Frankie always said he would die before me, and I secretly hoped so. I kept waiting for it. At dinner he devoured the crispy fried chicken that he loved, leaving bits of the greasy and crumbled skin on his chin. The chicken I got was cheap and rubbery, and I imagined a big fat piece lost in the side of his cheek as he inhaled his food, unknowingly swallowing it down, and then lodging—mixed in with all the other chicken bits and saliva and biscuit—caught deep in his throat. He would grab at his neck, unable to make a sound, and I would be busy at the counter, my back turned, unaware of the tragedy until it was too late.

But, no. He finished his chicken and placed his plate in the sink, planted a kiss on my forehead, a “thanks dear” as he settled in his recliner.

The night it all changed, I made meatloaf. I used breadcrumbs instead of his favorite crackers, but he still finished his plate. Mine, however, sat mostly untouched. My stomach felt hardened and solid, welcoming nothing but a few bites.

 After dinner I gathered my purse and coat and noticed a faint fluttering deep in my chest, some foreign sensation possibly resembling excitement.

“Better take something to eat so you can make it through the night … you will get tired Janet …” he said. I told him I would be fine, and I walked out before he could say anything else. I shut the door, and as soon as I did, I smiled.

#

Norman’s Night Inn is a two-story, brick motel, old and modest and some would say slightly charming. Carl had the exterior renovated only a couple of years ago. Fresh white paint replaced the faded and grimy yellow that had previously wrapped the entire building. Candy red adorned the shutters and the balcony posts. He scheduled pressure washings regularly, so the white walls always gleamed stark against the red accents. A new gold sign stood erected on the manicured stretch of grass that centered the square parking lot. In the summer he had yellow petunias planted in beds that bordered the sign; in the winter, tiny yellow violas.

I have imagined myself as a guest, arriving in the day for a business trip, for a wedding, for a rest stop on my way to a more exciting destination. I had never seen the hotel in the dark before, but now I could imagine myself as a tired soul, spent from driving in the night, randomly pulling over, settling on this Norman’s—this relatively safe, small looking Inn with fresh paint and a welcoming sign.

As I walked across the parking lot, puffs of clouds raced in the sky, flickering the bright stars on and off, sending them into moments of passing obscurity. I never work nights, but I promised Maria I would cover her shift. Her mother-in-law died, and though Maria hated the woman—an “overbearing perra”—her husband insisted she attend the funeral, two states over.

Patricia sat in the chair at the lobby desk when I walked in. Nail polish, eyeshadow palettes and brushes sprawled out around her. I walked in to see the back of her head and her eye popped open wide, reflected in the lit magnified plug-in mirror she used so she could see every stroke of black liquid that she layered thick around her eyelid.

“Hi Patricia.”

“Janet.” She spoke without so much as a blink, a twitch, or a flutter. She had become a master of her craft, her hand muscles and movements finely tuned and coordinated.

“What you working on today?”

She closed the eyeliner cap with great satisfaction and turned to me, her fingers placed under her chin and her face tilted to the side and up for a pose.

“Do you like it? I was going for a little vibrancy.” She paused; her look titles were always carefully selected. “Fierce goddess,” she declared.

“Fierce goddess … yeah, I can see that.”

She laughed, her creamy, rich skin glowing. Purple eyeshadow had been sculpted up to her eyebrows with varying shades of green throughout. 

“Veronica Teague’s agent viewed my vixen vibes tutorial last night.” She swung her hips in celebration, the rolling chair gliding from side to side.

I offered a smile. “Not much longer for you.”

“Nope, a couple more grand in the savings, and L.A. here I come.” She looked at me sadly. “Oh Janet.” Before I could pull my hands away, she latched on to my fingers.

“Please honey, let me work on these before I leave tonight.”

“Oh, no. Thank you, though.” I pulled them away and busied them, putting my purse and coat up.

“Just a little cleanup. Maybe some clear polish. I can do natural looks too, you know. Maybe let me sculpt your brows, a little blush, a light nude gloss. Frankie would see you walk in the house—he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.” She paused, overwhelmed as always, by possibilities. “Ooh … date night at Dempseys. And then a stroll over Stallings River to that new jazz club.” 

Her eyes were looking past me, lost in her own world of romantic scenarios and unattainable dreams.

“Slow day? Patricia?”

She snapped back. “Yes?”

“Has it been slow today?”

“Oh … yes … only a couple check-ins earlier. Gonna be a long night for you. Hope you got some good sleep last night.”

