to tell me everything.” I spoke it all too quickly. But I got it out at least. Licking my cracked bottom lip, I wait for her to say something, anything.
The nod of my mother’s head is subtle, but she agrees. “I’ll stay here.”
I’m firmer this time, like I am with the defendants. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything.”
My mother hesitates but again, she gives me that small nod of agreement. Not wasting another second, I get out of the car and the cold air is nothing but brutal and refreshing at once.
Sniffing and wiping under my eyes, I brace myself to face the first person I have to encounter, a potential witness.
The check-in area isn’t any larger than six by six feet. A counter spans the length of the room and behind it there’s a plain white door that I imagine leads to a back hall or closet.
As I place my hand on the sign-in sheet, wanting to tap it instead of the bell, attempting to get the attention of the man laying back in the chair, his feet up on the counter and a hat over his face, I see under my sleeve of the cream sweater.
There’s just a spot of blood on it.
My father’s blood. My own runs cold as I pull my arm back just in time for the old man to lift the hat from his head.
“Didn’t hear you come in.” He speaks while rubbing his eyes with just one hand and then pinching the bridge of his nose. “Allergies always get me this time of year. Excuse me,” he says and then blinks away whatever sleep he was attempting to get.
“A room for tonight. Maybe the weekend?” I ask and even to my own ears I sound out of breath.
My tone gets the man’s attention. He glances away from me to look past me.
“Just you?” he asks and I nod. It’s a lie, but better that than the truth. Why the hell would I get a motel room for me and my mother when she lives in town?
“How much?” I ask, already prying out my wallet and counting the bills.
I’ve stayed here plenty of times. It’s only sixty-five dollars for the night. He tells me one hundred and I hand it over in a single bill. He eyes it for a second too long before taking it.
It’s only then I can breathe. “Thank you.”
“You all right?” he asks, his lips in a thin line.
I let out a sigh and close my eyes before telling him, “It’s been one hell of a drive and it’s way too cold for September.”
The clerk huffs a laugh while the register clangs open. “It’s only going to get colder this weekend.”
With everything that happened, I didn’t realize my mother was wearing a dress. The top part is a solid navy blue, which complements the bottom portion that’s a dark blue paisley. I also didn’t realize she wasn’t wearing shoes. She ran out in her slippers and I didn’t pay attention to that either.
I’m sure there’s plenty I missed. I got the part where she shot my father and laid there for hours sobbing next to him, though. Hours. She sat there next to him for hours. The prosecutor in me would have a field day with that fact alone.
Unbuttoning the top button of her dress, I wonder if she planned on a girls’ night out to a nice restaurant downtown when she put it on. I bet she thought today was going to be a good day. It was one worth dressing up for.
She didn’t get to her hair or makeup, though. Or else it all came undone when the altercation happened. I can’t ask the first question that’s begging to be brought to life. Did he hit you, Mom? Did he threaten you? I don’t want to bring it up, just as much as she doesn’t want to talk about it.
The navy cotton fabric slips down her arms easily as I help her out of it. She hasn’t said a word, but her eyes are drenched in worry and tragedy and unspoken questions.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother scared. Not like this.
“There you go,” I barely get out as the fabric falls to the floor and I wonder if my father saw her like this. Is that wretched look what she wore when she pulled the trigger?
The steam in the shower builds, fogging the top of the mirror’s edge and the warmth is positively