Room 702

by Benjamin, Ann

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “Just leave the tray in the hallway or ring to let us come and clear your meal away,” Stephen says, twisting his hands. “Oh, and I almost forgot, can you sign for the food?” He pulls out the bill from his white apron pocket and withdraws a pen.

  Stephen watches the guest sign and suddenly feels compelled to say something complimentary to the guest.

  “Here you are.”

  “You have lovely…penmanship,” Stephen blurts out.

  “That is such a kind thing for you to say. Oh, and I’ve almost forgot!” Bob Wilkerson all but prances towards his handbag and pulls out a crisp series of ten dollar notes and hands them across.

  “Th-thank you, Miss.” Stephen walks to the door and says, “Just call whenever you are ready for us to clear things away.”

  “I will.” Clarissa shuts the door, and goes over to the balcony to enjoy her dinner.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  March 19, 5:27 P.M.

  Kimberly recognizes the phone number – her mother’s – and picks up the phone, “Ma – what is it? I called you from the airport and I’ve barely made it in the door. Don’t be that paranoid, it’s just LA.”

  “Turn on the television.”

  Kimberly understands the voice is not one to argue with and does as she’s told. Falling heavily on the sofa, she flips through the channels and instantly sees what her mother is talking about. There, in full HD quality, is a disaster. An earthquake of truly epic proportions. For a country that has already seen its share of tragedies and natural disasters, Japan is once again at the mercy of the tectonic plates beneath them. The videos show a terrible morning scene. A violent shaking from various camera angles. Cars thrown about like toys. A rippling of roadways.

  “Do you know if he’s there?” her mother asks.

  “I… I don’t know.” Kimberly barely has time to process the question. The ‘he’ in reference is Kimberly’s on again off again partner of forever. Greg Hill. The full weight of what’s happening hits the twenty-eight year old and she says, “Mom, I’ll call you back when I hear anything.”

  “Or just call if you need someone to talk to.”

  Thoughts fly through Kimberly’s head. The last time they spoke… The conversation turned ugly. How will she get in touch with him? They are friends on facebook, but for someone so intelligent, so in the public eye, he is not active on social media and in this chaotic time, she guesses this will be the last thing in his mind. His updates are far and few between and show the hectic lifestyle he’s been living since their most recent breakup.

  They met in college – a state school with tens of thousands of undergraduates, friends of friends with an instant attraction. Once graduation came, they had both decided to try their luck in New York. He was an artist across numerous mediums. She was a graphic designer.

  At first – it was amazing. They were poor, but they didn’t care.

  And then, he was discovered. From nothing he became something.

  There were offers, he signed with a well known agent.

  She knew he was a traditionalist, deep down, and pressured him to get married.

  He wouldn’t commit and took a commission in London, then Sydney and had recently ended up in Tokyo.

  The last time they had seen each other had been a hotel much like this one. There had been some aggressive sex – the best they’d ever had, and in the end, they still hadn’t been able to resolve their differences.

  She’s tried to date other men, but always finds them lacking.

  This event pushes forward what she’s been hesitant to reveal.

  Her hand trembles as she picks up her phone. She has his number. More than anything, it’s a lesson in patience. She’ll look at the digits, compose messages to it that she never sends, but can never find the ability or courage to delete the information from her phone.

  And now, she cannot type out the words fast enough.

  >>Please tell me you’re okay.

  While she wants to sit and stare at her phone, while she’s desperate for a response instead, Kimberly unloads her laptop and pulls up various news sites trying to get any information possible. It’s not enough. She turns up the volume on the television and in an agitated state, flips the channels every 30-90 seconds. When a text doesn’t come back in a matter of minutes, she picks up the phone and dials his number. The call does not go through. Given the damage she’s seen on screen, it’s not surprising.

  Kimberly quickly calls and cancels the dinner she had booked this evening. Her friend understands.

  Kimberly knows she won’t be able to sleep until she finds out whether or not Greg is okay. Unable to find something useful to do, she begins tracking down friends of Greg who he’s recently been in contact with. None of them have an update. All are equally worried for his well being.

  As she finishes another fruitless lead, she looks up on screen to catch a ferocious aftershock.

  Buildings sway, but most – thankfully – remain standing.

  Debris falls and announcers begin frantically discussing the possibility of a tsunami triggered by this latest catastrophe. As terrible as the first round looked, these images are truly frightening. For the amount of damage taking place, it seems difficult to believe people would be able to survive.

  The phone rings. It is her mother, again. She must have seen what’s happening. This time, Kimberly picks up the phone, “Hi, Ma.”

  Kimberly doesn’t make it much past this greeting before breaking down and weeping. Her mother remains silent on the other end until her daughter is able to settle herself. The elder Richards asks, “Have you heard anything?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to call his parents?”