#

11:24 p.m. When she finally left, I settled in at the desk, pulled the third drawer open and grabbed Simply Cooking. Maria would admonish me that I had the entire world at my fingertips, all the recipes I could ever want right there on the screen in front of my face. But I’d shake my head no, I liked feeling the pages of my magazines. I liked holding something real and not burning my eyes, staring at pixels. “How does Frankie put up with you? A woman so stubborn.

Poor Frankie.” I would only look at her and shrug.

#

12:07 a.m. I swept up a few leaves that collected near the door. I dusted the blinds, straightened the brochures, and fluffed the pillows on the chairs. Carl wants to fix up the lobby next year, but I like the old wood floor with all of its creaks and scratches. I like the beige, laminate desk countertop and the light fixture that’s old and brass and forever has at least one light bulb out.

Frankie doesn’t understand why I want to work in a motel, especially when he can get me a job at the contractor’s office. I’d convinced him we needed the money. I’d made it like we had to be mindful, that bills mounted, that debts needed to be paid, that the price of gas kept going up, that cable was a rip off—a rip off that he couldn’t live without. He didn’t know the numbers to our joint account, and he most certainly didn’t know my own account even existed. The truth was our house was paid off, our cars as well. I shopped at a secondhand store and only bought clothes and shoes when Patricia and Maria pestered me for my pinkie toe making its exit out of my keds or my cardigan with its ever-growing rippling hole. The money I made was modest, but the money was mine. And I would never tell Frankie this either, but the truth was I loved the job. I loved sitting alone, I loved the brief interactions, I loved the chair that I would wheel around in, I loved the ring whenever the door opened. I loved that I knew some of our local guests’ grandchildren’s names and how they take their coffee, and that they woke early or stayed up late. I loved that other guests were complete strangers, people whom I would probably never see again.

#

1:03 a.m. A guest arrived. As soon as I began studying a recipe for shepherd’s pie. There were in fact two of them, a man and his wife, bundled up tightly, his arm over her, her arm under him, one walking mass of coats and hats and giddy smiles. “Sure is cold out there,” he said as he rubbed his wife’s arm. He was a performer, skilled with all the theatrics—smiling, laughing, joking. The woman hadn’t said a word. She only smiled proudly, apparently enthralled at every word her husband spoke. I wondered if they were newly married. Sometimes I forget older adults in love can make terrible decisions just like the young. At last, he felt inclined to stop rambling about himself. “How are you this evening? Or, well, morning I should say now,” he asked, his gummy, exaggerated grin stretching out his face. I smiled, ready to tell him the lies we always tell, fine, lovely, well, good, and you? but he cut me off, asking where to find the best breakfast nearby, complaining about the traffic down Interstate 101 and how they hope to make it up to the mountains for the next night, no real destination spoken of, seemingly a couple in love, meandering in and out of towns. After I handed him their key and wished them a nice visit, the woman finally spoke. The only word I heard from her was what she repeated right after her husband—“Goodnight.”

#

Maria can’t stand it when the guests talk endlessly. She says it makes her want to gouge her eyes out with the pair of scissors that sit in the cupholder near the desk. I tolerate the persistent talkers for the most part with a smile and an occasional nod of my head. That’s all you really have to do, at least pretend to listen.

There was plenty to hear at Norman’s whether I wanted to listen or not. Mrs. Thompson, who stayed with us to visit her grandchildren, would regale us with stories of her evil daughter-in-law, who refused to let the eighty-five-year-old woman stay in her garish mansion. There was the occasional trouble, a drunk who took his last sip in our parking lot, an unhinged man who dropped off letters addressed to the president. Some regulars only caused their own trouble, like Steven Holloway who paid with a platinum black card and whose blonde girlfriend always stood back against the wall wearing dark sunglasses, who would occasionally be replaced by a redhead, always standing in the back wearing dark sunglasses. Neither one was Mrs. Holloway. We knew this because Mrs. Holloway had the beginnings of a pixie cut, which we all saw on the news one evening: “local beloved teacher celebrating last chemo treatment.” Patricia called me, I called Maria, then Maria texted Carl, and we were all watching as Steven Holloway stood proudly, sweating into the camera, touting what a brave, wonderful woman his wife was.

And then there were the silent ones. The guests who said nothing and offered nothing. Guests that might be in trouble, guests that might be trouble, might have a fading bruise on their face, might be broke, might be rich and in hiding. The possibilities were vast, and so I would absorb the hints from wherever I could take them and transform their silence and mystery into stories I created myself. When they were gone, with a pen and a sticky note, I would scribble down who they could be. Or who I decided them to be. Nothing detailed, just brief little snippets about being on the run from the cops, a young woman pregnant and kicked out of her home, an old man searching for his long lost love. At the end of my shift, I would rip up the notes and throw them away. Sometimes, the really good ones, the ones I was proud of, the ones that for all

I knew, could be true—there was always a possibility maybe I had gotten something right—these I would tell to Maria or Patricia. I would describe them as though the strangers had divulged all of their secrets and troubles to me. All the while my little lies sat, ripped up in tiny pieces in the tiny trash can a few feet away. If Maria and Patricia ever suspected the tales to be lies, they never let me know.

