the sunlight, the registration area seems dull and vaguely gray. This is a part of the world where light changes everything, obviously. I take a few photographs of the lobby for my scrapbook, then turn toward the door.
In the distance, I hear the high pitched whine of a tool—chainsaw, maybe, or a weed eater. A few moments later, there are footsteps outside, coming up the walk, crossing the deck.
The door opens.
It’s the boy I met last night. He’s younger than I thought—maybe eight or nine years old—with shaggy black hair and freckled cheeks. His lashes are long enough to make him beautiful. But it is his eyes that I notice most. They’re ice blue and sad.
When he sees me, he drops the hammer he is carrying.
I smile. “Hello again. It’s nice to see you.”
“Oh, boy.” He crosses his arms. I recognize the body language. It’s what I do now when I look at my ex-sister, cross my arms, as if a few more layers of muscle and bone can protect my heart. “I thought you’d be gone.”
I hear the way his voice trembles; it’s loneliness, that sound. The sense that your boat has come untied and you’re drifting away. It’s what I’ve felt everyday for almost a year. It’s why I’m here, pretending I don’t have a sister. “I’d like to stay awhile. If that’s okay.”
Before I can say more, the front door bangs open, and a man walks in. He is whipcord lean, with close-cropped black hair and a face that is all sharp lines and deep hollows. A dark stubble shadows his sunken cheeks; the harsh color accentuates the paleness of his skin. His eyes are strangely green, a color too bright for the rest of his hard, weather-beaten face. I can see how handsome he once was, before life wore him down. I know how he feels. Sometimes in the last year, I’ve thought that my color was washing away in the shower or fading in the sun. I wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up one morning and find myself a black-and-white woman moving through a colored world. He doesn’t even notice me. He is looking directly at the boy. “What are you doing in here, boyo? I thought we were cutting trees together?” His voice is deep and rich, softened by an Irish brogue.
“I came in for a Coke and found her .” He points at me. “Last night I checked her in to room 1A . . . just like mom and me used to do when this place was open. Before you showed up.”
The man looks at me for a second, maybe less. I am of no interest to him, obviously. “A guest, huh? Well, that’s grand.” The way he says the last word leaves no doubt about his reaction. He does not find it grand at all. And though his voice is full of sarcasm, a lilting Irish brogue softens it. He barely looks at me.
“I guess my presence is a bit surprising,” I say. “I’m sorry about that. I got here late last night. I’d really like to stay a few days.”
The man bends down for the hammer. Even with the distance between us, I can hear his sigh. “I know you don’t want me to sell this place, Bobby, but one guest isn’t gonna change things.”
“You said you were selling cause no one stayed here.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I love it here,” the boy—Bobby—cries out. “And I know how to check in guests. Mommy taught me.”
The man seems to deflate at that. “Aye.”
“I won’t be any trouble,” I say. Suddenly I’m scared. If I leave here, I’ll go home. I know me. I’ve never handled obstacles particularly well, and I don’t want to go home yet. Stacey will be waiting for me; I’ll have to deal with the wedding and the baby and my broken heart. “Just a few days. Please? I need a vacation.”
“She’s stayin’,” Bobby says defiantly, looking at his father.
The man looks at his son, and in the glance that goes between them, I see a pair of people who’ve lost their way together. “Tell her not to expect anything from me. I’m too busy to play host.”
I feel a surge of gratitude. Every
In the distance, I hear the high pitched whine of a tool—chainsaw, maybe, or a weed eater. A few moments later, there are footsteps outside, coming up the walk, crossing the deck.
The door opens.
It’s the boy I met last night. He’s younger than I thought—maybe eight or nine years old—with shaggy black hair and freckled cheeks. His lashes are long enough to make him beautiful. But it is his eyes that I notice most. They’re ice blue and sad.
When he sees me, he drops the hammer he is carrying.
I smile. “Hello again. It’s nice to see you.”
“Oh, boy.” He crosses his arms. I recognize the body language. It’s what I do now when I look at my ex-sister, cross my arms, as if a few more layers of muscle and bone can protect my heart. “I thought you’d be gone.”
I hear the way his voice trembles; it’s loneliness, that sound. The sense that your boat has come untied and you’re drifting away. It’s what I’ve felt everyday for almost a year. It’s why I’m here, pretending I don’t have a sister. “I’d like to stay awhile. If that’s okay.”
Before I can say more, the front door bangs open, and a man walks in. He is whipcord lean, with close-cropped black hair and a face that is all sharp lines and deep hollows. A dark stubble shadows his sunken cheeks; the harsh color accentuates the paleness of his skin. His eyes are strangely green, a color too bright for the rest of his hard, weather-beaten face. I can see how handsome he once was, before life wore him down. I know how he feels. Sometimes in the last year, I’ve thought that my color was washing away in the shower or fading in the sun. I wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up one morning and find myself a black-and-white woman moving through a colored world. He doesn’t even notice me. He is looking directly at the boy. “What are you doing in here, boyo? I thought we were cutting trees together?” His voice is deep and rich, softened by an Irish brogue.
“I came in for a Coke and found her .” He points at me. “Last night I checked her in to room 1A . . . just like mom and me used to do when this place was open. Before you showed up.”
The man looks at me for a second, maybe less. I am of no interest to him, obviously. “A guest, huh? Well, that’s grand.” The way he says the last word leaves no doubt about his reaction. He does not find it grand at all. And though his voice is full of sarcasm, a lilting Irish brogue softens it. He barely looks at me.
“I guess my presence is a bit surprising,” I say. “I’m sorry about that. I got here late last night. I’d really like to stay a few days.”
The man bends down for the hammer. Even with the distance between us, I can hear his sigh. “I know you don’t want me to sell this place, Bobby, but one guest isn’t gonna change things.”
“You said you were selling cause no one stayed here.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I love it here,” the boy—Bobby—cries out. “And I know how to check in guests. Mommy taught me.”
The man seems to deflate at that. “Aye.”
“I won’t be any trouble,” I say. Suddenly I’m scared. If I leave here, I’ll go home. I know me. I’ve never handled obstacles particularly well, and I don’t want to go home yet. Stacey will be waiting for me; I’ll have to deal with the wedding and the baby and my broken heart. “Just a few days. Please? I need a vacation.”
“She’s stayin’,” Bobby says defiantly, looking at his father.
The man looks at his son, and in the glance that goes between them, I see a pair of people who’ve lost their way together. “Tell her not to expect anything from me. I’m too busy to play host.”
I feel a surge of gratitude. Every
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