you guys meet?” Cass asks him. “You’re not in our class at school.”
“Homeschooled,” Nico says. “My family travels all over the world.”
Cass’s eyes flutter as if he just told her he’s Santa Claus. Ugh. She can be so embarrassing. She doesn’t even notice how Nico dodged her question.
He sets his teacup down and pulls out a deck of cards from his jacket. “Wanna see something amazing?”
“Sure!” She almost rolls over my foot to get closer.
“Wait,” I say, “what about—?”
“One trick, Mr. Cam. Then we’ll talk.” He fans the deck for Cass to pick a card.
She pulls one from the deck and shows it to me. Four of hearts, with little Japanese cats holding each of the hearts.
My breath catches. That’s the—the card from my dream. Outside, the wind picks up and rushes through the trees.
No. No. I’m imagining things. I only think I saw that card in my dreams. I’m remembering it wrong. There’s no way . . .
“Now,” Nico tells Cass as he shuffles the deck, “fold the card in half and slide it into my coat pocket.”
Cass creases the card and gives it a kiss before sliding it in.
“And that’s the trick!” Nico claps his hands, and the deck disappears. “Et voilá!”
She eyes him skeptically. “That
’s no trick. You just waved your hands around.”
Nico turns to me. “Well, Mr. Cam?”
I wait for him to finish, but he just stares, like he’s waiting for me to do something. “What?”
“Give her the card.”
“I don’t have it.”
He nods with a sly grin. “Check your pocks.”
“My what?”
“Your pocket.”
I reach into my pants pocket and pull out a folded card—the four of hearts, complete with cats. The dream of snatching the card out of the air flashes through my mind. I jerk back and drop it like a hot pan.
Cass squeals and rocks her chair back and forth. “You were in on it?”
“Umm . . . ” I don’t know what to say, what to think. My mind is a tornado of cutesy cat cards.
She clucks her tongue and turns back to Nico. “Do you know any more?”
“Lots. But I think your brother wants to talk.” He motions to the door. “Outside?”
• • •
“Okay,” I say once we’re on the back porch, trying not to think about the bizarre connection between my dream and what just happened inside. “How’d you do that?”
“The card?” He laughs. “A magician never reveals—”
“No, how’d you know? How . . . ?”
The look on his face tells me he has no idea what I’m talking about.
I decide to change tactics. “Okay, whatever then. What’d you find?”
“Who says I found anything? Maybe I just wanted to check in on my favorite Texan.” His tone sounds cooler than the December air. He pokes at the dying plants in Oma’s flowerbeds with the mini shovel she had leaning against the back door. “It’s called ‘building relationships.’ You should try it.”
I flash him a glare. He’s toying with me. Hiding behind that dumb grin.
“Okay, fine.” Nico twists the shovel in the ground, turning up the top layer of soil. “Maybe I needed something else before I commit to searching for him.”
My heart collapses. Total cardiovascular failure. Death by disappointment.
He digs a little deeper into the sprinkler-damp earth.
I study him. “Dirt?” I ask. “You need dirt to find my dad?”
“For a start.” He digs out one last scoop and places the shovel back against the siding. “I wanted to learn more about who I’d be helping, too. See, if I’m going to be master of my own House, I have to be able to tell who’s good and who’s not.”
He rakes his fingers through the soil, scooping a handful into his white-gloved palm.
“What’s the story with your sister, anyway?” he asks, pouring the dirt into a tiny jar that he’s taken from his pocket and sealing the cap. Cold wind rakes through the fallen leaves.
“Spina bifida,” I tell him. “She was born with it. Hers is one of the worst kinds.”
“So”—he considers me—“she’s the reason you want to find your dad so bad?”
“Yeah, I guess. We do our best to take care of her, but it’s hard sometimes. If Dad was here he might be able to do something . . . more.”
He pockets the jar. “But Cass doesn’t seem all that helpless to me.”
“She’s not anymore,” I say. “But sometimes her body doesn’t do all the things it should. Today’s a good day.”
“You should give her more credit. I bet she’s more capable than you think.” He dusts off his glove and starts toward the gate. “I’ve gotta get back. Big tasks today.”
“That’s it? You’re leaving?”
He stops with a hand on the fence and tosses something to me. Dad’s coin. He gave it back. Now I feel bad for not trusting him. Cass always says I get worked up about nothing.
“Be ready,” he says. “And figure out how you’re going to pay me.” He wiggles his dirty, gloved fingers. “Gotta get something for services rendered.”
“I-I don’t have any money.”
“You’ll figure something out.” He pulls his hand back and opens the gate. “If you need me, just knock on the Dallas Door. A knocked door is always opened.”
He starts to leave, but something stops him.
“You hear that?”
I listen to the wind. “No, I—”
Then it comes again. A sound, like someone gagging.
Adrenaline prickles up my arms. “Cass!”
