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A heart attack. They found my father slumped over the newspaper he loved to complain about. His pulse barely registered, the latest episode of 20/20 playing in the background. While my father sat alone struggling for life, Barbara Walters prattled on about Brooke Shields’ latest television show. Out with the old and in with the new, on display in real-time.
Earlier that night, he invited me for dinner. I declined in favor of heading to a bar after work with my colleagues. Another bad decision known only in hindsight. Turns out it is 20/20, after all.
I look away from the bed, overcome with the phantom image of my father sliding into his slippers and padding toward the bathroom. Reaching for his overused toothbrush and tube of Gleam brand toothpaste, he insisted on buying. Splashing on Old Spice and pulling a plaid flannel button-up around his weighted shoulders. My father was young, by all accounts. Dead at fifty-four. But my mother’s premature death five years prior had aged him two decades. A young man in an old man’s body, everything broken down but his biceps, but what good are strong biceps when your heart barely beats? It’s the question all the brokenhearted ask themselves, me most of all.
Sometimes I wonder how I’m still standing. But I am, and I’m here for reasons that have nothing to do with burdensome grief.
The memory box.
The last time I walked in on my mother rifling through the box, she looked up with a telltale gasp. Without looking at me again, she stuffed loose papers back inside and hurriedly returned the box to the top shelf in her closet, away from my prying eyes. The memory box was a formidable fixture of my childhood.“Not to be touched,”she would often admonish me, returning the lid to its proper place and stowing the box away.“Important papers and all that.”I had no reason not to believe her, so I left the box alone, most of the time forgetting about it entirely. My friend Scott’s dad was like that about his gun safe. My neighbor Sadie’s mother acted the same about her grandmother’s jewelry case. Off-limits. Private. Leave it be, or else.
Every family has its secrets, and the memory box was ours.
Growing up, I obsessed about the contents of that box but was never brave enough to sneak a look. After my dad died, I became obsessed with staying as far away from it and this house as I could, attempting to bury whatever secrets it held with my parents. Even now, I wouldn’t be here if Bing hadn’t given me a direct order to write the fire story. Something tells me that at least a few details about Silver Bell are at the bottom of that box. Call it a hunch or call it my mother pulling the box from the shelf whenever mention of the hospital fire came up in conversation. If the fire came up, the box came out.
And now it’s my turn to search for it. So much for buried secrets.
I find the memory box and slide it from the closet shelf. Crafted from my great-grandfather’s hands, the pine box is stuffed full and heavier than I expected. The lid unable to close, a metal hook-and-eye latch swinging freely from unuse. I set the box on my parents’ dresser and press on the lid, but the box won’t lock. Too many papers, too many memories, none that I can afford to lose. Giving up, I grip the box with both hands and give the room one last glance before turning off the light and heading for the door. There’s a long drive to Arkansas ahead of me, and I’d like to make it there before midnight. So, while the contents of the box beg me to finally discover them one by one, it will need to wait until tomorrow. The fire happened thirty years ago; any new information about it will keep for one more night.
Just before I walk out the front door, I spot my dad’s old pipe on a side table and tuck it in my back pocket.
If I’m finally going to return to Silver Bell, I may as well take a part of him with me.
3
Billi
It happens every day no matter how many guests check in, the likely percentage hovering around ten. Meaning if ten people check into the motel, one of them will hit on me. They’ll ask what there is to do for fun around here, always with a raised eyebrow. They’ll ask if I’m bored sitting behind the desk all alone. They’ll ask if I’m married, visibly encouraged when I say no. And the especially bold ones will either ask for my number or remind me of their own room number if I want to “stop by later.” All of this is done without prompting. And to be clear:I never prompt.
As in the case of Mr. Bailey, one of our regulars. He’s a long-time widower pushing eighty-five with a healthy self-image of believing himself four decades younger, and he’s at it again. The feminist in me wants to slap him with a lawsuit, but the bleeding heart in me knows he’s just a lonely old man who misses his wife. His bi-monthly check-in at the hotel is simply a pathway to human interaction. He only lives five miles from here in a house surrounded by two acres of land. All that space for one old man might be too isolating for anyone to handle. And when it comes down to it, aren’t we all just trying to survive?
I’m on the cusp of rejecting yet another one of his not-so-subtle advances when the chime above the front door signals a new arrival. Odd to be so busy on a Monday night. I glance toward the door just as Mr. Bailey clears his throat. The man doesn’t like to be ignored. I paste on what I hope is a patient smile and deliver the rejection pointedly.
“No, Mr. Bailey, I can’t come to your room to play Parcheesi, not tonight or any other night.” I inwardly cringe at the man’s seriously outdated metaphor. “The funny thing about having a job is my boss expects me to stay at the front desk and work. But if you would like to put your bag in your room and come sit out here with me in a bit, the new episode ofBuffy the Vampire Slayerstarts in an hour. I’ll make coffee for us and catch you up on everything you missed last week.”
Something that sounds suspiciously like, “so much for working,” drifts over from the new arrival. A mutter I wasn’t supposed to hear. But I did, so I casually reach for the key to our worst room that we never use and set it in front of me. I may not enjoy Mr. Bailey’s outdated advances, but I don’t enjoy sarcastic digs about my work ethic more. Hope this new guest isn’t bothered by old cigarettes, old sheets, and questionable carpet stains.
Or, more accurately, I hope he is.
“Anyway, how does that sound?” I ask Mr. Bailey, purposefully ignoring the new guy.
“It sounds delightful, Miss Billi, although I wish you would find a new show to watch. All that biting and sucking can’t be good for a girl like you to witness.”
A snort from the new arrival, one that has me pressing my lips together. Now there’s an updated metaphor if I ever heard one. I close my eyes for a half-second to regain my composure, resisting the urge to peek around Mr. Bailey at the new guest. At least the new guy shares my sense of humor.
“I suppose you’re right. Maybe let’s just watch one show and see what we think afterward, okay?”
Mr. Bailey picks up his overnight bag and pats the desk. “Sounds delightful to me. I’ll be back after I settle in. Get the coffee ready. And how about some of that popcorn you made last time. The kind with the extra butter? I’d like some of that too.”
I smile and hold up the unpopped microwavable bag I dragged out when I saw Mr. Bailey’s name on the check-in schedule earlier this morning. “Got it right here. I’ll have everything set up in thirty minutes but take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I watch Mr. Bailey shuffle away, then turn to look up at the person I both instantly like and can’t stand, depending on the next few minutes.
And…he’s not what I expected.
My mouth falls open on reflex before I catch myself and slam it shut.
I expected short, bald, and aging inside a mid-life crisis. Perhaps a person with deep frown lines, knocked hard by life and down on their luck because this place is cheap, and why else would you stay here? An unfair assumption, perhaps, but history falls squarely on the side of my preconceived notions.
