Room 702

by Benjamin, Ann

  Michael moves to the settee at the end of the bed and closes his eyes. Between being awake and asleep, his brain starts to drift. Not quite dreaming, he hears a phone ring. Coming out of the near sleep and looking at the phone sees his wife, Sara is the one calling. Alarmed at the strange hour, he answers, “Hello? Is everything okay?”

  At this time of night, he hopes something hasn’t happened to one of their children or another family member.

  “Michael, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  The tone of her voice immediately sets him on edge. As college sweethearts, they’ve grown up together over the years and faced unique challenges together. A few years ago she lost her mother to breast cancer and they survived the loss. Life hasn’t always been easy, but they’ve had more highs than lows.

  “What is it?”

  “I got the results from my scan last week.”

  In his preparation for the interview, Michael has not been the most attentive parent or spouse. He remembers she went in for some test or another, but didn’t give the appointment any further thought.

  “And?”

  “And the biopsy came back malignant.”

  The word echoes in his mind. It’s not a word he uses or hears very often. Certainly, when they first learned about his mother-in-law’s illness, but now… the timing of the word seems off, out of place. After his mother-in-law passed, they debated Becky opting for an elective double mastectomy, but in the end had decided against the operation – had pushed the date for some future rainy day when the kids were older. Without the surgery, Becky had been slightly paranoid about going for her recommended annual scan. The appointments came and went and after the first few, Michael had felt relieved and began to accept his wife would be somehow spared the disease.

  “What did the oncologist recommend?” Michael tries to keep his voice even.

  “A mastectomy. Chemotherapy.”

  “Starting?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I’ll come home.”

  “No, Mikey… I know how much this means to you. You’ve worked so hard for it.”

  In a moment, Michael sees the future he had so carefully constructed in his head fall away – the new house, the chance to prove himself. Maybe there will be other job opportunities, maybe there won’t. If these are the cards Fate is dealing him, he has no choice in the matter. His wife and his family need him now.

  “I’ll have a look at the flights now. I’m pretty sure there’s a morning flight I can catch.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I can and I will.”

  Across the miles, a number of emotions transpire. Michael knows he should feel disappointment, but maybe this is as close as he was meant to come to greatness. The hours of preparation and stress fade away. While there might be other job opportunities in his life, he’ll only have one Sara. His current employer provides a better than average health care plan and they should be mostly covered. If he were to be appointed into the new position, there were no guarantees their health care needs would be met. Additionally, at his current place of employment, he has ten years and a lot of understanding. The CEO, a man he regularly golfs with, will most likely let him take as much time as he needed off work – no questions asked and with his position always waiting for him.

  He adds, “I love you, honey, and we’re going to get through this. Have you told anyone else?”

  “I haven’t told the kids – just Meredith. She’s been wonderful.”

  Meredith was one of their neighbors and a dear friend to his wife. Until he returned home, at least she would be in good shape.

  “We’ll get through this, honey.”

  “I know we will.” She sounds unsure. “Michael… it’s everything you wanted.”

  “You are everything I’ll ever want – no job is going to replace you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you – now get some sleep and I’ll text you my new flight plans.” Michael hangs up the call and goes to look at the suit, still hanging peacefully in the closet. It won’t be worn tomorrow, but perhaps, Michael thinks, if he’s lucky, he won’t need to wear it to a funeral any time soon.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  August 14, 2:15 P.M.

  Roger Pickford enters the room cautiously, then breathes a deep sigh of relief. Carefully taking off his shoes and placing them precisely by the door, he cautiously walks further into the space. His heart rate is still increased from the ride in the elevator. Usually, he would take the stairs, but six flights are too many. Although the thirty seconds in the confined space were harrowing, he could at least get out of the death box. Stairs presented a special challenge. While more preferable than a death box, if the numbering of the stairs is not even – he would have to start all over again. His breathing is shallow. He is still sweating profusely. Today has not been a good day. He can usually keep the more obvious elements of his OCD in check, but travel of any kind upsets his ability to control the uncontrollable. For the majority of his time, Roger has worked out an excellent arrangement. He is employed as a book editor and can usually complete his job from inside the personal office in his home. At his residence, everything is precisely as it needs to be. His books of grammar and punctuation, the dictionary are all lined up just so. The pens, pencils, printer, laptop and spare reams of paper are in exact order. In his space, he can keep his schedule the way he prefers. Furthermore, with Skype, a telephone, and a high-speed internet connection, it is not necessary for him to leave his house. While he is not specifically agoraphobic, leaving the house has become more and more difficult for Roger Pickford.

  Working up to this trip was a decision he agonized for weeks over, but ultimately knew the visit was going to be a good step in maintaining his career.

  Aware of his ‘difference’ from an early age, he tries to combat the disease via drugs, but will often go long stages without taking anything. Roger doesn’t like the side effects, nor does he like losing control of himself. As unhealthy as his aversion to drugs might sound to his therapist, he feels innately soothed through his various tics, whereas medication only offers a delayed numbness. He can still edit without medication, so he doesn’t feel he’s cheating himself.

