The Art of Losing Yourself (31 page)

C
ARMEN

I pulled into the parking lot of Aurora’s, an oyster bar on Dock Street that served breakfast every Sunday and holiday. Last night when I arrived home, I had lain awake with my churning thoughts, Ben’s side of the bed smooth and unrumpled. When I awoke this morning, I had one coherent thought. I needed to keep the motel—for Aunt Ingrid’s sake, for Gracie’s sake, for my own. Which meant I needed to convince my father to let me.

I stepped outside to a blast of wind that blew in from the bay and hurried toward the front doors. Dad was already there, standing in the entryway. I attempted to tamp down my irritation. Give him the benefit of the doubt as a friendly waitress wished us a Merry Christmas and led us through a crowd of holiday customers enjoying bacon and waffles and crab cake Benedict. She sat us at a booth and left us with two menus.

Dad kept his hands flat on the table. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand why you brought it up yesterday.”

“I never intended for Aunt Ingrid to hear.”

“But me? You didn’t think that would cast a giant shadow over the rest of my night?”

“I didn’t know it would upset you. Last we talked, your concern was to keep The Treasure Chest up and running. If this couple purchased the motel, it would remain up and running.”

He was right. Originally, that was what I cared about. But that was before all the hard work Gracie and I had put in, before I promised my sister a job. If I loved the motel before, I loved it even more now. The waitress returned with my coffee and Dad’s water with lemon. He ordered the French toast. I ordered an oyster omelet. Once she was gone, he drummed his fingers on the tablecloth.

“Dad, I know you don’t want to work in the motel business.” My father grew up in it and couldn’t wait to get out. But to me, it had been my place of respite. My escape from a dysfunctional world. The place where I met Ben. “But I might want to.”

“What about meteorology?”

“I don’t know.” I loved the weather. Always had and always would. But lately, it had been getting to me. The expectations that came with being in broadcasting. The lack of privacy. The hours. Ben got home from work and I was off to bed. We didn’t go to sleep together. We didn’t wake up together.

“You should know, Carmen, that running the motel would be an entire lifestyle change. It’s not like a regular job that you go to and then leave behind. Your life is your work and your work is your life. There’s no separation.”

“I know that.” I grew up watching Aunt Ingrid and Gerald. Sure, the motel was their life and it came with a fair amount of stress, but at the end of the day, they loved the work. And they did it together. I realized Ben had his job and he was more than happy with it, but he had the summers off. And there was Gracie. “Dad, The Treasure Chest is part of our family. It’s been part of our family for seventy-six years. Once you sell it, you’ll never be able to take that decision back.”

“I’m not trying to be callous, sweetheart. And I’m definitely not looking to make money off the place, but we can’t let it drain Ingrid’s bank account indefinitely. It doesn’t seem like you’re in a position to run the place right now, and we tried a manager before. If you remember, it didn’t work.”

“I know, but this time I’ll be more hands-on. I’ll make sure whoever is hired will do a good job.”

Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Please, Dad? After everything Aunt Ingrid has done for you and me, don’t we owe it to her to at least respect her wishes?”

The waitress brought us our food, refilled Dad’s water, asked if I’d like more coffee. I hadn’t even touched what I already had. When she left, Dad put his glasses back on. “All right.”

I sat up straighter. “Really?”

“
If
you can get the place ready to open, and
if
you can find a manager, and
if
it makes enough to pay for itself, then okay.”

Relief washed over me.

“That’s a lot of
ifs
, Carmen.” Dad unwrapped his silverware. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“And Ben? Does he feel the same?”

I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t told him yet. I guess I’d find out when I got home.

Ben’s car sat in the driveway behind Gracie’s Mirage. I couldn’t decide if I felt like a teenager, caught sneaking home after sneaking out, or if I felt like the girl meeting the boy the day after the first kiss, unsure how things would be on this side of the milestone. Last night changed things. I didn’t know if they changed for the better or the worse or the different, but we took a step that couldn’t be untaken. I pulled up beside his car and released an unsteady stream of air. Pretty soon, the driveway would be crowded. Mom, Dad, and Ben’s family were coming over for Christmas lunch. I had to talk to him before the guests arrived.

