He rubs his hands down his thighs, sighing as he does. “It is your mother. She’s ill.”
Abigail was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Healthy and vibrant just like Emily. Women like my mother don’t get sick.
“Sick how?”
“Cancer.”
“What?”
“The doctors found a mass in her brain.”
I blink.
“She wants to see you.”
For the last twelve years, I have tried to figure out the answer to why my mother left. I have thought of everything from my father being a secret abusive drunk, to a cheating lech. Or that my mother is simply a cruel, selfish woman. That is the one I settled on, the lie to this day I try to convince myself.
“Oh, now she wants to see me,” I say.
“She doesn’t have a lot of time.” He says, ignoring my anger. “She’s been seeing a specialist in France. Ashur is doing everything he can.”
“And now, because she is knocking at death’s door, she wants to see me.” My voice drips with anger. I hate being such an open book.
“There is more to it than that. She wants to talk to you. To explain why she left.”
“I don’t want to see her, Henri.”
He nods like he understands. Instead of standing to leave he continues to sit on my hideous sofa and stare at me. He is so close I can smell the cologne he wears. It reminds me of the woods and dry soil. I take a deep breath.
“I have to go to work.” Liar that I am knows I have almost two hours before I am due at work, but I need to get away from him.
“OK.” He nods and stands. “Can I see you later?”
It is me who is nodding.
“Good. I’ll pick you up.”
“OK,” I say before I can think too much further. I walk him to the door and open it for him. The air I breathe in is thick and awkward. I hope it isn’t obvious how I have started sweating, how my heart has begun to beat rapidly.
“Then I’ll see you later.”
“Sure.” I say, amazed the word has come out.
Henri nods and turns to walk down the stairs. I watch him get in his shiny SUV and driveway. I shut the door. My legs are getting weak, my throat is beginning to clog. Abigail wants to see me. My dying mother. And she has sent Henri to tell me. My Henri, who had betrayed me.
Chapter Four
The clouds are still gathering, threatening a dangerous lightning storm, but it’s all just a big show, never finishing the act. The rain refuses to spill over as I walk the three blocks to the Sandpiper Motel. It sits along the main highway through town; an old, low concrete building with a small weathered sign announcing it has vacancies.
The idea of working today doesn’t exactly thrill me. Not after Henri. Seeing him is proving to be a dangerous distraction, leaving me foggy and in a foul mood. Everything he said plays like a record in my head, his words jumping and repeating. The slight hangover probably isn’t helping.
Usually, I love people and find them fascinating. They hold secrets, carry around hope and happiness packed neatly into small bags. Some are sad; I avoid them. Some glow with possibility; I bath in the energy they radiate. But, as much as I enjoy them, I can only handle short bursts. Emily used to tell me that I could only handle being nice for so long. Maybe it is true. The fake smiles and small talk soon wear on me. The pleasantries we use on strangers becomes irritating. I was too straight forward, Emily would tease. Couldn't handle the bullshit that is life. She was right, I can’t. It is exhausting.
When I walk in the lobby, the door chimes announcing my arrival. The cool blast of the stale AC mixed with pine air freshener hits my nose. Sally repainted and put new carpeting in last month, but the Formica guest counter and pastel beach paintings that hang on the walls, tell the tale of what the place really is: a cheap seedy motel.
Janice and I have the ever engrossing challenge of being the Sandpiper Motel’s only housekeepers. Sally swears she is looking for more help, but no one has yet to apply. Not that I am surprised. From the outside, the motel reeks of bad choices. Layers paint fail to conceal the regret that bleeds through the guest room walls.
“Whalan called,” Sally yells from the private office. Her door is slightly ajar, she sits at her desk, twirling her over-dyed, dried out blond hair around her finger. She is busting out of her tight t-shirt and blue jeans that look and fit like she’s had them since high school. It’s way too hot for jeans, but then her sweaty, pale forehead remind me she rarely goes outside long enough to be bothered by it.