#

1:44 a.m.  A slight emptiness in my stomach turned into more of a gnawing. I thought of the meatloaf I had made, the peppers and onions folded into it, the crust that had formed. I regretted now, of course, not forcing it down, not enjoying the food I worked hard at perfecting. Frankie was right, I rolled my eyes at the thought of that, but here I sat, tired and hungry, hours to go before any possibility of sleep or food.

The door rang. A young woman walked in with a small girl, a contortion of legs and arms wrapped around the woman’s upper body, like a spider clinging tight. The woman in her twenties. Mid-twenties? A bundle of caramel curls held in her arms, wearing a pink fleece pullover. Maybe four? I tried smiling at her, but the woman wouldn’t make eye contact with me. So I stared at her face while she avoided my gaze, gathering all I could from her red-lined eyes with dark circles underneath, mascara flakes scattered on her high cheekbones, dry cracked lips and a tiny red scab under her chin. She sighed, holding the girl in her arms, giving her an occasional bounce on her hip. A soft whimpering came from the mother’s neck where the little girl had her head cradled. She was fast to hand me her card, fast to take it back, sighing and huffing and puffing. Jenna Matthews. She looked like a Jenna. I wanted to ask what the girl’s name was, but I could tell she was in no mood to talk. Instead, I smiled, knowing she was only getting a sense of it, from the corner of her eye. All she wanted was to get to her room as quickly as possible. She muttered a thanks and as she backed away from the desk, I could hear from a voice tiny and sweet, “I’m hungry,” and it wasn’t until she headed up the stairs towards her room that I noticed the girl’s feet dangling from her mother’s waist—small and bare.

#

2:13 a.m. I tried to put it out of my mind, I really did. The hungry girl with no shoes. I looked in the cabinet, all the way in the back to the right where Patricia would stash her snacks, and sure enough, hidden behind an empty folder—a snickers bar. Not an apple or a banana, but it was something.

I hesitated at the door, knowing how ridiculous, how out of line and unprofessional I was being, but apparently my legs didn’t care, nor my hand when I knocked on the door. 

Jenna opened it, almost immediately, like she was expecting me.

“Hi. I couldn’t help but overhear your daughter being hungry and well, I know it’s not the most nutritious, but our vending machine is broke and this time of night there’s not a whole lot—”

“You’re giving me a candy bar to feed my daughter at two in the morning? She’s not starving, lady.”

“Well … maybe she could have it tomorrow. Just a treat.”

I thought for a moment that maybe she would keep declining, but instead, obviously tired, too tired to refuse a candy bar from a stranger at her hotel room door in the middle of the night, she snatched the bar from my hand and shut the door in my face.

#

3:26 a.m. Napping has always seemed wasteful to me. There are better things to do when the sun is in the sky, but the previous afternoon I had tried. Knowing I would be awake all night, I pulled the bedroom curtains closed, but daylight still seeped in around them. I could hear every phantom noise, creaks in the floors and popping in the walls, I could hear rumbling exhausts of trucks and birds chirping outside.

And right now, sitting in the chair, I was sure that if I were to lay down in my bed, my mind and body would give out all at once. My mattress would feel soft as it ever had, my blanket warm, my pillow plush. I was sure I would sleep deeper than ever, and for a long time, maybe for days.

I forced my back upright, stretching my arms out in the air, flexing my hands, feeling the bumps and knots in my fingers, the cracked cuticles of my nails. Why shouldn’t I let Patricia fix up my nails? Why do I need her to? Why don’t I?

The last time I remember them painted, I was pregnant with my first child. A girl. Such a long time ago … when I was young, when I had a vision of how my life would transpire and believed it would form accordingly. Frankie never liked makeup or jewelry or loud colors so I painted my nails a soft lilac, the same color to match what should have been her room. Afterwards, if I tried to talk of it, if I tried to talk of her, he would turn on the tv or ask what I was making for dinner. Years later I had the boys, the boys became men, moved away, became successful in their careers and maybe even happy. I cooked the meals. Frankie sat in his chair. Scanning through it all, I could not remember a time after that when my nails were not plain and unsightly. I held my hand out, imagining various shades of colors. I decided on a vibrant and bold red. 