  Unfortunately, once a year or so (less if he can make arrangements otherwise), his schedule becomes such that it is necessary for Roger to travel. This year, his reason to leave home is due to a meeting with the publishing house he receives most of his assignments through. While New York is his usual stop, he appreciates not visiting the condensed city, where he can barely catch his breath. While there may be smog here, at least there is more personal space.

  Although he is officially a freelance editor, his speciality is in the true crime genre and he’s had consistent work from one of the big six, with occasional work for a self-published author. With electronic books becoming part of the industry, Roger has diversified and occasionally hires himself out for clients who want to pay for his services. With a reputation for being thorough and getting the best out of whatever author he was working with, Roger has worked hard to maintain his status in the editing community.

  The words are comforting – how they fit together, which is supposed to belong – the nouns, adjectives, and adverbs each have their place.

  Having had a relatively easy interaction with the front desk at the Winchester, he assures them he is more than capable of reaching his room without assistance. In his room request, he specifically asked for an even numbered room, which has been granted. This is a particular tic which governs many of his decisions – for the flight today, he chose seat 14D. He carries two bags. Now, in an effort to soothe himself, he checks throughout the room for pairs of things. He sees the slippers, counts the number of hangers, looks at the matched pair of coffee cups, saucers, the glasses, and walks into the bathroom, pleased to find perfectly folded and matched sets of towels. Even better, the toiletries number is even, and he turns them precisely to ens
ure the labels are all perfectly in order. The tiny shampoo, conditioner, body lotion and mouthwash are all wonderfully in harmony.

  Roger feels his heart rate calm as he goes through each room in the suite a second time. In a practiced motion, he ensures each and every item is at a precise angle. He makes minuscule adjustments to the snacks, bottles of water and glasses, carefully ensuring they are spaced correctly. While the cleaning staff have done a better job than many other places he’s stayed, he does not feel completely secured until he rights each and every item in the room – including the pictures on the wall.

  In the bedroom, as he tilts the image of Sean Connery slightly, a piece of paper slides out from behind the framed photograph, coming to rest on the rug near the bed. Curious, Roger gently picks up the document. Unfolding the paper, he walks over to the desk and smoothes out the edges, centering it in the middle of the rectangular space. He looks closely at the handwriting and in a moment, instantly recognizes the loops and swirls.

  In his first semester at Ohio State, through the housing lottery, Roger had been placed in a room with Bailey Schneiderman. From the beginning, it was clear the two were different as night and day. Roger’s obsessive tendencies were not as obvious or pronounced those years ago, but he is still someone who most others would classify as ‘off.’ The two had cohabited for a year, after which, Bailey had quit school, changed his name to Brendan Sullivan, moved to Los Angeles and the two had lost touch. Roger, who abhorred going to the movie theatre and rarely kept up with anything which could be considered topical, had never made the connection his former roommate had risen to the very top of Hollywood, only to meet his untimely demise very recently.

  With letter in hand, Roger recalled one of the few times in his life someone had shown him real kindness. From an early age and a difficult childhood, Roger had never expected others to understand his compulsions. His parents didn’t. His siblings didn’t. And his compulsions weren’t something he could necessarily control. Bailey Schneiderman was one of the only people who had stuck up for him on more than one occasion. Roger thought back to that year in the dorms. As much as he had strange habits of his own, Bailey was overly fond of leaving notes for himself – everywhere. There were Post-its nearly covering one entire wall of their cramped dorm room. And, even though he hadn’t seen the handwriting in years, Roger remembers the penmanship. Bailey was left handed and had a unique slanted way of writing.

  Roger looked at the letter in front of him again. He realizes he should call the front desk, tell them he’s found private property, but instead Roger decides to read. The note doesn’t make much sense, but even with the signature ‘Brendan,’ he has no question as to the owner of the letter. However, he has no way of knowing who Ken is.

  Roger is suddenly torn. Given all the traveling, he feels compelled to clean himself with a thorough shower – a process that will take at least thirty minutes from start to finish. Although the letter was exciting and he wants to know who Ken is, his curiosity cannot stop his need to be clean or unpack his luggage. Needing to have his clothes in precise order, he carefully removes them in the exact opposite order in which they were placed. Removing the sheets of tissue paper (no object can touch the other), he carefully hangs up the shirts and trousers in the closet – placing them equal distances apart. He selects the clothes he will put on once he is clean from the shower on one side of the bed. Once all of his garments have been put away, he brings his toiletries into the bathroom and aligns them with the hotel provided ones.

  After stripping off all of his clothes, again, in the exact opposite order in which they were put on and placing them neatly on the bed, Roger steps into the shower. Underneath the water is when he feels the most relaxed. In this space he is clean and free from all of the worries the outside world places on him.

