It’s so quiet that I’m almost relieved to see the protesters show up and start unpacking their thermoses and placards. Their shouts about burning in hell have a mass-like calming rhythm, as does the whooshing sound of trucks driving by on the main road. The comforting routine of their presence means I can pretend everything is normal. Any minute now, MacKenzie will emerge from the restaurant and swear at them.
But there are only three cars parked in front of the motel: Camila’s, Alejandro’s, and Dolores’s. The spot where MacKenzie’s pickup is usually parked is now just empty asphalt. It’s as if she took all the color with her when she left.
An icy drizzle falls on the pines and the protesters, who huddle against the wind. Their coffee quickly cools, and their raincoats are no protection against the damp chill that penetrates everything. They snuffle through their chants with frozen cheeks and red noses. There are considerably fewer of them out there today.
Camila is pushing the cleaning cart, trying to deal with the last few rooms after Mrs. Davies’s visit, but it’s slow work. Even from here, I can see how heavy her movements are. She emerges from the last room and dumps the dirty sheets into the laundry bag, then rests her hands on the handle and leans against it, struggling with the grayness and pointlessness of her surroundings.
Then she abandons the cart up there.
When I step into check-in, Alejandro and Dolores are already there.
“I don’t understand,” Dolores says. I can tell from Camila’s face that it isn’t the first time she has said it. Like so many others after catastrophe strikes, Dolores seems to find comfort in going over things again and again. I should know. I spent the whole night doing it, too.
“She’s never disappeared like this before. Was it something you said?”
Camila’s jaw tenses, and she forces one of the new brochures into the stand. “She’s a grown woman,” she says. “She can go wherever she wants.”
“But she’s never disappeared like this before.”
“Well, there’s not much I can do about that, is there?”
“Come on, Mom,” Alejandro mumbles. “It’s time to start lunch.”
“Who cares about lunch?” Dolores replies, probably for the first time in her life, but she allows herself to be led back to the restaurant all the same.
Camila closes her eyes in relief, but she barely has a moment to herself before Dad comes storming in.
“I want you to know that I wasn’t at that meeting to support their proposal. But it was important to Stacey, and I’ve learned…” He glances around in confusion. “Where’s MacKenzie?”
“She’s gone.”
“But she can’t just leave! She’s MacKenzie!”
“Well, she did.”
* * *
Dad is so confused that he even goes to knock on Stacey’s door before remembering that she already checked out, and then he walks lap after lap around the motel. From a distance, he’s a strange little figure, a red dot against a backdrop of gray, his face bowed against the wind, taking short, quick steps.
Out behind the motel: an equally lonely figure, slowly and laboriously trying to finish a veranda that no one cares about anymore. Paul is alone now, but he tries to keep working. The veranda is barely half-finished, and in the cold drizzle, the wooden planks and the nails and the tools seem as lost and abandoned as the rest of us.
Dad pauses to watch, but he makes no attempt to help as Paul moves a long plank into place.
Suddenly, he surprises both me and himself by saying: “I was only there for Stacey’s sake. It wasn’t me taking a position. MacKenzie must have known that.”
“MacKenzie was Henny’s best friend,” Paul replies.
“I don’t have anything against the motel. I might have had a few suggestions for improvements, but I’ve always been open and honest about those. She can’t have left because I was at that meeting, can she?”
Paul shrugs. He moves the plank an inch to the left. His hands are red with cold.
“So you’re building this veranda for my Henny?”
“I still keep seeing her in front of me.”
There is something so fragile and tortured about his voice that I study him more closely. He might look healthier on the outside, but on the inside, nothing has changed. The veranda is a distraction, not a cure.
“Especially when I’m sleeping. I always wake up just as the truck hits… Once it’s too late.”
He’s still having nightmares. About me. It hurts to know that someone, anyone, is using me as an excuse to torture themselves, and for some reason it feels particularly bad to know that Paul is doing it. He didn’t even know me while I was alive.
“Whatever I do, she’s always there,” Paul continues. “I try to brake, but it’s too late. She just appeared in the road. The whole thing was over in a few seconds. How can that end a life? If only I’d had another cup of coffee. If I’d just picked a different job. It wouldn’t have made any difference to me, would it?”
He glances eagerly at Dad, grateful to finally talk about it.
“If I’d picked a different job, she would still be alive. A car mechanic. I could’ve been a car mechanic. Or a cleaner. Who cares, as long as Henny was still alive.”
“Paul,” I say. “All those ifs… They’ll drive you crazy. Believe me. I’ve already had all those thoughts.”
“I thought she looked surprised, but now that I think about it, she actually seemed happy. That’s the worst part. She was happy, and then I showed up.”
But Dad has stopped listening. He turns abruptly and walks away. Paul and I are left alone.
* * *
“She’ll be back,” Alejandro says, passing Camila a cup of coffee as she steps into the restaurant.
Camila doesn’t reply. Her eyes are on the tragic little group on the other side of the road. There are no other customers in the restaurant, and she already has a mug in her hand, but Camila goes over to the machine to brew a fresh pot of coffee.
When it’s ready, she pours it into a thermos and jogs across the road.
