Oh, MacKenzie. That’s only because you did things rather than sitting around, listening to people talk.
“You made my life more exciting, in any case,” Camila says. Her tone of voice is deliberately easygoing. “Everything was an adventure with you. I never knew what was going to happen.”
MacKenzie’s eyes are focused on anything but Camila. Then she says, “Why did you never come out to me? Before you left, I mean.”
It’s Camila’s turn to look away. “I just couldn’t.”
Then she smiles. It isn’t an entirely happy smile. “Did you know I wanted to take you to prom? In a dress. But I was never as brave as you.”
“I’m sorry,” MacKenzie eventually replies. “I didn’t know.”
“MacKenzie, it’s all right. I never told you.”
“I should’ve been a better friend.”
And then MacKenzie kisses Camila, hard, and I throw myself out of the room as the first piece of clothing flies through the air. The last thing I hear is MacKenzie insisting that Camila will have her party, whether she wants it or not, accompanied by the fantastic sound of Camila laughing again. But then she says, “MacKenzie, we don’t have to throw a party unless you want to.”
“We’re having a party,” MacKenzie says, and I hum to myself as I walk away.
I walk around the edge of the motel and find Michael and Paul by my veranda. The two men are working silently and efficiently, but Michael keeps pausing and staring straight ahead.
He got a call from his agent an hour ago and said yes to a lecture tour in Canada, given that he would be in British Columbia anyway.
“You know,” I say, “I barely even remember my mom. I was five when she died, and I have no idea which memories are real and which are imagined, planted through photos and Dad’s and Grandma’s even more unreliable memories. There was a period when I used to ask Dad about her all the time. I was six or seven, and every day was full of questions like: Did Mom like ice cream? What was her favorite color? Did she have a favorite TV show? What color hair did she have? What about her eyes? The pictures didn’t give me anywhere near enough information. Yes, her hair was blond, but what kind of blond? Honey blond? Strawberry blond? Dark blond? I thought honey blond sounded nicest.”
I move over to him, standing as close as I can get. He smells like motel soap, wood, and cold air.
“There were a couple of girls at school who had those My Friends books, and I used to memorize the questions from them so I could ask Dad and fill in my own version in my head. ‘What about her favorite animal, Dad. What was Mom’s favorite animal?’ Dad said it was dogs, but he didn’t know what kind of dog, so now I wonder if he just made up an answer. Maybe he didn’t really know her, either. ‘Ask your grandmother.’ That’s what he often said, but I knew that the image of Mom that lived on in her mind had very few similarities with any living person. Am I going to disappear like that? Will anyone remember my exact hair color? Will you remember the exact shade of my eyes? Does MacKenzie know what my favorite color is, so she can pass it on? I think it’s yellow.”
I glance at him. “You’ll remember me, won’t you? Anyway, I’m still here. I’ll remember everything you’ve said and done and thought, and you’ll remember me. Teamwork.”
My mountains are dark against the bare trees. The damp, brown grass of the meadow in front is wrapped in a faint haze, wild and lonely and beautiful.
“I never picked the town ahead of you,” I say.
It’s just that I had never known anything but Pine Creek. Whenever Michael told me about the rest of the world, it was like trying to imagine what existed beyond the universe. Thinking about that too much would drive anyone crazy. Or so I thought. And how was I supposed to know whether I would be able to breathe anywhere else?
“It was you who left me,” I say. “I was always here. You knew where to find me.”
For a moment, I’m convinced I can actually feel the warmth of his body.
“I would have made you happy if I’d had the chance,” I say.
* * *
MacKenzie is nowhere to be seen the whole next day, out on errands I should probably be worried about. That dangerous glimmer in her eye is back with a vengeance. When she returns, she takes over the practical side of running the motel so that Camila can focus on the preparations for her party.
Camila tries reorganizing the furniture in the restaurant, while MacKenzie cleans the last few rooms that Camila didn’t get around to. Camila makes posters; MacKenzie deals with the accounts in the office.
I hop up onto the desk beside her. “I’m sorry I said you should be strong and do things,” I say. “I was wrong. You don’t need to be strong at all.”
The door into reception is open, and we can both see Camila hunched over the computer, working away on her posters.
“I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately,” I continue. “Do you remember how it felt just after I died? How everything seemed to really affect you? Every sound cut into your soul, every irritating moment or idiotic person made your bones ache; your temper flared up without warning, and the smallest task felt like a visit to the dentist. Like you were skinless. I think that’s how life should be lived. We should be skinless.
“We should cry when we watch sad films and laugh when we see a clip of dogs doing stupid things; we should feel love without warning, sudden bouts of joy. And anger and irritation, too, of course. It’s not all positive. But we’re supposed to feel life. You can try to shield yourself from it, but that won’t make you any safer. It’s a false comfort, thinking you can build moats and drawbridges and defensive walls around you. The first catastrophe that comes along will flatten them all. The only thing you’ll actually manage to do is shut out love.”