  The relationship between Kimberly and Greg’s parents has never been particularly strong, so she appreciates her mother’s offer that much more.

  “No… Maybe. Could you?” After all of the fruitless searching, Kimberly wouldn’t mind some outside help.

  “Why don’t I do that and call you right back?”

  “I love you, Ma.”

  “Take care, sweetie – just keep thinking about him. We both know that boy is a survivor.”

  Kimberly tries to follow her mother’s advice, but ends up pacing around the room, then going back to her inbox and reading through all of the old messages from Greg. The inside jokes. The pictures from when they first started dating. In a wave of melancholy, she reverts her profile picture to a photo from a weekend trip to Maine they took a few years back.

  When the phone rings, Kimberly instantly picks up, “Any news?”

  “They haven’t heard anything, but they’ve called into the U.S. Consulate, so if they hear anything, Marilyn promised to let me know.”

  “Do you think that means something?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Are you sure you don’t want to fly home and be with us? I hate the thought of you all alone in the hotel.”

  “I’ll be okay. Besides, what if he calls me and I’m on a plane and I can’t answer?”

  Somewhere, somehow, Kimberly’s emotions and energy were spent and she fell asleep at an awkward angle on the couch.

  A ringing in the distance drags her from a difficult slumber.

  Not recognizing the area code, she picks up and asks, “Hello?”

  “Kim?”

  “Greg? Is that you?”

  “Baby…” are the only words he’s able to get out before both break down, crying and breathing heavily.

  “Are you okay?” Kimberly manages to ask. “Please tell me you’re okay.”

  “—ine. Listen, the connection is bad and I’m borrowing a friend’s sat phone. Can you call my –rents?”

  “Of course I can. Are you somewhere safe?”

  “For now. Where are you?”

  “Los Angeles. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  “—y put. I’ll come to you.”

  “Of
course! Greg, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “…love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  The line goes dead. Not letting go of the phone, Kimberly rubs her eyes and walks outside, trying to catch her breath. Did the call really happen? It wasn’t something she imagined? Forced to make happen? She looks at the phone and scrolls through the recent calls, relieved to see the short conversation did indeed happen.

  “He’s alive.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  March 21, 6:45 P.M.

  “I’ll just be right back,” says Clare Berhie, flipping the deadbolt lock into the door frame so it will remain open. Clutching the brushed silver bucket in her hand, she creeps out in the hall, very aware that she is wearing a robe and nothing else. She wishes Daniel had been able to make the trip with her, but he was unable to get coverage for his shifts in the veterinary clinic where he worked. The death of her grandfather had been expected, but still painful news to receive. The funeral would be the following day. It would be good to see family members she had not seen in years and introduce Toby to many of them. Since receiving the news of her grandfather’s passing, her life had been shifted to overdrive. Booking tickets, packing for herself and Toby, trying to find a suitable black dress she could fit into — the past 24 hours had been a blur.

  And yet, she’s proud of herself. Traveling with a baby, alone, seemed intimidating, but, thanks to a helpful seat mate and a direct flight, was easier than she expected. Toby behaved like an angel and was currently resting in the travel crib the Winchester was nice enough to provide at check in. Mentally going through everything that needs to happen tomorrow, she retrieves the ice and, true to her promise, Clare returns within a minute, bucket brimming with ice. She moves to push the door open and collides with its hard surface. Dropping the ice entirely, she begins violently shaking the door back and forth.

  “No, no, no. This cannot be happening.”

  Frantically, she puts her hands in the pockets of the robe, hoping against hope that a key or phone will appear. Neither does.

  She continues and slaps her hands against the door, banging loudly, not caring if she wakes up the entire hall. The ice and bucket remain on the ground. Clare looks around the hallway, willing help to appear and none does.

  “Fuck!”

  Dashing to the elevator, she reappears a few minutes later, now in tears with a well suited Ethan deSoto, able-bodied night manager and professional putter outer of fires big and small. Professional as ever, he pretends not to notice that she’s dressed in only a half opened robe.

  Pulling out his all access plastic key, he says, “Don’t worry, Ma’am – we’ll get in. He’ll be just fine.”

  With the swipe of a key, the green light activates and with the lock no longer engaged, Ethan opens the door, with Laura closely behind him. Sweeping into the bedroom, she all but falls next to the crib and practically cries out in relief. There, sleeping soundly, unaware of the drama around him, is a perfectly content and resting seven month old.

  Kissing him softly on his head, Laura moves out of the room and looks at the bellman, who quickly removes the shocked expression from his face.

  “You must think I’m a terrible mother,” she whispers.

  “It could happen to anyone,” he says diplomatically.