The protesters seem skeptical as she approaches. For a while, their chanting actually increases. Camila doesn’t care. When no one steps forward to take the flask from her, she just puts it down on the ground and turns and walks away.
They do actually seem tempted by the thermos. Circling around it. Looking away. Approaching it again. Waving their placards half-heartedly. When the wind really starts to pick up, one of them reaches for it and pours a hot cup of coffee with relieved, trembling hands.
Alejandro shakes his head at her. “I’m not sure they deserve that,” he says.
“I’m not sure it matters anymore,” Camila tells him.
* * *
The next morning, the phone starts ringing nonstop.
It’s all of the businesses Camila made brochures for. After the meeting in town, they have suddenly started to wonder whether it’s really such a good idea to collaborate with the motel. It’s not that they have anything against the motel, they tell her, but you know how it is. Besides, one of them says defensively, there’s no smoke without fire, and if the motel has suddenly decided that it wants to be a part of this town, we should’ve thought about that before, and also…
Camila hangs up mid-tirade.
Sheriff Ed swings by the motel just before lunch. Camila makes a valiant effort to flash him a friendly smile, but her eyes give her away.
“What can I do for you?” she wearily asks.
Sheriff Ed looks troubled. Troubled and reluctant. “I heard you were at the meeting yesterday,” he says.
Camila nods.
“So you heard what they were saying. We’ve had quite a few complaints. People calling up to ask why we haven’t investigated the motel properly. Saying that who-knows-what goes on here, and asking what we’re planning to do about it.
That kind of thing. Probably completely baseless, but you know how it is.”
“No,” Camila replies. “I don’t.”
“Uh. No. Maybe not. But people have been complaining to Bob, too. He asked me to come by and ‘look into it.’”
“So this is a formal visit?” Camila sounds astounded. Sheriff Ed looks embarrassed.
“Only so we can say we took people’s concerns seriously,” he tells her.
Camila folds her arms. For a moment, I’m sure she is about to give him a piece of her mind. I can tell that she’s desperate to take out her frustration on someone, let them know exactly what she thinks about people’s concerns. I hope she does it! How dare Sheriff Ed come over here like this? He’s been eating lunch here for years! Now I regret ever worrying about his cholesterol levels.
But then it’s like Camila just gives up. She suddenly doesn’t have the energy to care any longer. Her arms slump to her sides. The anger disappears from her eyes, leaving only emptiness behind. Emptiness and an indifference that’s difficult to for me to see.
“Do what you want,” she says.
And then she just stands there and answers his questions. He checks our reservation system, goes through our check-in procedures, asks whether we record names and license plate numbers, whether we check people’s IDs, whether we’ve had any trouble with difficult guests, that kind of thing. Any complaints? Have we seen anything suspicious?
Camila endures his visit, and when Sheriff Ed runs out of questions, she even asks whether he wants lunch before he leaves.
Sheriff Ed looks even more pained and says, “Probably shouldn’t. People might think I’ve picked a side.”
“Sheriff Ed,” Camila says, her voice flat. “Do me a favor and go to hell.”
She slumps onto the couch the minute he leaves, staring at the colorful walls as though they’re mocking her. MacKenzie’s spirit hangs over every inch of reception.
“What the hell am I doing?” she asks herself.
* * *
That afternoon, we go into town together. Camila parks on Elm Street, but she doesn’t get out of the car. She seems to be trying to memorize every last gray detail.
In the middle of the street: that damn gazebo. Cheryl looks much more enthusiastic than the protesters, probably because she isn’t exposed to the elements the way they are. People are actually stopping to chat with her. Despite the weather, no one seems to be in a hurry. They just turn their collars a little higher and then nod and listen and take the leaflets they’re offered.
I realize that Camila is making her way straight toward them, and I hurry after her.
“Are you sure you want to…” I shout. “There are loads of them, and only one of you!”
But Camila just walks over to Cheryl and says, “We need to talk.”
See! She already has a plan. She’ll be able to fix this.
“I’m listening,” Cheryl replies. Her pale-pink puffer jacket is obscuring today’s Christian slogan. It also clashes with her bright-pink sneakers. She has finished off her outfit with a purple scarf.
“Maybe somewhere a little warmer? I want to make you an offer.”
They end up at Hank’s, at a small table by the window in the back corner of the café—as far from Hank’s eavesdropping as they can get. They each order coffee and ignore his inquisitive questions, and then Camila says, “If I sell the motel, will you stop the protests? I can’t guarantee you’ll be any happier with the new owners, but you’d get rid of me at the very least.”
Cheryl takes a sip of coffee to win herself more time. “So we’d just have to hope the new owners were better?” she says after recovering from Hank’s coffee.
“I can’t sell the motel if there are protesters outside. So, yeah. I guess you’ll have to decide whether you like the sound of those odds.”
“Can’t get any worse, I suppose,” Cheryl mumbles.
Camila patiently waits her out. I want to shake her and say that she’s crazy even to consider giving in, but I just sit mutely beside her. Her words are still ringing in my ears. New owners. Sell the motel. She can’t be serious, I think in desperation.
