by Gaby Triana
“But it’s where you were born. It couldn’t have been all bad,” I argued.
“One thing has nothing to do with another, Ellie,” Mom said.
For years, I’d been trying to get us to visit Nana’s old house in Key West. After all, she’d spent so much time reminiscing about it, I was pretty sure she would’ve wanted to see it one last time before she got worse.
“I feel like the place is cursed, Ellie. I can’t explain it,” Mom added.
Ugh. I was twenty-six years old and still hearing my mother talk about gut feelings she couldn’t explain like they were any kind of evidence.
Mom shook her head. Her frustration was palpable. “Maybe we can send her ashes and hire someone to scatter them for us. I mean, I don’t even know where the hell Casa de los Cayos even is, and—”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“What?”
“I’ll go. I’ll figure it out. I have nothing else to do.”
“But school starts in a few days.”
“Mom, I quit.”
“You what?” Bright green eyes stared at me like I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had. But I had a bachelor’s degree in advanced mathematics, for fuck’s sake, I could find a job anywhere when I got back.
“Mom,” I sighed. “Let me go to Key West. Nana would flip out if she knew you hired some random nobody to scatter her ashes. I’ll find the house, I’ll scatter them…maybe I’ll even connect with Nana somehow.”
Connect was a word my mother would understand. She’d been more spiritual when I was growing up, though nowadays, she seemed to be too busy for meditation and incense. She visibly relaxed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Positive.” I smiled. “It’ll be good for me. Help me forget fuck-face.”
“Oh, Ellie. Don’t call him that.”
“Mom. Just—don’t.”
For the first time in a while, I had something exciting to look forward to. A trip to Florida! I hadn’t learned enough about Nana in the time I’d had her here. I hadn’t asked the right questions, hadn’t heard all the tales. I’d been too busy.
Besides, in the last two weeks, my covert OCD had kicked into high gear, giving me night terrors I hadn’t had in a long time. This little getaway would be just as much for me as it’d be for Nana. I was on a plane to Miami the very next day, new bikini in my carry-on, Nana’s ashes in my bag. Soon, I’d be sipping lemonade in a rocking chair watching the sun go down over paradise.
Tropical vacay, here I come.
THREE
Deep wrinkles covered his leathery face, and though there was nothing particularly scary about him, I wanted to run in the opposite direction. Who was he? The man followed me, crept closer, like he wanted to speak to me, except he wouldn’t utter a word.
I felt the familiar sleep paralysis in my chest. I screamed but my cries blended with a pitchy, metallic whine somewhere in the distance. The distance? No, nearby. I jolted upright, swinging at the man’s face to get away.
My eyes opened. I was sitting in an airplane, my face wedged between the seat and the fiberglass window. I was on the airplane to Miami, listening to the engines making their descent. The vibration of landing gear signaled that we were almost there. I panted, looking around. I’d startled the older lady next to me. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I get nightmares. Sorry.”
“My husband does too. Anxiety?”
“Not exactly.”
It was hard to explain. I didn’t feel like getting into it. Since I was a child, I’d had visions, sometimes awake, sometimes sleeping. Faces, people around me, shadows lurking just outside my peripheral vision. Sometimes I’d hear them speak. In my early teens, doctors told my mom these were classic signs of OCD. Not the same OCD that made people line things up in perfect rows, but covert OCD.
This was more internal. I had to line up my thoughts just right to get rid of the chaos, the negativity, the crippling self-doubt. I looked for order, smiles, and pleasant situations to counter the darkness. Probably the reason math and science had always felt good to me. Solid things I could count on. No “mumbo jumbo,” as my grandmother called gut feelings. I’d been taking Zoloft for sixteen years now to help. Ever since…no visions, no negative thoughts, just a pleasant evenness.
On some days—numbness.
But ever since Nana died, this one vision had crept his way back into my dreams. He was Native American and harmless, but a moment ago, I’d sworn he was after me. Stupid brain.