  “But it doesn’t.”

  “Not regularly.”

  “How can I repay you?”

  “Just doing my job, Ma’am. The Winchester endeavors to keep parents and children together.” He moves to leave the reunited family and asks, “Is there anything else we can provide for the evening?”

  “If you could manage not to tell his father, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  She follows him to the door and he retrieves the key from the door, pressing it in her hand and saying, “Keep this in a safe place.”

  “I will.”

  After her heart rate slows down and she checks multiple times to ensure that Toby is sleeping soundly, she is surprised when there is a knock at the door. Pulling her robe tight, she looks in the LCD peephole and sees a hotel employee on the other side. Opening the door, she asks, “Yes?”

  “Compliments of the manager.” Chad wheels in a cart, and lifts the cover to reveal a selection of cookies, a cold pitcher of milk, a stuffed animal (a Moose, the mascot of the Winchester) and a note. He walks out of the room, leaving a bewildered Clare.

  She takes the note, handwritten on letterhead, sits down and reads:

  Enjoy this midnight snack on us and, if you have time – please visit the spa – our compliments.

  Ethan and the rest of the Winchester family

  PS We’re happy to arrange for childcare while you do!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  March 27, 11:01 A.M.

  “Are you ready to begin?”

  “Yes, Doc.”

  “It’s been awhile,” Nancy says neutrally.

  “I know.”

  “Is there any particular reason?”

  “My schedule.”

  “We make time for things that are important to us.”

  Oscar looks down at his size 15 feet and says, “I know.”

  “If this venue doesn’t work, I’d be happy to meet you somewhere else in the city.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “When am I going to start feeling better?”

  “Oscar, this is not a process we can rush. There’s not some sort of magic internal button we can push and you’ll instantly feel better. However, consistently meeting with me and talking through things can help.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m just so tired of feeling different than everyone else.”

  “I know,” Nancy answers in a reassuring tone. “How do you feel about the medication?”

  “I think it’s definitely having an impact. I accidentally missed a few days in a row recently and noticed a difference,” Oscar answers.

  “Good. I don’t think we need to adjust your levels then. Remind me and at the end of our sessions I’ll write you a new prescription.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, would you like to update me on what we discussed last time?”

  “I think I’m going to get a new agent.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you walk me through how you came to this decision?”

  “After we spoke, I set up a meeting with him. And not to get all Jerry Maguire, but I realized he saw me as a meal ticket and nothing more. I started talking to one of my teammates from Georgetown about his relationship with his agent. I set up a meeting with this guy and I think we could be a great team.”

  “Are they at the same agency?”

  “No.”

  “Are you under contract with your current agent?”

  “Actually, we’re coming up to the end of my agreement with him.”

  “Are you prepared to give notice to your current agent and all the fallout that might accompany it?”

  Oscar takes a deep breath and says, “I am. As much as I dislike conflict, I realize that having a better agent, or one that I actually have a relationship with will not only help my professional career but also my personal life.”

  “I’m very glad to hear you say that. When do you think you will make the change?”

  “Thank goodness, my contract ends after the end of the season. I want all the off court drama to happen when the focus isn’t on basketball.”

  “Understood. What does Dani think of your decision? Did you consult her in making the choice?”

  “I did. I think she liked being part of the process. She brought up some valid points – no one is a bigger cheerleader for me than she is.”

  “And how was she with your parents? Did you end up meeting with them
?”

  “We did and she was very helpful. If it hadn’t been for her…”

  “Do you mind telling me the whole story? Again, I’m most interested in what part you played in being in control. I think this was an important step for you.”

  “They came to Chicago, which was more than I thought they would do.”

  “Even after you bought them the tickets?”

  “Even then. My mom has a bad habit of refusing to commit to things until the last minute.”

  “Interesting. Has this been an ongoing personality trait of hers?”

  “Sure, being late, not committing, backing out at the last minute – as far as I can remember.”

  “If she has been behaving like this since your childhood, your refusal to try and control things could be a reaction to her actions. If you had zero ability to make an impact on her then, maybe you never got the confidence to take charge as an adult. If your childhood was a series of never ending out of control events, maybe we’ll have a better understanding of why you feel the way you do.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “I’m not saying this is a case where we can blame your mother for everything – but I encourage you to continue to reflect on her and your childhood. Sorry, to interrupt, what happened when your parents arrived in Chicago?”

  “They arrive and things are as formal as ever.”

  “How so?”

  “We don’t talk about anything real.”

  “Can you define ‘real’?”

  “Anything past superficial. Our basic conversation follows something like, how am I playing? How is Dani’s job? How are their jobs? What is the weather? How are my siblings? How are my niece and nephews?”

  “Sounds like ‘real’ talk to me.”