As soon as I stepped inside, Ben stood from his spot on the couch, his brow no longer smoothed with peaceful slumber, but crumpled in confusion. Or maybe hurt. Judging by the state of his hair, he hadn’t run a comb through it since last night.

On the TV,
A Christmas Story
ran its annual loop on TBS. Gracie sat with one knee pulled up to her chest, her bangs no longer pinned back, as she looked between us. She knew Ben had slept at the motel last night while I slept here. That had to say something. Surely nothing good. She set the remote on the cushion beside her and stood. “I’ll, uh, give you two your privacy.”

And so she did.

As soon as her bedroom door clicked shut upstairs, Ben ran both hands down his face, then back up through his hair. “Why’d you leave?”

“Someone had to be home with Gracie. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Is that really why, Carmen?”

I hung my car keys on the hook above the antique storage bench. I could feel Ben staring at my back, waiting for an answer, but what answer could I give? The ground on which I stood felt so unfamiliar. With a shaky breath, I turned around. His wounded expression twisted my insides. “I’m sorry.”

It was a paltry offering. Ben deserved better.

He shifted his weight. “How was breakfast?” he asked.

I clasped my hands together. Last night he asked how he could get to me.
I didn’t have an answer then, but I did now. Here went nothing. “I asked him not to sell the motel.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that if I can find a manager and open it soon, then he won’t sell.”

Ben glanced down at the floor.

I wanted to know what he was thinking, but part of me was afraid to ask. Even with a manager, it was a big commitment. Another decision I went and made before discussing things with him first. I kept stepping out ahead of him. It wasn’t intentional, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

He scratched the underside of his chin. “This is important to you?”

“Yes.” Desperately so.

“Then tell me how I can help.”

C
ARMEN

Mom returned to Apalachicola. Ben’s family went back to New Orleans. And Dad flew home to Gainesville. Christmas had come and gone. The motel needed our attention. But first, I wanted to assure Aunt Ingrid that we were not selling it. Nobody would be knocking it over. It would stay in the family. I would make sure of it. I’d planned to visit on Christmas, but when I called, Rayanna explained that it wasn’t a good day. Maybe tomorrow would be better. As I rapped on the door of Ingrid’s room and took a tentative step inside, I hoped she was right. “Hello?”

Rayanna poked her head out of the bedroom and joined me in the living area with a tray of half-eaten food in hand.

“Is she doing any better?” I asked.

“It’s been a rough couple of days.”

“It’s because of what she overheard at The Treasure Chest, isn’t it?”

“Now don’t you go on thinking that, Carmen. You know there’s no rhyme or reason to this disease. If not that catalyst, there would have been another.”

“Has she mentioned the motel at all? Do you think if I explained to her that we aren’t selling it or knocking it down, it would help?”

“I think it would only confuse her. Right now she’s grieving Gerald.”

It pierced my heart. Grieving the man she loved was hard enough the first time. Did she really have to go through it over and over again—her pain on a recurring loop? All of it hit too close to home.

“Why don’t you go visit with her? I’ll bring up some dessert.” Rayanna gave my elbow a reassuring squeeze, then left. Inside the bedroom, Aunt Ingrid sat in a rocking chair facing the window, a Bible opened in her lap, staring out at the live oaks on the lawn and the tall pines lining the cliffs along the horizon. “Ingrid?”

She turned at the sound of her name, her dark eyes filmy with moisture, and quickly dabbed at the corners with a crumpled pink tissue. She’d never
been one to cry in front of others, and I could tell being caught now embarrassed her. There were some things, at least, that didn’t change. These were the things I clung to like life rafts.

“Are you okay?” I asked, knowing even as I did that the answer was obvious. Of course she wasn’t.

“My eyes are a bit soupy today, is all.” She dabbed a few more times, then looked at me without a trace of recognition. “And you are?”

“Carmen.”

She nodded. “Do you work here, Carmen?”

“I’m just visiting today. Would it be okay if I sat with you for a while?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be good company.”

I took a seat on the edge of her bed. “That’s okay.”