“Flight attendants, prepare for landing,” a female voice announced.
I pulled my purse from under the seat and plucked out my pill bottle. Only three sertraline left. I’d have to order more when I got to Key West. Breaking one with my fingernail, I figured I could use an extra half right now.
“Headed home or visiting?” My chatty seatmate wanted to know.
I cracked open one eye. “Visiting Key West.”
“Oh, how nice! You’ll absolutely love it. Cayo Hueso,” she said.
Opening both eyes this time, I swiveled to face her. “Pardon me?”
“Key West in Spanish.” She smiled. “Island of Bones, its original name.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” I held my bag close, the one containing my nana’s remains—ashes and shards of bone in a box. How appropriate. The plane touched down. “Almost there, Nana,” I muttered.
“Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, nothing remains quite the same,” I sang behind the steering wheel of my rental Prius. Would I have preferred a convertible Mustang like half the cars taking the three-hour trip from Miami to Key West on this gorgeous summer day? Yes, but I also needed to make sure my grandmother’s money lasted me at least two months, so I didn’t have to hurry back to Boston right away.
As the Jimmy Buffett song suggested, my state of mind completely changed once I hit Overseas Highway, the single lane (sometimes double) road cutting through the Florida Keys. The brilliant sun, bright blue sea, and bite of salt in the air was enough to almost wash away the memories of the last month, like a good, strong gargle dislodging a heavy yuck in my throat.
Mangroves, beaches, and fishing piers rolled by. I tried to imagine Nana and Mom living here when they were younger. Mom had been born in Key West, but they’d relocated to Plantation Key after my grandfather died. Mom said she was too young to remember him, but Nana reminded her often of how much he loved her, played with her, and sang to her in the evenings.
For me, this was another world—a living postcard with brightly painted wooden houses on stilts, giant conch shells notifying passersby of tourist traps, and parrot-shaped windsocks blowing in the breeze. It was hard to imagine this corner of the universe as anything cursed, like my mother had suggested, but then again, the grass was always greener on the other side.
When it came time to drive across the seven-mile bridge, part of me almost pulled over. My fingers gripped the steering wheel. Driving across the Florida Straits with nothing on either side but miles and miles of open ocean—fan-fucking-tastic. Behind me, an impatient driver rode my ass. I glared at him in the rearview mirror.
“You can do this, Ellie. Everyone else is.”
Picking up speed, I told myself this was just another jaunt on the 495 back home, heading to Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend. It was hard to believe that people used to take a train out here in the 1800s, that they even lived this far from the mainland. Hard to believe that anyone in settler times rode their horses and pulled their carts as far as Key West. How had they hopped across the islands without these bridges?
Boats. They traversed in boats, Ellie—duh.
Once I realized I wasn’t going to plummet to my watery death, it was easy-peasy the rest of the way. See? No doomsday.
Thirty minutes hopping over more tiny isles, and I drove across one last short bridge making it to a traffic light. The colorful sign in the median read, Welcome to Key West, Paradise USA.
“I made it,” I muttered, checking the time. “Holy shit, I made it.”
If I hurried, I could also make it in time to watch the famous Key West sunset while holding a fruity adult beverage in hand. But I hadn’t researched the best place to do that, hadn’t made any hotel reservations either. I’d figured I could just pop into a Holiday Inn or Motel 6 when I arrived.
Mistake.
Every chain hotel I stopped at either didn’t have vacancy or did, but at anywhere from $400-700/night for a basic room, I wouldn’t be on vacation for long. I should’ve come with a plan. I should’ve thought this through.
I should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.
I stopped chastising myself long enough to find my way downtown to a place called Mallory Square. There I could grab a drink, watch the sun go down, and think about my Plan B. Parking wasn’t easy, but the nice thing about a Prius was you could cram it anywhere, so I did between two doorless electric buggies. Getting out, I locked up the car and headed toward sounds of drunk people partying. A fluffy chicken hopped out of nowhere and clucked at me. A big rooster followed her, giving me the evil eye.
