I get to Langford.
Four in the morning.
First thing I see is a twenty-four-hour Laundromat, and I decide that’s got to be a sign. I pull in. I’m about ready to drop, but I need this, some step toward feeling more human. My face has turned into the kind of pain that’s almost sickening in its persistence, and when I look in the mirror, I wonder if I should go to a drugstore and buy some kind of makeup to put on top of the damage so I can keep from scaring people away. Mattie knew more about makeup than I did. Once, when she was eleven, I caught her in the bathroom with black liquid eyeliner making a perfect kitten eye. I told her I didn’t ever want to see that shit on her face until she turned thirteen and I don’t know why I made that rule. Was it so bad of her? It just seemed like something a parent would say so I made myself say it, when what I really wanted was to ask her how she did it and if she could make that same perfect line across my own eyelid.
I step inside the Laundromat. Behind a counter is an old woman who looks like she’s keeping herself alive through sheer force of will. I hand her a bill and she hacks up a lung into the same hand that passes me change and detergent.
The machines are old. I put the quarters in the slots and don’t even bother sorting my clothes. I sit in one of the hard plastic chairs, listening to the spin, then glance at the old woman, who still has her eyes on me. Can’t blame her for it, given how I look.
“C-can you t-tell me what’s at 451 Tw-Twining Street?”
She tilts her head to the side, thinking, then she says, “That’s not the Bluebird, is it?” I don’t know what the Bluebird is until she gets out her cell phone and gestures me over to show me a blurry photo of a motel with a bunch of middling reviews beneath it.
* * *
One of my mother’s last boyfriends was Paul.
He was six foot six, thick inside and out. Arms and legs like old-growth tree stumps and hands too big to hold. I didn’t mind Paul because he didn’t give a damn about Mattie or me. If we had to occupy the same cramped trailer together, so be it. He didn’t act like we were in his way and even when we were, it didn’t matter. Not a lot got under Paul’s skin, which is why I think he lasted so long. Anyway, Paul—he didn’t talk a lot. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. When I was around Paul, I’d watch, rapt, as the people he surrounded himself with led one-sided conversations without ever expecting anything in return. It was unmistakable, the way they looked at him. They respected him. Paul taught me a person committed to silence can suggest importance, strength. So long as they’re a man, I mean. It’s not an option when you’re a girl, not unless you want people to think you’re bitch.
I wish I could do this next part without talking.
I sit in my car outside the Bluebird, a few miles from the Laundromat, my load of laundry cooling in the backseat. I tap my fingers against the wheel. The Bluebird. Not a single bird in sight, but there’s a FOR SALE sign out front: $39.99 A NIGHT, WI-FI NOT INCLUDED.
It’s run-down, badly in need of new siding, a new roof … new everything. I’m parked across from the front office, and I can see through its picture window. An old man is watching a TV mounted to the wall, his back to me. A black-and-white movie.
I rest my head against the wheel.
Where are you, Keith?
I get out of the car with my bag slung over my shoulder and when I face the Bluebird, the man at the desk is no longer mesmerized by the television. He’s turned toward the window and he’s watching me in such a way, I wonder if he recognizes me, if, maybe one day, so many months ago, he looked for something to watch on TV and my face flitted past him on the news, never leaving his head. And now: here I am.
I cross the lot. Soon as I step inside, he says, “Took your time about it.”
He looks much younger up close. Grayed prematurely, I guess. But he can’t be more than fifty. He has light brown skin and tattoos up and down his arms and his legs that disappear under the edges of his blue shorts. His voice is put-on, a kind of put-on that pretends we’re friends.
“I w-want two nights.”
He yawns. “Sure.”
I look away from him, to the TV behind his head. It’s so old it has dials. It’s playing a Bette Davis movie. Her beautiful small face and big round eyes command the screen. Dark Victory, I think. I liked that one. Now and again, me and Mattie used to spend weekends with May Beth and we’d watch the classics on one of the three channels she got. The Bette Davis ones were my favorite. Bette Davis is my favorite.
On her gravestone, it says: She did it the hard way.
“Just need some ID and we’ll get you set up.”
I blink away from the movie, turning my attention back to him.