I think MacKenzie might have learned that lesson now. She was vulnerable with Camila. I saw it in her face. It’s just so difficult to know whether it’s going to last. From time to time, she glances over at Camila. Sometimes she smiles as she does it, but then her face becomes closed off as she goes through the figures, our expenses and the meager income we’ve had lately.
I jump down from the desk.
“Love is giving in. Unconditionally. Lowering the drawbridge. You’ll be surprised by everything that comes flooding in. You can find help and support from people you don’t even know, see love marching in and friendship making itself at home. The only way to protect ourselves from loss is never to have anything to lose, but that’s such an empty way to live. Our hearts can handle more than we think. They keep beating long after we’ve been cremated.”
When I come out into the reception area, I realize that the protesters have gone. It’s the middle of the day, the sun is even shining, but there is nothing but pines and emptiness on the other side of the road.
This worries me.
* * *
Camila prints out her posters on the old printer in the office, and then she puts them up all over town. It’s a glorious day and there are people all around, taking time with their errands and watching with fascination as she makes her way down Elm Street. They pause by her posters, hesitate, and then move on.
All but Cheryl, who quickly skim-reads one of them and then runs to catch up with her. “I thought you were going to sell the motel,” she says, out of breath. Camila still has a stack of posters in her arms.
“That’s the plan.”
“So what’s the point of this party?”
“Think of it as a leaving party. You’re invited, of course.” She pauses. “I don’t know whether it matters to you, but MacKenzie is back. I have no idea how long she’ll stay this time.”
I can’t be sure, but Cheryl almost looks…relieved?
* * *
Derek is standing in the middle of a group of men, nodding and laughing and shaking hands. Beneath his black sports jacket, I catch a glimpse of an impressively crisp white shirt collar.
&nb
sp; “Excuse me, boys,” he says when he spots Cheryl. He jogs over to her. They are standing just outside a shop, and the owner waves cheerily to Derek, who waves back before he leans in to Cheryl.
“What’s this I hear about taking a break with the campaign?” he asks quietly.
“We haven’t given in. It’s more like a…cease-fire.”
“Sounds a lot like giving in to me. What’s going on?”
“Camila has agreed to sell the motel,” Cheryl explains. “The new owners might be better. We can influence them to…”
“So what? We’ll have some cheap motel chain instead? And that’s meant to solve everything?”
“We’re not against motels per se, just the way this particular motel has been run. And with another owner, well…”
Eventually, Derek tells her what’s really on his mind: “But what about MacKenzie?”
You should have thought about that before you began all this, I think.
Cheryl looks away. “She isn’t our responsibility. We’re here to make this town into a better place for our kids, and…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. No need for the speech.” He shakes his head. “I just didn’t think she’d give in like that.”
“Who?”
“MacKenzie. She’s always been at that motel. She’s crazy and a pain in the ass, but, you know, this is MacKenzie we’re talking about.”
“Camila is more reasonable; it’s as simple as that. Or smarter, perhaps.”
“And that’s it? All this work for…well, this?”
“This is what we’ve been fighting for. The new owners will change things. I’m sure Robert will be able to move home now.”
“I just thought we wanted more than this.”
“It’s just one battle in the wider war. There’ll be more. The world can’t be saved in a day. It’s about endurance, and…”
“All right, all right,” Derek looks weary. He gives her a disillusioned glance. I wonder whether he is thinking that Bob was right.
Chapter 49
Tougher than Others
Dad anxiously follows all of the preparations for the party. He even goes into town to gauge the general mood. Once he returns to the motel, he inspects the veranda, sees Camila working in the restaurant, eavesdrops on a conversation she is having with Dolores, and shakes his head.
He is so worried that he even talks to Clarence about it—though, in truth, he might be talking more to himself than anything. He is sitting on the bench outside the restaurant when Clarence joins him, and Dad suddenly says, “It’s not going to work.”
“What’s not?”
“The party. People won’t come. They’ll stay away. People try to avoid controversy, and the motel is still too controversial.” Dad nods to himself. “They’re going to be upset here. I don’t like the thought of them being upset. What if MacKenzie disappears again?”
“Well, you’ll have to do something about it,” Clarence says with the calmness of someone who has no intention of leaving his seat in the sun. He is enjoying the warmth from its weak rays, a blanket on his knees, and a mug full of liquor in his hand.
“Do something?” Dad sounds shocked.
“Yeah. Sort it out.”
“But what can I do?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not the one sitting here talking about catastrophes. I just want to enjoy the first nice day in forever. You know, people worry too much. I’ve always said that. I think it’s because they don’t drink enough…”
Fortunately, Dad is no longer listening. Instead, he is staring at the man who has just parked outside the motel.
It’s our lawyer, a kind, old man who has spent the past ten years trying to retire. He is wearing boots, jeans, and a warm padded jacket. I’m pretty sure I can see a fishing rod waiting for him in the back of his car.
He also looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him before.
Dad gets up from the bench and cautiously follows him. When the lawyer finds MacKenzie, Dad hides around the corner to eavesdrop on their conversation. I don’t need to hide, of course, I can eavesdrop in the open, but the sight of Dad’s mop of gray hair peeping around the corner distracts me.