  Finally stepping out onto the aligned bath mat, Roger removes one of the towels and wraps the fluffy cloth around himself, drying his body completely before stepping off the mat. Walking the opposite side of the bed to his dirty clothes he finds the clean clothes he will wear. He puts them on, again in specific order. He returns to the bathroom to hang his towel and comb his hair.

  Although he is desperate to return to the letter, first he needs to adjust the bathroom so it is back to his standards. He straightens the wet towel, places the bathmat to dry and realigns the toiletries. After which, he folds his used clothes and places them in one of the small laundry bags he has brought with him (no other set of dirty laundry goes in the same bag).

  Throughout the process, in his mind, he is distracted. Roger desperately wants to get back to the letter – longs to know who Ken is and why Bailey didn’t send the letter himself. However, there are processes he needs to follow. He realizes there are others who have stayed in this room and kicked back, spread their clothes everywhere, but he is not and cannot be that person.

  Finally opening his laptop, Roger carefully cleans the screen and plugs in the computer. Looking at the letter again, he feels compelled to do something about the contents and intent. A quick search of Brendan’s entry on the Internet Movie Database (which does mention the actor’s brief stint at Ohio State) reveals a number of revelations. The most difficult being that Brendan died recently…in this very hotel. Roger looks at the laptop screen, unsure how to process the information. That Brendan died of a drug overdose is a terrible fact, but that nothing references a letter from beyond piques Roger’s interest. Could it be that this letter had not been found before today?

  Even worse, does that mean Roger is in the same room where is roommate passed away?

  Strangely, Roger’s reaction is one of peace. If Brendan had died here, they would have replaced everything in the room. The suite would have undergone a complete, thorough and deep cleaning. Additionally, maybe Fate intended for Roger to find the letter. After all, apparently Brendan was quite the movie star. If someone else had found this letter, what would they have done with it? Kept it for themselves? Sold it to a fan?

  Trying to distract himself from complicated emotions, Roger does further research and decides the ‘Ken’ the letter is addressed to is most likely Ken Thomas, Brendan’s first agent. Although Brendan is dead, Roger feels it would be right to honor his former roommate and wants to do something for him.

  Roger, who often checks facts his client’s work, is quickly able to locate Ken’s office in the city. However, as Roger looks at the door to the suite, he realizes the last thing he wants to do is leave the sanctity of his temporary fortress. Los Angeles is a large, intimidating city. Roger had only mentally prepared to leave the suite on one occasion, to meet the editing staff. To even get comfortable to go to their offices, he spent weeks planning transportation, agonized whether or not to drive himself, and had practically memorized the Google maps street view of his correct route to the offices. He also debated whether or not to stay at a hotel within walking distance. In the end, now, sitting in this room, he’s comfortable with the Winchester and feels, with the letter in front of him, that he was meant to be here.

  Could he convince Ken to come to the hotel?

  Most likely not, nor does he want to call Ken directly. Roger does not like the phone and uses the device only when absolutely necessary. He prefers his communication to be delivered electronically.

  So, was he to go directly to Ken’s office? What if Ken wasn’t in?

  Rather than dwell on too many complicated outcomes, he decides the solution is easy. He will address the envelope and send it to Ken’s office. After all, Roger doesn’t want to be there in person to explain how he came upon the letter. Relieved he can contribute something to the world and is ultimately doing right by his former roommate, Roger feels a sense of happiness he usually only knows after completing an edit of a book.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  August 22, 9:18 P.M.

  Although she’s fiercely connected to the Blackberry Curve, Camille Thompson sits at her laptop and reviews e-mails that she previously marked for further attent
ion. Taking a bite of the Caesar salad she’s ordered from room service, she stretches for a minute and, raising the fork to her mouth for another bite, pauses as she hears someone fiddling with her door. Turning down her music, she frowns, looks at her food and wonders if room service forgot anything. Walking over to the door, she looks at the small screen and doesn’t recognize the woman on the other side of the door. Watching for a moment, Camille sees a woman, apparently somewhat intoxicated continue to attempt opening the door. Camille watches the woman kick the other side of the door, hears her curse, then lets lose a string of expletives. Rolling her eyes, Camille relents and unlocks the door and says politely, “Sorry, but I think you have the wrong room.”

  “Do I?” the woman squints as the light from the room streams into the darkened hallway.

  Slightly irritated, Camille gestures to the interior of the room, and says, “I’m pretty sure this is my stuff in the room.”

  “Oh.”

  Camille shrugs and says, “So…”

  Without asking, the woman walks through and with a glassy eyed stare, asks, “Can I use your bathroom? I have to pee.”

  Without waiting for answer, the woman walks into the room, dropping her oversized purse on the ground, leaving Camille more or less speechless. Unsure how to politely handle a stranger in her suite, Camille debates calling the front desk, but having been a bartender in a former life, decides it’s not worth the effort. Walking back to the bedroom, she grabs the bottled water and brings the beverage back to the lounge, not too shocked to see the woman, younger than her by a few years, to have already kicked her shoes off and sprawled out on the couch.