I race inside to find her on the floor, a dribble of vomit running down her shirt. Her head bobs forward and back, like she’s trying to shout, but nothing comes out.
Oh no . . . What if it’s a shunt malfunction? What if . . .
I drop down next to her and help her to sit up. The doctor said if this happens we’re supposed to face her downward so she doesn’t breathe in the sick. But she’s coughing and pointing to her throat like she already did. Not good.
“What should I do?” Nico says, entering behind me.
Be calm. I’m supposed to be calm. This is what I stay ready for. “The phone!”
I yell for Oma as Nico hands me the phone to dial nine-one-one.
The operator answers. “What is the location of the emergency?”
Nico supports Cass’s head so I can go through the normal back and forth with the operator—address, problem, details of Cass’s complications. He holds her hand, watching her intently.
Halfway through the operator’s spiel, Oma snatches the phone away from my ear, freeing me to go to Cass. “It’s gonna be okay,” I tell her, brushing her hair back. But the worry strikes again. What if it’s not? What if it’s worse this time? What if . . .
“Complications” are number 3 on the WWTD list, partly because they’re so nasty, partly because it’s the most likely way my twin is going to be taken away from me.
And everything gets taken away eventually.
• • •
Hours later we’re settled in at the hospital, like always. When your sister’s had thirty-three surgeries and counting, you get to know hospitals really well. It’s like a labyrinth of cursed memories—whenever I come, I always worry I won’t be able to get back out. And that seems like a very bad way to die.
Nico stays with us a while, pacing and nervously shuffling his deck. It takes a few tries, but I eventually convince him it’s okay for him to go. He doesn’t know this procedure the way we do. Waiting in the hospital is boring, and he’s got things to do, I’m sure.
Still, it’s nice of him to stick around as long as he did.
Later, the doctor comes to tell us Cass is going to be okay, for now. Those are the words we always wait for. It’s hard for me to know whether to believe him, though. There’s still this new surgery Oma won’t tell me about, and they’ll have to run a bunch of tests, but for now they don’t think it was one of the more serious complications.
The doctor says it’s good we heard her, but I know the truth. Nico’s the one who heard, not me. I could have missed it. One day I will miss it, and Oma will too.
And I can’t be a twin without my second half.
The nurse takes Oma down the hall to go through whatever it is they need to talk about, leaving me to sit in the uncomfortable chair in Cass’s room pretending to look at my phone.
If Dad was here, he could come with us to the hospital and stay with me while Oma does the paperwork. He could be there. Here. With me. Figuring it out with us. Our family wouldn’t feel so incomplete.
I’d pay any price for that.
A knock at Cass’s door grabs my attention.
“Hey, kiddo.” It’s Nico, changed back into his black T-shirt. At first I grimace at him calling me “kiddo,” but it’s nice to have a friend. Even if we just met, he’s been more of a friend to me than anyone else, outside my family.
“Hey,” I say, acting like I’m not super glad to see him again so soon. In the dim light, I recognize the horizontal loops of fabric sewn where his shirt pocket should be. This time one of the loops holds a wooden peg, about four inches long, with a flat head on one end and a point sticking out through the lo
op at the other. “What are you doing here?”
“Had to meet someone.” He steps up and places his hands on Cass’s bed. “How’s she doing?”
“She’ll probably go home in the morning. She just needs rest.” And new lungs. And a new spine. And a new digestive system. And . . . wait, “You had to meet someone in the middle of the night?”
“The Hotel does stuff all over the world. Times don’t always sync up.” Nico holds a flat straw hat close to his chest as he watches her sleep. “Your sister’s nice. Like you.”
All over the world. “Because you work at a magical Hotel.”
I don’t know when this is all going to sink in.
“Yep.” Nico pulls his coin out of his pocket and rolls it over his knuckles, eyes still on Cass. “This kind of thing happens a lot?”
“It happens enough.”
“Another reason you want to find your dad. You hope he’ll have the answers you’ve been looking for.”
He gets it. No one ever gets it.
Nico pops the hat on his head. “I want you to meet someone. Someone who I think can help.”
“Help what?” The thought hits me like blast of hot air. “Help find my dad?”
He nods. “But you have to do what I say. Every little word.”
My heart explodes in mini fireworks. “Who are we meeting?”
Nico gives me a sideways smile. “Come on. He’s waiting.”
I bite my lip and glance back at Cass. “I can’t just leave her.”
“It’s a touch,” Nico insists. “You’ll be back before you know it.”
If I find Dad, maybe I won’t need to worry as much. With all of us together, I could finally feel more assured that she’ll be all right.
Nico steps up next to me, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a card. The four of hearts, from his trick earlier. He sets it on the table next to Cass and gives her a gentle smile. “We’ll take care of her, Cam.”
A flood of warmth spreads through my chest. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I scribble a quick note on a notepad and place it on the table beside Nico’s card.
“I’ll find Dad for you,” I whisper. “Whether you want me to or not.”