“Oh. Hey, chickens,” I said, because chickens roaming freely was so normal, right?
Another world, indeed.
At Mallory Square, I bought myself a rumrunner from a street vending cart then parked my butt on a bench to watch the sun descend behind a small island out in the water. Dark silhouettes of sailboats cut out triangular shapes in the tangerine sky, and I let out the biggest sigh ever.
“I made it to the end of the world.” That was how it felt, coming out this far south. Lifting my drink to the sunset, I said, “Welcome home, Nana.”
Did she and my grandfather ever sail at sunset? Did my mother ever ride on a boat with them? After all, my grandfather had supposedly been a skilled boat captain, though I believe that was also how he’d died. So many things I’d never know. So many things I’d failed to learn about my family, my heart ached.
I soaked in the lazy vibes and party atmosphere, the ocean waves swishing just a few feet from me. Paradise USA was right. Well worth the drive, Ellie? I heard my grandmother ask from a distant place.
Well worth the drive. I smiled.
Once the sun sank and the tourists cheered, the nighttime party began. People, vendors, performers on stilts juggling bowling pins all filled the streets making me smile but also feel sad for some reason. Nana had grown up here in the what…1930s, 40s? I did some quick math in my head. She had to have left town in 1952 when my mother was only a year old. Had the island been as touristy back then, or had she lived here during some idyllic era of peace that no longer existed?
Nostalgia for a place I’d never know hit me hard.
The drink wasn’t helping either. Everyone had someone to party with, and I was alone with a ghost in my purse and memories of a place I’d never been. How would I find Casa de los Cayos on this eight-mile-wide island? I didn’t have to find it tonight, I reasoned. Tonight, I only needed to find a place to sleep then start my search tomorrow.
I stopped at a kiosk that sold gelato on one side and vacation timeshares on the other. “Excuse me.” I stopped in front of a middle-aged woman with platinum blond hair up in a tight ponytail wearing bright pink lipstick. “Do you know any hotels with vacancies, not too expensive?” I asked. Maybe the locals could point me in a better direction than all-booked Expedia could.
“Did you try up on US-1?”
“Is that the road I drove in on?”
“Yes, the only road in. There should be some places out there. The farther away from center of town, the cheaper.”
“Right, there weren’t any. But thanks,” I said, my hopes slumping. I’d already stopped at those places and they’d wanted an arm, leg, and my spleen for a night’s stay.
“Miss?” The woman called me back. The man minding the gelato stand had apparently heard us talking. “La Concha Inn on South Roosevelt. That’s the road on the left side of the island when you come in. You probably followed traffic to the right.”
“I did. Thank you.”
“They might have rooms during summer,” she added with a cautious smile. She and the other attendant exchanged glances.
“Great. Thanks again.” Walking in the direction of my car, I spoke into my phone. “Find La Concha Inn,” I said, while British Siri searched for results. She showed me a location way on the east side of the island about as far from the good stuff a place could get.
Twenty minutes later, I’d arrived at the blue pinpoint on my map. At first, I wasn’t sure this was the right spot, as it seemed to be a private home behind a gate surrounded by wild, unkempt foliage. Two stories, wooden columns with porches on both levels, ceiling fans that hung crookedly, the main house had seen better days. On either side were smaller homes like bungalows or cabins sitting in darkness—a compound of buildings. The front lawn had once boasted 70s-style kitschy Florida eye candy to attract tourists—a faded, peeling statue of a conch shell, an equally dilapidated parrot, and a pirate with not only his leg and eye missing, but his power to amuse as well.
I felt sorry for the statues like I felt sorry for the home. It didn’t make sense to feel sorry for a structure, but the house looked like an old woman all alone at Bingo Night.
Turning off the car lights, I stepped out, my sandal crunching onto gravel. No big signs, no neon lights, no commercial draw-in of any kind, but the map insisted that this was La Concha Inn and didn’t “la concha” mean shell in Spanish? I glanced at the shell statue again. Yep.
