“It’s policy,” he adds at the same time the television pops. Its screen turns to snow and static blizzards through the speakers, painfully loud. “Oh, shi—”
He catches himself before he lands the t and turns, hand raised, to fix the set with his open palm. I stare at the back of his head and try to figure out if he might know Keith. If this is a place where Keith is Keith at all. Maybe he’s Darren, here. Or maybe this is one of the places he feels safe enough to call himself by his real name. Maybe he’s Jack.
“Y-you know D-Darren M-Marshall?”
He turns, surprised. “I do.”
Sometimes I’m lucky.
“C-cool.” I pause. “He’s a friend of my f-family’s. T-told me I should st-stop by if I was ever in th-in the area.”
“Well, how about that … yeah, Darren’s a real good pal of mine. What did you say you wanted?” he asks. “You said two nights? Single or double?”
“Single.”
“I’ll give you five percent off. Any friend of Darren’s…”
“H-he around? H-haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Nah, not right now. Sure it won’t be long before I’m seeing him again, though,” he says. “You know how it is.” But I don’t. He yawns again, makes me sign for the room—Lera Holden it is—takes my money and tosses me a key card.
“Room twelve,” he says. “Second to last down the strip.”
“Th-thanks.”
“Y’know, in my granddad’s day, the nuns thought they could beat that outta you.”
He laughs. He’s talking about my stutter. I stare at him until he turns bright red and fumbles for something to say, but there’s really nothing he could say to turn it around.
He settles on, “Have a good night.”
It’s the kind of motel that makes you feel every one of your secrets. The cost of the stay is only how much you’re willing to live with yourself. That, and almost eighty dollars. I close the door behind me, draw the curtain, lock the door and once I do that last thing, I lean my head against it because having four walls around me allows for the tension to release itself from my spent, sore muscles. I let myself get lost in my own hurt. But only for a second.
Then I turn, absorbing my new setting.
There’s a chemical smell in the air that can’t mask the stuffiness of the room. A dull beige, stained wallpaper with a repeating flower print attempts something reaching for sweetness and fails. The beds are covered in lifeless green comforters. There’s an old TV set—dials on this one too—on top of a wooden bureau with noticeably chipped edges. There’s a tiny red table and plastic chairs. The carpet is a deep wine red with flecks of electric purple in it, fuzzy in some spots, threadbare in others. I slip out of my sneakers and curl my socked feet into the gritty carpet. From here, I can see the pale aquamarine tiles in the bathroom and a bit of the shower.
Still no bluebirds.
But a shower would be nice.
I take a change of clean clothes with me into the tiny bathroom where I strip naked and run the water, which doesn’t get as warm as I need; I spend the whole time shivering but it’s so much better, being clean. Or as clean as I can get here. There’s mold in the tiles and a stain around the edges of the tub. I scrub the tiny bar of motel soap all over my body, suds up my hair. I want to cry, it feels so good. It’s not perfect, but it feels good. When I’m finished, I pull on a T-shirt and then I stand in front of the mirror over the sink. I press my fingers against the tender skin of my face, hissing from my reflection, my black eye and swollen nose.
I turn the bathroom light off and stumble to the bed, crawl under the blankets. The comforter is heavy and the sheet beneath it scratchy. My eyes close and I feel the empty around me, a dark space I can finally fall into.
But a small part of me just won’t let go.
I don’t know how long I drift in that in-between place when I hear the soft click of a door opening. The threat registers slowly, and even when it does I can’t seem to surface for it. Then, the soft, shuffling sounds of someone moving across the room. I feel the gentle dip of the mattress as he weighs it down.
His hand touches my ankle.
“Sadie. Sadie, girl … I’m just coming to check that you said your prayers.” The voice is soft and lulling, not quite a whisper or a lullaby. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even. “Oh, you’re asleep. Well, okay then.” He sighs heavily. “I guess I’ll go see if Mattie’s said hers then.”
I open my eyes.
THE GIRLS
EPISODE 5
ANNOUNCER:
The Girls is brought to you by Macmillan Publishers.
WEST McCRAY:
I arrive at Cold Creek in the very dark, very early hours of the morning. I don’t anticipate meeting Claire until a more agreeable time of day—it’s just not decent to visit a person before nine a.m., after all—but May Beth calls me as soon as I’ve set my bags down and tells me to, in these words, “Get here now.” When I reach the trailer, I can hear the two of them arguing from outside.
[MUDDLED SOUND OF TWO WOMEN’S VOICES]
WEST McCRAY [STUDIO]: It’s almost impossible to wrap my head around Claire being back. I want to talk to her, see what she has to say. I’ve only heard one side of her story and it wasn’t related to me by her biggest fan. But Claire— [SOUND OF DOOR OPENING, SLAMMING BACK INTO PLACE]
MAY BETH FOSTER:
She doesn’t want to talk to you and she hasn’t changed a bit.
WEST McCRAY:
What does that mean?
MAY BETH FOSTER:
Selfish as ever.
WEST McCRAY:
I’d really like to speak with her, May Beth. This might be our chance at getting a lead on Darren.
MAY BETH FOSTER:
I’ll go back in shortly. She’s having a smoke right now.
WEST McCRAY [STUDIO]: May Beth tells me she was getting ready to go to bed when she looked out her window and saw a light in Mattie’s room. Her first thought was Sadie. It wasn’t Sadie. It was Claire, curled up on Mattie’s bed. She’d broken the locks to get in. When May Beth goes back in for attempt number two, I only hear the occasional furious rise in volume between them. It’s a chilly night. The stars above Sparkling River Estates are spectacular. I don’t see them much in New York and I wonder if residents of Cold Creek are so used to the view, they don’t really see them either. I end up waiting nearly two hours before Claire finally comes out.
CLAIRE SOUTHERN:
So you’re the reporter May Beth’s been telling me about.
[THE GIRLS THEME]
WEST McCRAY [STUDIO]: Claire Southern is not what I’m expecting.
She’s clean, for starters, and that’s one of the first things she tells me. At a glance, it could be true. She’s different from the pictures I’ve seen. She’s put on weight, quite a bit of it, actually. Her complexion is a healthy pink and her eyes are alert. Her hair is long, past her shoulders, shiny. She chain smokes—the one vice she can’t give up. She refuses to go back inside May Beth’s to sit at the table and talk. She wants to stand in the dark, where she’ll consider my questions and, if I’m lucky, answer them. May Beth hovers at the screen door, shifting in and out of view, listening to us both, though I don’t think she knows we know that.
CLAIRE SOUTHERN:
The only reason I’m talking to you is because I figured it out; May Beth doesn’t want me to. And if the only person you’ve heard about me from is her—well, I can just imagine the bullshit she’s been feeding you.
WEST McCRAY: The last May Beth knew, you were using and then you were gone.
CLAIRE SOUTHERN:
When I heard Mattie … when I heard Mattie died last October, I tried to kill myself. I tried to OD. I just wanted to be with my little girl. It didn’t work, though. I figured it was a sign. A friend helped me find a rehab—a spin dry. It wasn’t the best place, but it worked. So far, it’s stuck.
WEST McCRAY:
May Beth said she found you in Mattie’s room.
CLAIRE SOUTHERN:
I got a right.
WEST McCRAY:
How did you find out Mattie died?
CLAIRE SOUTHERN:
Heard it on the news. A … a friend told me to turn on the TV.
WEST McCRAY:
Did you know Sadie was missing?
CLAIRE SOUTHERN:
Not until tonight.