“There’s a tourist bus com’n through.” Sally’s voice has the slight southern accent most Floridians have. Not the deep southern drawl people native to Georgia or Alabama have, but a distinct hint of an accent. It is unique to Florida natives, though we have been known to say, “ya’ll” , “ain’t”, and “git” in real heated conversations.
The thought of a bunch of elderly tourists doesn’t exactly excite me. The men are more handsy than a teenage boy, the women constantly complain, expecting five-star treatment. But, thinking about my upcoming meeting with Henri, it will probably be a welcome distraction helping Sally get everyone situated in their rooms. In the very least, it will force the hours to move faster. Better than thinking of Abigail.
From the storage room, I push the cleaning cart towards the end of the building. The polyester uniform Sally insists we wear is hot and beads of sweat drip down my back, turning my mood even darker. I’ve only been working thirty minutes and I am already covered in the faint scent of cigarettes and cheap perfume that cling to the tacky floral bedspreads.
The motel isn’t big, only thirty-eight rooms to clean. Norm, the motel’s only and long-standing full-time resident, never wants to be bothered. I learned from the beginning just to leave the towels and bedding for him at his door. Jake, Russian we call him, works as a maintenance man and occupies the other efficiency.
I spot Russian standing, cigarette in hand, out back in the shade of a sad, drooping palm tree. A bucket of mean looking tools, I hope are saved only for fixing things and not breaking knee caps, lay at his feet. He is called Russian for a reason. His thick hairy arms and equally hairy chest are covered with a faded lime green jacket. He completes the look with matching jogging pants and bright running shoes. His big head sits on top of a squat neck that carries several gold chains. Jake, though I’m pretty sure that isn’t his name, waves with his meaty hand and winks with a beady flat eye, calling out a greeting. His accent is so thick, half the time I doubt Putin himself would know what he is saying. For whatever reason, I like him.
I wave back and continue pushing the cart down the open walkway. I plod and knock at each door, waiting for sounds, before taking a very cautious peek inside.
My first week at the motel proved to be very educational. I learned quickly people tend not to answer doors if they are sleeping, in my unfortunate case, sleeping naked, or if the guests were otherwise occupied. The otherwise occupied, I’m pretty sure, has scarred me for life. The entire horror scene involved a heavyset man in his fifties and a young woman with protruding hip bones in a very compromising position. Like I said, the place stinks of regret.
Norm sits in a rusted metal chair outside his door. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips that are hidden under a thick mustache. The ash is long and threatens to fall in his lap. A large plastic cup from the convenience store across the street rests on his knee. Norm once told me, in one of his rare talkative moments, that he had served in Afghanistan for six years before he was injured. He has this corrosive look about him. I can tell he is damaged. His mind at times overpowered reality, and he will sit and talk to himself. Light mumbles about the devil sleeping in broad daylight. I’m not sure I want to know what he means. His blue eyes are dark, and hold pictures that no man should have to see.
Norm doesn’t wear any other clothes than faded green fatigues and ripped white t-shirt. His hair he keeps long and pulled back in a loose ponytail, the mustache that hides his face i
s turning gray, dusted with white, like the hair on his head. He pushes his hair back from his face and waves. The movement breaks the ash on the tip of his cigarette and it falls into his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps care.
After I have cleaned the only occupied rooms, I shove the cart back into the storage room and head to the front desk. Sally is still in her office yelling into her phone at some poor soul. Outside, the tour bus pulls into the sandy parking lot. Small men with canes and women with blue hair come spilling out.
“Damn, I was hope’n they wouldn't show up.” I jump, not realizing Janice has come in the back way. “Good Lord, girl, you're jumpier than a frog on a hot skillet.”
She says Lord as “lawd”, Janice’s southern accent is similar to our northern neighbors, though I swear it gets thicker and sweeter when a good looking man is present. Janice is beautiful in the way only homegrown southern girls are, with light sepia hair, large open sage green eyes and a smile that tells you she knows her way around a man and his truck.