“W-what?”
“Age. Can’t rent you a room if you’re underage.”
“B-but I’m n—”
“Just let the ID do the talking.” He smiles. “Otherwise we could be here all night.”
I hate him.
“It’s policy,” he adds at the same time the television pops. Its screen turns to snow and static blizzards through the speakers, painfully loud. “Oh, shi—”
He catches himself before he lands the t and turns, hand raised, to fix the set with his open palm. I stare at the back of his head and try to figure out if he might know Keith. If this is a place where Keith is Keith at all. Maybe he’s Darren, here. Or maybe this is one of the places he feels safe enough to call himself by his real name. Maybe he’s Jack.
“Y-you know D-Darren M-Marshall?”
He turns, surprised. “I do.”
Sometimes I’m lucky.
“C-cool.” I pause. “He’s a friend of my f-family’s. T-told me I should st-stop by if I was ever in th-in the area.”
“Well, how about that … yeah, Darren’s a real good pal of mine. What did you say you wanted?” he asks. “You said two nights? Single or double?”
“Single.”
“I’ll give you five percent off. Any friend of Darren’s…”
“H-he around? H-haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Nah, not right now. Sure it won’t be long before I’m seeing him again, though,” he says. “You know how it is.” But I don’t. He yawns again, makes me sign for the room—Lera Holden it is—takes my money and tosses me a key card.
“Room twelve,” he says. “Second to last down the strip.”
“Th-thanks.”
“Y’know, in my granddad’s day, the nuns thought they could beat that outta you.”
He laughs. He’s talking about my stutter. I stare at him until he turns bright red and fumbles for something to say, but there’s really nothing he could say to turn it around.
He settles on, “Have a good night.”
It’s the kind of motel that makes you feel every one of your secrets. The cost of the stay is only how much you’re willing to live with yourself. That, and almost eighty dollars. I close the door behind me, draw the curtain, lock the door and once I do that last thing, I lean my head against it because having four walls around me allows for the tension to release itself from my spent, sore muscles. I let myself get lost in my own hurt. But only for a second.
Then I turn, absorbing my new setting.
There’s a chemical smell in the air that can’t mask the stuffiness of the room. A dull beige, stained wallpaper with a repeating flower print attempts something reaching for sweetness and fails. The beds are covered in lifeless green comforters. There’s an old TV set—dials on this one too—on top of a wooden bureau with noticeably chipped edges. There’s a tiny red table and plastic chairs. The carpet is a deep wine red with flecks of electric purple in it, fuzzy in some spots, threadbare in others. I slip out of my sneakers and curl my socked feet into the gritty carpet. From here, I can see the pale aquamarine tiles in the bathroom and a bit of the shower.
Still no bluebirds.
But a shower would be nice.
I take a change of clean clothes with me into the tiny bathroom where I strip naked and run the water, which doesn’t get as warm as I need; I spend the whole time shivering but it’s so much better, being clean. Or as clean as I can get here. There’s mold in the tiles and a stain around the edges of the tub. I scrub the tiny bar of motel soap all over my body, suds up my hair. I want to cry, it feels so good. It’s not perfect, but it feels good. When I’m finished, I pull on a T-shirt and then I stand in front of the mirror over the sink. I press my fingers against the tender skin of my face, hissing from my reflection, my black eye and swollen nose.
I turn the bathroom light off and stumble to the bed, crawl under the blankets. The comforter is heavy and the sheet beneath it scratchy. My eyes close and I feel the empty around me, a dark space I can finally fall into.
But a small part of me just won’t let go.
I don’t know how long I drift in that in-between place when I hear the soft click of a door opening. The threat registers slowly, and even when it does I can’t seem to surface for it. Then, the soft, shuffling sounds of someone moving across the room. I feel the gentle dip of the mattress as he weighs it down.
His hand touches my ankle.
“Sadie. Sadie, girl … I’m just coming to check that you said your prayers.” The voice is soft and lulling, not quite a whisper or a lullaby. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even. “Oh, you’re asleep. Well, okay then.” He sighs heavily. “I guess I’ll go see if Mattie’s said hers then.”
I open my eyes.