#

I didn’t hear the ring from the door opening, I just looked up and there he stood. A tall man, he wore a black toboggan cap, which sat above his deep oval eyes, and a scarf—or scarves?—draped around his neck, vibrant blues and greens standing out against his dark brown skin.

“Hello.” He smiled warmly at me, but something was off. He looked wobbly. He politely asked for a room, though his words sounded a bit pained, like speaking was costing him breath that he was limited on.

I held his ID in my hand.

“Rahul.” I spoke it very quietly, but he heard me and chuckled. I had mispronounced.

“RA—like rhymes with PA—hul,” he explained. 

I said it again, correctly this time.

He rubbed his temple and forehead with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut again and again as I checked him in. I could have asked him how he was feeling or what brought him to Norman’s. With every opening of his eyes I considered, with every squeeze shut I didn’t.

I watched him carry his bag towards the stairs and slowly step up. Drunk? Maybe. But maybe just exhausted. Maybe a little drunk and very exhausted. Maybe a famous rockstar. Not the singer though, more like a bassist or guitarist. But he had no instruments, and if he was on tour, he would be with other band members. I grabbed a sticky note and pen. Exotic man, swathed in colorful clothes, strolled into town after quitting struggling band. I bit the end of the pen.

Slowly and quietly a faint patter came from outside and then a sudden rush—a pouring of rain. I stood and walked towards the front door, watching large drops pound against the pavement and small puddles begin to stretch out onto the covered patio entrance. I rested my head on the door frame and closed my eyes for a moment.

My body jerked, the ringing phone cutting through the peaceful silence. Carl insisted the phone volume be at the loudest possible, worried we might be lingering in the bathroom, or deep in a conversation, or, perhaps, lulled by the singing rain outside of the door.

I walked back to the desk and stopped where Rahul had stood earlier. A pamphlet lay on the counter, right in front of the computer where I hadn’t seen it. It must have been his. I glanced at the cover—in large white letters—MOROCCO. A woman stood, wrapped in a bright yellow dress with her back against a blue tile wall. Behind the wall, mountains of clay white buildings and a touch of ocean in the far distance.

I held it in my hands as I answered the phone.

“Norman’s Night Inn. How can I help you?”

A click. Hopefully not one of the lonely perverts or the bored teenagers that like to pester

Maria in the middle of the night.

I turned my attention to the Morocco pamphlet. I flipped through pages of markets with rugs and jewelry and fruit. Pages of desert sunsets and majestic waterfalls. I stopped on a page with giant rock arches stretched along a beach. Legzira.

I absorbed every word and every picture and there I was in the pages—dressed in white, walking along these beaches, posing in front of these marvel arches, these wonders of nature, so massive and otherworldly. I would stare in awe, and I would lift my arms up, saying “here I am,” smiling for a picture … who’s taking the picture? Who knows … who cares … and there I would be atop a cliff at a seaside restaurant ordering fish and lobster and maybe I would have a house nestled back against the green trees and I would wear jewelry from the markets and …

Maybe Rahul had his trip planned and a flight booked or maybe he was only interested in going, just researching while he was traveling elsewhere. Whatever it was, how lucky. Why had I never been anywhere? I faintly remember dreaming of a trip to Hawaii when we were young. But nothing since. I suppose I could blame Frankie, but I knew the way I felt, now, when I looked up at man-made metal contraptions, crammed full of people, miles up in the air, and the way my palms sweat when strangers crowded too close and how unnerved and off-kilter I became when driving somewhere new. I don’t know when I began reacting that way, but like many things that come with age they just show up—an aching joint, a blurry sentence, a thought fizzled away. But maybe Morocco would be different. Maybe I would be different. More like the girl I was before the old woman I became.

#

4:02 a.m. I only laid my head down for a moment. After reading the entire pamphlet my eyes stung, and I thought if I could close them for a minute, the stinging would stop. So I held my head in my hand with my elbow propped up, and at some point, I must have decided it would be fine, for a moment to lay my arms on the desk, and for a moment, for only a moment, rest my head on my arms. I woke to a prodding in my side. A prodding and some drool. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, my eyes still closed. And then I heard giggles. I stood slowly, inching my way from around the desk when I saw curls whip around the corner of the counter.

“Well, hello there,” I said. 

The shoeless girl was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, smiling, a half-eaten snickers bar in her hand and chocolate smeared around her lips.

“That looks good.” I sat on the floor, cross-legged as well, smiling as well. She laughed, of course, how funny for an old woman to sit on the floor.

“What’s your name?”

Her face tilted up to mine, her brow furrowed as though I had asked her a riddle, a trick—and she knew better than to even try and answer.