“Camila stopped by the office the other day,” the lawyer says. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I really shouldn’t. The bar association would have a fit.”
“In that case, maybe you shouldn’t tell me.”
“But I’ve known you since you were a kid, when you turned up at my office to ask how an eight-year-old could leave home.”
“You weren’t much help, if I remember correctly.”
“And if I remember correctly, you suggested pitching a tent in the schoolyard.”
MacKenzie shrugs.
He glances around. Dad’s head disappears around the corner. “You didn’t hear it from me, all right?”
Dad’s head pops out again.
“Camila wanted to talk to me about selling a motel. Asked for the necessary forms. Wanted me to take her through how to fill them out. I asked if you knew about it, and she said, ‘It’s still my motel. For now, anyway.’ I thought you should know what she’s planning. I can’t do anything about it, I hope you understand that. You might’ve been running this place for years, but from a legal perspective, she’s the owner. Still, this way you’ll have time to prepare. Maybe look for another job.”
MacKenzie pats him on the shoulder. “I appreciate the warning,” she says.
“It’s not right,” he mutters. “The bar association can go to hell.”
MacKenzie shoves her hands into her pockets. “A commendable attitude.”
* * *
“Okay, Robert, you need to do something,” Dad mutters to himself. “Think. An idea. That’s all you need.”
He sits down on the bed in his room—everything is manically tidy—and stares at my urn. I see his lips move, followed by a slight shake of the head, a nod, a new shake. Maybe he is weighing up different options, or going through the pros and cons.
He continues this for roughly an hour before suddenly standing up. “Yes, the situation demands it,” he says. “It might be presumptuous, but it has to be done.”
He puts on a fresh, ironed shirt.
“I don’t want to get involved, but someone has to.”
His hands are trembling slightly as he knots his tie. Then he smooths it out, checks everything is hanging properly, and pulls on his red coat.
“I guess she can always say no.”
* * *
“I know you don’t really want to sell the motel,” Dad says.
Camila looks up from the reception desk in surprise. “Sell the motel?”
“You can’t be serious about it.”
She gets up and walks around to him. “How on earth do you know about that?” she asks.
Dad’s face turns red. “I…happened to hear your lawyer warning MacKenzie about it. He had to,” he quickly adds. “He’s known MacKenzie all her life. And she has worked here all this time. I hope he’s not going to get into trouble…” He mutters to himself. “I never thought about that.”
Camila seems taken aback: “MacKenzie knows?”
“Um, yes. I’m afraid so.”
Her voice is nothing but a whisper: “What did she say?”
“Nothing. She didn’t say anything.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone. But not forever,” he says as Camila’s face turns pale. “I think. I think she’s just out running some errands. She drove off an hour or so ago, though she didn’t have any bags with her. But that’s not what I wanted to say. The point is that, well, I hope this isn’t presumptuous of me, but I think I have a plan.”
“Funny,” Camila replies. “Because I thought I did, too.”
* * *
Camila spends the rest of the day watching
out for MacKenzie’s pickup. No matter what she’s doing, she keeps half an eye on the parking lot and the road beyond. But when MacKenzie eventually returns just after five, it’s Dad who spots her first.
“MacKenzie!” he says as she calmly climbs out of the car. She is holding a slim cardboard box in one hand and has the motel’s master key in the other.
I nervously scan her eyes for any sign of madness, some kind of crazy new plan, but all I see is calm satisfaction. She’s pleased. With herself, I think, but it’s hard to know for sure.
That doesn’t exactly reassure me.
“I want to organize a memorial for Henny,” Dad tells her.
“Wasn’t the funeral enough?” she asks.
“No, I want it to be more…fun. I want people to talk about Henny. I want to hear their stories.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll stay away. You don’t need to send Cheryl this time.”
“No, I mean, I want to hold it here.”
“Here?”
“Yes. I was wondering… Do you think Camila would mind if we combined her party with Henny’s memorial?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“But is it all right with you?”
“They’re not going to come. People from town, I mean. Not even for Henny’s sake.”
“We’ll see,” Dad says, and MacKenzie shrugs and continues up the stairs. She uses the master key to let herself into Camila’s room. She only spends a few minutes inside, but by the time she reemerges, she is no longer holding the box.
* * *
Camila intercepts MacKenzie in the parking lot, but she seems too nervous even to look at her. She swallows and says, “I can explain.”
MacKenzie raises an eyebrow. I don’t think she seems angry, but Camila’s nerves are rubbing off on me.
“About the motel. I know you know I’m going to sell it.”
“Harry has known me since I was eight. If you wanted to keep it a secret, you should’ve asked a different lawyer for advice.”
“I was planning to tell you later. Maybe I should’ve done it right away, but…”
MacKenzie interrupts her. “You don’t need to explain anything,” she says. “I know you wouldn’t do it unless you had to. I know the state our finances are in. And you’d never sell it unless you were sure the new owners would keep Dolores on.”
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 40