I grabbed my purse, leaving my suitcase in the car. Pulling back the chain link gate, I walked underneath a thick cover of trees, vines, and coconut palms in various states of growth. A small wrought-iron bench sat rotting underneath the moonlight, and sun-dried plastic toy cars littered the overgrowth. Ahead of me, something reptilian scuttled across the path. Hello, Florida.
The main home was poorly lit and needed a few coats of paint and serious refurbishing. It almost seemed to be leaning to one side. I couldn’t tell what color it currently was because of the darkness, but it definitely didn’t look bright or cheery like other places in town. It also didn’t look open for business.
I was ready to call the listed number when the front porch light turned on. My heart pounded when I heard the screen door slowly creak open. A gaunt, braless woman appeared from the darkness wearing shorts and tank top, sallow skin like worn cowhide, cheeks sunken like spoons, and long hair like gray straw. “We’re open,” she croaked in a voice coated with nicotine.
Clearly, she was talking to me, though not attempting any eye contact whatsoever. “Awesome,” I said, unsure that I wanted to proceed. I’d seen horror films that began this way.
If I decided I didn’t like the way the establishment looked on the inside, I could always thank her and be on my merry way. There was nothing to this, yet I felt apprehensive heading up the steps. The stress of the last month had clearly spurred old anxieties. It didn’t help that I’d traveled all day and been up since five this morning either.
I stepped through the screen door, greeted by a large gray cat with golden eyes who stood perfectly still like a live sculpture. Dusty fake bromeliads filled the small foyer and the smell of cigarettes permeated the air. I refused to believe that a hotel could be this bad and wondered if it was really just someone’s ill-kempt house, but judging from the brochures haphazardly arranged in a plastic display case, it was a real place of business.
“You looking for a room?” the woman asked, coming to stand behind a counter to my left. She still wouldn’t look at me, which was both rude and unnerving.
“Yes, but I wasn’t sure if you were open for business. You should have a sign out front or something.”
“Broke during Hurricane Irma. Haven’t put a new one up yet.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. So, how much for a night?”
“Two hundred,” she replied, “but I can give you a sp
ecial rate if you stay three or more nights. Hundred-twenty a night.” Her fingers drummed the countertop. No smile. No enthusiasm. Behind her, a much older, dark-skinned woman slowly plucked a paper cone from the side of a water dispenser and glanced at me. No smile from her either but then again, she looked like a woman who’d lived a long, hard life.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay three nights. Maybe tomorrow I could try my luck closer to town and find a more appealing stay. This place looked like it’d seen better days and it wasn’t like the innkeeper was doing backflips to be accommodating either.
“Breakfast is included,” she added, as if that would seal the deal. The eye contact came then, as though she’d realized she’d have to work a little harder to get my money. There was something off about her dark eyes.
“At what time?” I asked.
“Six-thirty to nine-thirty.” Her left eye didn’t move. Was positioned differently. It might’ve been a glass eye, giving her the appearance of a broken animatronic.
I wouldn’t be awake until ten-thirty, but I had nowhere else to go, so I bit the bullet. “Let’s go with one night to start. If I like it, I’ll be happy to pay two more at full price.” Even at $200 a night, it was cheaper than everywhere else and staying here would keep me from booking on another island and having to drive here daily.
The woman nodded and clacked at her old keyboard while I picked a few brochures. The Hemingway House, the Southernmost Point, Sunset Spooks Ghost Tours… The big gray cat jumped up onto the counter, scaring the shit out of me.
“Geez,” I caught my breath.
“He likes you,” the woman grunted. “He doesn’t like anybody.”
“Well, hello little guy. You scared me.” I petted the cat’s head. At first, he wasn’t sure if he wanted my human hands all over his dusty pelt, but then he leaned into my palm and purred rhythmically. The sound was the only comforting thing about this place.
“It’s Bacon.”
“Excuse me?”
“The cat’s name,” she said. “Bacon.”