“My name’s Janet.”

She took another bite, carefully examining the remaining’s of the candy bar.

“Is your mommy up in the room?”

She sighed at this. “She’s sleepy.”

“Ah, but not you, huh? How old are you?”

She held up four fingers and then another. “Wow, five. You’re a big girl. Your mom might be worried though if she sees you’re not in your room.”

“I am a big girl. Mommy’s taking me fishing tomorrow.” She took the last bite of her bar and crumbled up the wrapper.

“Well, that sounds like fun. You gotta get some sleep for that. We better get you back in bed, okay?”

I held my hand out and she grabbed onto my pinkie. I wanted to ask her questions, ask her where her shoes were, why she was hungry, what her mother was like, quiz her on her whole life, but she was so small and her eyes blinked with sleepiness all the way to the room. She scuttled inside and I closed the door as softly as I could.

I went to scribble something down about Jenna and her daughter, but nothing came. I drew a fish instead. The kind of fish that might swim in the oceans of Morocco. I imagined the girl and her mother, holding a fishing pole, sitting atop a rock in the sand.

#

4:58 a.m. One hour to go. One hour and I might never again see the girl and her mother, I might go home to Frankie in his chair, but I heard a creak. The top stairs leading down to the lobby creaks. A blessing, a warning of someone approaching. And so, I heard the creak, fast enough to sit upright. Fast enough to lay the pamphlet down on the desk.

And there Rahul stood in front of me. He spun a few times, looking lost.

          “I was looking for a pamphlet. I think I must have dropped it somewhere,” he explained.

“Yes, you left it on the counter.” I quickly folded it back up and stood, my legs tight and aching. My head was swimming, or maybe it was the room tilting. It seemed small suddenly, smaller than I ever remembered, and the lights were brighter than normal, letting off a blinding hazy glow, leaving the corners and shadows blackened into deep darkness.

I held it out to him, embarrassed, as though his seeing it in my hand would reveal my obsessive devouring of it. But he only seemed grateful. “Ah, sorry. Always leaving things behind.”

“It’s a beautiful country. Are you going there?”

“Yes. Well, I hope to. I have the trip planned out for next month. I have a cousin who lives there. I’ve been wanting to go for so long and I don’t have much time. So, I have to go now.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I wasn’t sure what he meant. He shifted his legs from side to side. “Well, maybe I do, though … time … I could …” he said as he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Any tiredness looked replaced with frustration, and I felt awful for asking him anything.

“The beach with the arches … Legzira I think? That looks amazing,” I blurted out as fast as I could, wanting to erase whatever it was that I brought up, wanting him to stop squeezing his eyes and clenching his hands, to make everything okay. And it worked—his hands unclenched, his shoulders relaxed, frustration on his face melted away, replaced with a smile, soft and subtle, but it was there.

He never said illness, he never said cancer or any other disease. It could have been any number of things that was limiting his time. A more optimistic person might consider a more pleasant possibility, like his cousin was moving, or his job wouldn’t allow him to travel so far. I suppose whatever it was didn’t matter. He didn’t have much time. I wondered about Frankie and if he got cancer. I imagined if he did, it would eat him up quickly. 

Rahul opened up the pamphlet. “Aah … Legzira. Yes, it’s beautiful. My cousin doesn’t live too far from there.”

“How exciting for you. I’ve barely traveled at all.”

“Have you wanted to?”

I looked up at him. “I don’t know really. I know Frankie likes staying home. He was perfectly comfortable being here his whole life.”

“Frankie is your husband?”

“Yes. He wanted kids. Wanted them as soon as we got married. I think we briefly discussed going to Hawaii after the wedding. He said when they got older, we’d go. Hasn’t happened.”

I rolled my eyes, and he grinned at me again, a little lopsided, his left cheek curling up to his angled nose.

“You don’t normally work night hours, do you?” he asked.

“No. I don’t. It’s turned out to be a little more difficult than expected.” I closed my eyes, willing some moisture into them.

“How long have you worked here? What’s your favorite meal to cook? What does

Frankie do? What are you most proud of? Are you happy? What makes you really angry?”

Questions came from all angles, short and long, simple and more complicated. I leaned against the desk and folded my arms into themselves. And I answered. Whether due to my exhaustion, or starving belly, or the rain, or Rahul’s innocent smile and calming demeanor. Or maybe all of it together had weakened me enough. I spoke words, I could hear them, they spilled out of me, effortlessly. I told my truth to this stranger, but it wasn’t until I finished speaking that it became clear. My depleted brain catching up, slow, too slow to understand my thoughts before they became words.