The only thing that mars her lovely face is a deep scar she hides under her bangs. A hint from her past, thanks to her ex-husband. A dirty cop, full of rage and Jim Beam. One night, with the help of a bottle of whiskey, he had beaten her within an inch of her life while she was cooking him dinner. The ex-husband was shut away in jail for only a few months thanks to his connections. He’s now free to roam the state with an updated injunction.
Janice smiles at me. Her hair is piled up high on her head, the curls stacked neatly and with precision. Her pretty lips are painted peach, glossy and thick. She’s taken extra care today; her uniform is pressed and a sweet floral perfume comes off of her curvy frame. She pulls at the tight uniform and fans herself. “Damn, girl, it’s hotter than goat’s butt in a pepper patch!”
I’m pretty sure she is the only person I have cared for since Henri left. She is colorful and loud-mouthed and always says exactly what is on her mind. Janice has been trying to win over the sweet doctor for as long as I have lived here.
“Did you finally charm Doc Spence?” I ask, chuckling.
She glances at me sideways, a frown curving her mouth, “Not yet,” she says walking toward the door to open it for an elderly man with a walker.
----------
Five o'clock can’t come fast enough. After we help Sally check in what was probably the loudest and most-intoxicated bunch of grandparents I'd ever seen, Janice and I stand around the front desk gossiping with Russian.
“Jan, I'm going to head out,” I say. The clock hands hang close to the end of my work day, making me antsy. Janice is listening intently to whatever the Russian is saying. I have no idea how she deciphers his words. Most of the time it comes out in rough garbled sounds that make me pray I’m not agreeing to marry him down the road.
“You got a hot date you’re not telling me about?” She teases. My romantic life, or lack thereof, is a constant joke between us, or rather for Janice. In college, I had dated some. There was a long relationship with my boss after I graduated where I was working as an intern. Turned out the creep never actually did leave his wife. But, no one ever lasted. I never brought anyone home. Since escaping to this sleepy town, I have not had a single relationship. There have been offers, a few prospects for a night of physical comfort, no strings attached, but the idea of anyone touching me holds little appeal. Especially stranger hands. Eww.
With Janice, every single man that walks through the doors is a potential suitor. For me, anyways. Janice tells me she is done with men and is waiting for me to convert to women. I know she jokes. I don’t blame her. I’d be put off men the rest of my life if my husband had tried to kill me.
The best part of having Janice’s friendship, she doesn’t ask questions. She respects the fact that I don’t talk about my past. She doesn’t expect stories of my childhood or ask what my mother’s name is. She takes me for who I am, not where I come from.
The door chimes, grabbing everyone’s attention, and we turn to see Henri walking into the lobby.
“Jesus, Almighty,” Jan breathes.
Janice’s exclamation is dead on. Henri is undeniably the best looking man I have ever seen, in movies or in life. Finding him standing on my porch had been such a shock that I had barely noticed after it registered in my head who he was. Sure, he is really good looking, my brain had enough sense to see that, but to the extent hadn't quite seeped in.
Watching him walk toward me, I am in awe. At seventeen, he had been the best looking boy in school. Girls fell over themselves to be near him. He was the kind of boyish beautiful that small town stay-at-home moms swooned over in the supermarket, all floppy hair and exotic skin. Movie star pretty boy looks that other boys hated.
Now, he is just as beautiful, but this is no boy. His face has changed, matured. His jawline is chiseled, a perfect length of stubble covering it. His nose looks as if it has been crafted by a sculptor. It is long and almost delicate. Sultry lips and high cheekbones. Henri’s shirt clings to a body that is now filled out with thick muscles, moving with him like it has been poured on.
Janice moves toward him, but I grab her arm, forcing her to stop dead in her tracks. I can practically hear her gathering up the southern “here comes a good looking man” drawl.
“Am I too early?” Henri asks, stopping near us.
Standing in my too tight and sweaty uniform, I shift my feet and tug and the too low neckline, uncomfortable. He had said he’d pick me up, but I had thought from my house. I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry.
“No. I didn’t realize you were picking me up at work,” I say, fighting a sudden urge to weep. To run to him and force him to hold me. To make the years of hurt go away. To slap him. To curse him. “I'm just getting off.”