Her chin quivered as she returned her attention to the window. Down below, warblers and red-bellied woodpeckers and red-winged blackbirds flitted about from feeder to feeder. A few perched on the marble birdbath, dipping their beaks into the water. Many of the residents loved bird watching, especially during the colder months, when rarer species flew south for the winter.

Rayanna returned with two bowls of Jell-O. She set one on Ingrid’s tray and handed one to me with another encouraging elbow squeeze before leaving us alone.

Ingrid dabbed once more at her eyes, then picked up her spoon and scooped off a bite. “I like Jell-O.”

Yes, she did. So much in fact that a few months ago, my kindhearted aunt threw a spoon at a poor girl who tried taking the beloved dessert away. I held the bowl Rayanna had given me in my lap, watching Ingrid take small bites.

“Not all things are worth saving. But some are worth every ounce of fight you can throw at them. You just have to know the difference.”

She’d spoken the words from a delusional mind about something as ridiculous as Jell-O, and while the context had been all wrong, the truth of them was no less profound. And as they echoed in my memory now, the same question that faced me then returned:
Is it worth saving?
Only this time the question wasn’t about The Treasure Chest. It was about my marriage.

Aunt Ingrid finished the last of her dessert, wiped her lips with a napkin, and picked up the Bible from her lap. “Would you mind reading to me?”

I set my Jell-O aside and took the offering. The book was open to Isaiah—
one of Ingrid’s longstanding favorites. Many of the verses were underlined. Tiny notes had been scrawled into the margin.

Ingrid closed her eyes and leaned her head against the backrest of the rocking chair.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and began at the top.

Aunt Ingrid, who did not remember me or the motel she’d loved for the entirety of her life, mouthed along with every word I read.

As December melted into January, Aunt Ingrid’s sadness drifted away, but her wits did not return. She remained locked in the past, in a time before Gerald had his heart attack and The Treasure Chest shut down, before I existed at all. The longer she stayed there, the more frightened I became, increasingly convinced that the things she’d overheard on Christmas Eve had irreparably damaged her brain.

I begged Rayanna to let me take Ingrid to the motel again, so she could see with her own eyes that it was alive and well. In fact, it was looking better than ever. Ben solicited the help of the entire varsity football team to overhaul the landscaping, resurface all the bathtubs, and replace the toilets. They pounded nails and finished scrubbing out the pool. The most recent project was Natalie’s brainchild—an ode to the motel’s first financial investor, Charles Darrow. Ben was slowly and meticulously turning the square border around the swimming pool—made up of cement slabs—into a Monopoly board.

I was dying to show it to Aunt Ingrid, but her doctors didn’t think taking her out of Pine Ridge was a good idea. They thought the disruption of routine had caused the dramatic decrease in function to begin with. So while her baby came back to life, I could do nothing but stand by and watch as she lost more and more of herself each day. We didn’t play cards. We didn’t visit the dining hall. Aunt Ingrid stayed in her room and asked me to read her the Bible. And as I read, whispers of doubt crept in. The kind I kept hidden in deep dark places.

What if none of it was true? What if this God we prayed to didn’t exist at all?

Heaven knew I’d been trying to do the right thing by Ben. Every day the question that arose when Aunt Ingrid threw a fit over her Jell-O reverberated in my soul. Was my marriage worth saving? Yes, it was. I wanted to repair the broken parts. I wanted us to find wholeness again. But repairing a relationship wasn’t as straightforward as repairing a motel. I had yet to find a magic cleaning solution that would remove the stains. For the first time in a long time, I was trying. But the harder I tried, the further into the depths I sank. Perhaps this was how my mother felt—desperate to win her battle with the bottle but unable to muster enough willpower.

Winter continued, colder than usual for the Florida Panhandle, and as January came to a close, I found myself stuck in a seemingly eternal wait. For Aunt Ingrid to come back. For the motel to open. For the social worker to call. For the lethargy in my soul to release its iron fist. For Ben to reach me—not just for a moment or two, but forever and always. I needed rescuing. And since I didn’t know if God was there to do it anymore, I decided I’d just have to do it myself.