“And if they don’t behave, we can always raise the issue again.” Cheryl sounds thoughtful.
“No. We settle this once and for all. I’m not going to sell the hotel if it just means fobbing the problem off on someone else. It isn’t fair to whoever takes over.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Do me a favor and call off your protesters while you do. They’re giving me a headache.”
As Camila gets up to leave, Cheryl studies her intently. “And you think you’d be able to do it?” she asks. “Sell your uncle’s motel, just like that? Everything he worked for, and everything you’ve toiled for since you came back?”
Camila sits down again. “I got the hint, even if it was nice to be back. I don’t belong here. I guess your protests have already done their job. You got the message across in other ways, too, but I guess a few You’re going to burn in hell signs never hurt, right?”
Cheryl looks uncomfortable. She even takes a sip of her coffee rather than look Camila in the eye. “That was never the intention,” she mutters. Then she looks up, defiant. “It was about the motel. It’s never been a part of this town, and you know it.”
“No, and you’ve really made sure of that now. No, no, I didn’t mean it as criticism. I know MacKenzie can be really irritating. She drives me crazy, too.”
“It’s not about MacKenzie, either!” Cheryl still can’t quite meet Camila’s eyes.
“Good. Because I can’t guarantee she’ll stay away forever. She said she was leaving for good, but she might change her mind and come back.”
This time, Cheryl looks her straight in the eye. She can’t help herself. “MacKenzie is gone?”
“Left yesterday.”
“But this is MacKenzie we’re talking about.”
“Yup, guess you won in the end.” Camila gets up. “So are we done here? You’ll think about my offer? Give me a call once you’ve made up your mind.”
“But about MacKenzie, I’ve never said that…”
“I don’t care.”
* * *
After her chat with Cheryl, Camila goes to see the motel’s lawyer, an old man who has been helping us out since Juan Esteban’s time in charge. I decide not to follow her into his office. I can’t handle any more talk about the motel being sold.
When Camila and I eventually get back to the motel, she goes straight up to her room. I follow her. “You can’t sell the motel,” I plead with the back of her head. Then I realize she is just staring at the broken blinds, and I lose my trail of thought.
For once, she isn’t looking at them with a critical eye. It’s more like she is going through everything she will miss about the motel.
Thing 1: Even these damn blinds.
Her next port of call is check-in. This time, she finds herself smiling at the colorful walls and slowly runs a hand along the top of her pretty white desk. I wonder whether she’s thinking about the time she and MacKenzie almost kissed while they were cleaning the windows.
Thing 2: The whole of check-in.
When she reaches the restaurant, she sits down for a cup of coffee with Dolores. She doesn’t even protest when Dolores brings up MacKenzie. She pats Alejandro on the shoulder as she leaves.
Thing 3: The overly enthusiastic staff.
Camila visits Juan Esteban’s old office next, but she doesn’t seem to get much out of it. The room might be tidy now, but it’s no longer the center of anything. The heart of the motel is somewhere else. She spends some time by the window, looking out at the new sign. Then her eyes are drawn to the spot where MacKenzie’s car is no longer parked.
Last of all, Camila heads down to the apartment MacKenzie and I used to share. She moves slowly and
carefully through my old room, picking up the hardback copy of Michael’s book and putting it back on the shelf. The book looks even more lost there, alone on a dusty shelf in the middle of a trashed room. I think I hear a stifled sob, but I’m not sure.
“You know, I always thought you named your cabin the Pine Cabin to show how little you cared,” I say. “Like you thought an unimaginative name would prove just how indifferent you were. The Pine Tree Cabin at the Pine Creek Motel.”
Camila bends down and picks up one of the photographs. It’s of the four of us, on our way to prom: me, Michael, and Camila in suits, MacKenzie in a gown. She’s staring straight at the camera, trying to hide how uncomfortable she feels.
“But the most important thing about pines is that they survive. Redwoods are prima donnas in comparison, and trembling aspens pretty and fragile. But pines, they can cope with anything. And do you know something else about pines? They’re really damn stubborn once they’ve put down roots. Once they’ve settled on a spot, it’s a nightmare to get rid of them.”
The photograph flutters back down to the floor, and Camila sobs. She leaves my room and tiptoes over to MacKenzie’s bed. She sits with her back to the wall, hugging the pillow to her chest. I guess it must still smell like her.
Thing 4: MacKenzie.
I sit down beside Camila and rest my head on her shoulder. We were sitting the exact same way when she came out to me. It was a week after Michael had left. I didn’t want to accept that she was going to leave, too. I have to, Henny, she said.
She made it sound like it was important to her that I understood, but I assumed that MacKenzie was the person she really wanted to convince. She had to leave, Camila said. She had to leave us to be able to live her life. She couldn’t give up her future, not even for the alternative community she had suddenly experienced when we organized against Measure Nine and she and MacKenzie had worked at the motel. I could understand that, couldn’t I? She would never be free here, not really.
Eventually, Camila’s eyelids grow heavy, and her head slumps gently to one side. She jolts as she dozes off, but then her chin slumps down again. I pat her on the head, and before long, her breathing grows calm.
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 38