Henri reaches over the counter to offer his hand to Janice. “Bonjour, I am Henri, an old friend of Charlotte’s.” Janice practically faints as he leans on his French accent. He is laying it on thick. He smiles at Russian. I can only imagine what Russian must think of him.
“I can’t imagine why she would have never mentioned you.” Janice’s eyelashes bat.
I turn to Janice, whose expression says it all. We were going to talk later, after she strangles me. “See you later.” I wave and smile sheepishly at her.
For once, she seems without words, simply waving and nodding as we walk out of the lobby. She is going to kill me, I can see it now. It will take a lot of coaxing and even a few spilled secrets before she forgives me for this omission.
“Is there a place we can talk? Privately?” Henri’s eyes move over my uniform and land on the white plastic name tag. No doubt he is wondering why I have given up old money to clean rooms at a cheap motel in a po-dunk town. Though, if he has half a brain, which I know he does, he understands why.
My chest tightens and I have to fight the urge to escape. The sensation is so strong, it is an almost physical battle. I know Janice is watching us from inside with Russian, likely spinning up wild theories about Henri. I look around the parking lot, a little too desperately and my eyes land on the small bar that sits catty-corner to us. “We can go there.”
Henri nods and leads the way, grabbing my hand as we cross the street. The bar is beyond tacky. Cheap parquet tiles decorate the floor, and the bar itself is a mustard yellow laminate counter. Thin wood paneling covers every inch of wall. It was like the decorator teleported the space from 1977. Or maybe, it hasn’t been touched since then. The layers of dirt hint this may be the case.
We settle into a small booth in the back. The air swirls thick with cigarette smoke. I’ve got the familiar itch in the tips of my fingers. I could seriously use a cigarette, but I quit. Three short months ago.
The barmaid is a middle-aged woman wearing heavy makeup, dressed in too-tight jeans and a too-tight shirt. She saunters over, eyeing Henri, her belly peeking out as she pushes her large breasts out.
“Whatcha havin’ handsome?“ She asks, her false eyelashes almost touching her penciled in brows.
We place our orders and within a few minutes she brings our drinks, placing mine heavily on the table. I pick up my glass, grateful for the distraction. Taking a long pull from the straw, I cough on the cheap, sweet flavor. Damn woman must have poured in the entire bottle of bottom-shelf.
I glance around at the other patrons. There is a surprising number of people considering it is barely clock out time. Norm is sitting in the back, his eyes darting around the room when I see him. I didn’t even know Norm came here. His presence is a bit unnerving. Like running into your boss outside of work. They simply don’t belong here, in life, where you live.
“You seem to like it here. It’s quiet.” Henri is the first to break the silence that has started to settle. He glances around the bar as if to emphasize his statement, a poor choice considering our location. Henri is stalling, no doubt trying to figure out how to broach the subject of my mother. He tears off small pieces of the cocktail napkin under his drink, rolling them into little balls and stacking them on the table. For some reason, I find this nervous movement fascinating. Probably because it was what he had done when we were younger, and my father took us to the BBQ restaurant in the small town near where we grew up.
“The beach is beautiful,” he says, clarifying he meant the actual town, not the dive bar where we sit. Henri’s unease flows off of him in torrents. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
After Henri had left, I had what Daddy called, a mini-mental meltdown. Food no longer was of any interest. I couldn’t sleep or concentrate. I lost weight rapidly until I looked almost anorexic. But the part that had everyone concerned, was I refused to speak. Especially not to Emily. It was as if their betrayal had burned my tongue and left me mute. I couldn’t put a voice to the depth of pain that they had inflicted so I chose not to talk at all.
This lasted for almost six months. Thankfully no one pushed me. Daddy sent me to see a few different psychiatrists. Dr. Gregory helped the most. We would sit in his office and he would tell me stories he read in magazines. Gossip column stuff, what movie star married what musician, and so on. I wonder if my father knows he was paying all that money for my weekly lessons in pop culture, 2001 edition.
In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1 Page 3
