Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,44
Some folks lost everything. Next to that, it’d be a sin for me to whine about a little water.”
They said good-night, and she went around back to the room he’d given her and sat on the bed with her navy canvas tote beside her—the tote she’d packed that morning at her mother’s, her going-home bag. The edge of the mattress was brick hard under her and sank toward the middle like a half-done cake. It smelled sanitized, she thought, wrinkling her nose; it reminded her of the color green. Latrine green, with shades of mold and air-conditioned-damp underneath.
The room’s furnishings and décor were styled to resemble someone’s idea of the Old West, very 1950s, very Hollywood with all the real hardship and deprivation worn slick off it. Sets from episodes of the Lone Ranger or maybe Gunsmoke came to mind. Only in Bandera, Abby thought. Cowboy Capital of the World. She pulled up her hands, pointed her index fingers at the floral curtained window and said, “Reach for the sky,” then lay back. The ceiling overhead had a large yellow stain to the left of center. Dark shadows encroached on it from the corners, making a pattern like a herd of horses or a range of mountains with clefts formed by deep gorges. Abby shoved the tote onto the floor and lay down, pulling her knees up against the weight of dread that had settled in her stomach.
Sometime later, through the fuzzy walls of an uneasy doze, she thought she heard footsteps outside her door, and when they persisted, she went to look, parting the curtain slightly, but there was only a paper cup from McDonald’s skittering across the parking lot at the whim of an errant breeze. The taillights of a car nearing the exit caught her eye. Dark blue, she thought, although it was hard to tell in the wash of light that pooled beneath the motel’s vacancy sign. When the car turned, Abby saw the driver was a woman. Maybe she was related to the old man at the desk; maybe she’d brought news of the daughter-in-law. Abby hoped it wasn’t bad.
* * *
When she woke again, the glare of morning sunlight edged the curtains. She could feel it needling her eyelids and crooked an elbow over her face. Her head ached, and she felt heavy, hangover heavy. From driving half the night, she thought. From the stress of not having a clue about what she was doing and doing it anyway.
Abby sat up slowly. What did she think she was going to wear while she was here? She looked down her front at her rumpled sweater and Nick’s sweatshirt that she wore underneath it. She prodded the canvas tote with her toe. What was in it? A couple of T-shirts. Maybe another sweater, a pullover, some underwear. She couldn’t recall exactly what she’d tossed into it yesterday, but she was pretty sure she was wearing the only pair of socks, the only jeans. She would need more than that if she intended to stay. Did she? What was her plan? Would she grill the old man at the front desk, demand to see the guest register, ask all over town if anyone knew a woman named Sondra?
She took a shower, and once she was dressed, she walked to the motel lobby. She was glad when the girl working at the reception desk told her that the old man had gone home to rest and that his daughter-in-law was going to be fine. Abby had breakfast, and afterward she drove the short length of Main Street hunting a shop to buy a jacket, clean socks and underwear. She didn’t know what to think of herself. As if it was rational to believe her family had survived the flood and were now—what? Wandering like vagabonds? Or maybe they’d found housing atop some remote cliff and were living off the land.
At Gruenwald’s General Store, Abby bought a fleece-lined jacket, bright red, a happy color, two pairs of thick socks and two pairs of underwear, another bra, Playtex, in the box. When she pulled her wallet from her purse, the book of matches came with it. She handed the clerk her credit card and tucked the matches back inside, thinking: Sondra. Thinking: Well, who knew? Could be anybody. A client. Somebody’s secretary.
While Abby waited, she thought how little she knew of the people in Nick’s professional life. But was that so unusual? Was it any different than other marriages? Families?