Hotel Ruby

For my grandfather

Walter “Shadow” Parzych

And, as always, in loving memory of my grandmother Josephine Parzych

STAY TONIGHT. STAY FOREVER.

Author's note: Many older hotels did not have a 13th floor. And HOTEL RUBY doesn't have a 13th chapter, further adding to the mystery behind Audrey's stay at Hotel Ruby...

T
he treetops curve above the road like an archway, blotting out the moon and stars. We've been driving through these woods for close to an hour, and our car headlights shine only a short distance in the thick fog. I glance into the backseat to check my older brother's current state of annoyance, but Daniel hasn't spoken to me since the rest stop near Vegas. He stiffens, aggressively ignoring me when he turns to face the dark outside the window.

“If we stay on this road,” my father says, “I think there's a shortcut through the mountains. I remember taking it one time with your mother.”

The air in the car hardens to cement and I still, the mention of my mother too taboo to slip into conversation. I hear Daniel shift in the backseat, and the tension tightens around me, a vise clamped on my heart. Just when I think I might choke on the grief, my father reaches to flip on the stereo, startling us from the quiet.

I stare out the windshield, my eyes stinging. I don't dare blink hard enough to let a tear fall. Normally, I'd turn to Daniel, but we've run out of comforting things to say.
Now the words feel false, hollow. So neither of us bothers to speak them anymore.

My brother knows this trip isn't entirely my fault. I've made mistakes since our mother died, but I'm not the only one. Daniel's coping mechanism is to deflect his grief, his resentment; and sometimes he hurls them at me. But our father, well, he's just lost altogether.

Now Dad is sending us to live with our grandmother, uprooting us from Arizona to Elko, some small town in northern Nevada. He claims it will be a “fresh start,” but really, he's the one who plans to start fresh, leaving us behind with a DNA-matched stranger.

Truth is, Dad stopped seeing us. He looks through us like he can't bear our resemblance to our mother. Like we're invisible. Daniel and I have lost both of our parents, even though one is sitting next to me now.

“Can I change the station?” I ask. My voice is thick, and I realize I haven't spoken out loud since we left Vegas. How's that possible?

My dad glances over, seeming just as startled by my voice, and gives a quick nod. Daniel shifts in the backseat as I start pressing and then re-pressing the scan button, searching for a clear station. My iPod died nearly a hundred miles ago, and I haven't had a chance to charge it. I'm at the mercy of the DJ gods, and they have not been favorable toward me.

The radio search is met with static, save one channel
that's playing old jazz. I take a spin through the stations again.

“Hey, Aud,” Daniel calls. My heart skips a beat, and I look back at him. He's our mother's reflection—platinum hair, blue eyes. It still startles me. “Can I have your Snickers bar?” he asks.

I choke on a laugh, covering my smile because this is Daniel's way of apologizing. I shouldn't give him the candy, not after he told me to shut up outside the dingy rest stop bathrooms. I'd made the mistake of mentioning our mother. I'm not sure why I did it, especially since I know Daniel hates when I do. I guess I just miss hearing the word “Mom” without the words “I'm so sorry” connected to it.

Once in the car, Daniel muttered from the backseat about my selfishness: “Ask Ryan,” he said, thus beginning our silent war. But Daniel's my brother and he's the only person left in the world who cares about me. That deserves a candy bar. I grab the backpack at my feet and dig through the front pocket until I touch the softened chocolate. I toss it to him, and he nods his thanks, our temporary truce enacted.

The weight of tension has lifted, and I expect my father to be lightened by it. But his face is determined; he's focusing on his plan so the ache won't set in. He wasn't always like this. I can't pinpoint the exact moment he changed, but it was a swift progression. We were all too distracted
to notice. I was busy self-medicating with all manner of troublesome behaviors; Daniel was retreating into avoidance and denial. We had no one to hold us together.

And after my father walked in on a spectacularly raucous party I was throwing, he seemed to calm, to steady himself when really he should have freaked out. Grounded me for twenty years. Instead he came up with a plan.

“It's just for the summer,” he told me and Daniel over a bucket of KFC. “You know your grandmother would love to spend more time with you.”

My mother's mother is nearly eighty, and I can't imagine she wants much to do with a rebellious seventeen-year-old girl or her selfish older brother. We've met Grandma Nell only a handful of times, none of which was particularly endearing. It didn't matter, though. Because that night, sitting in Daniel's dark bedroom, my brother and I figured she was the only person willing to take us in. Dad was giving us away. Giving up.

But now that Daniel's eighteen, he promises to bring me with him when he gets enough money to take off on his own. Although Dad puts on the ruse that he's coming back, we know he's not.

“Your grandmother told me they renovated the attic for you, Audrey,” my father says from the driver's seat, not looking over as he talks. “They got a new bed, dresser—she asked your favorite color. I told her it was pink.”

“It's blue,” I respond, earning a quick glance. “I haven't liked pink since the seventh grade.”

My father swallows hard, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “Well, I guess you can repaint. That'll be fun.”

“And where am I staying?” Daniel asks. “Did they tidy up a haystack in the barn?”

Dad takes so long to answer, I'm about to repeat Daniel's question. But then our father cracks his neck and glances in the rearview mirror. “You'll be in your mother's old room.”

I lower my head. At first I'm overwhelmed with betrayal at my grandmother's decision to give Daniel the connection to my mother's childhood instead of me. Locking me in an attic like a character from a V. C. Andrews novel. But when I can stand the pain, I turn and find Daniel watching me, his jaw clenched; the expression that tells me not to worry. We won't be there long. Even if it means running away.

I glance at the radio again, about to continue my rhythmic pursuit, when I notice a red light above the CD player. I can't recall a time when I listened to a CD in this car. Normally, I'd have my earbuds in, or nothing at all. Curious, I switch the mode and watch as the dash flashes
PLAY
.

I press it, but at first I'm met with silence. I'm about to skip to the next song when chords blast from the speakers, ten times louder than anything on the stations. I jump and then laugh, looking at my father. He doesn't react, though;
he's not paying attention. He's lost in his head again.

The song is an oldie, one I vaguely remember my mother enjoying. When I realize her connection to it, I reach to lower the music, unable to turn it off altogether. I don't mention the song, content to spend the remainder of the drive in emotional isolation, much like the last three months of my life. I close my eyes and recline the seat, opting for the escape of sleep.

The seconds tick slowly by, my inactive thoughts always haunted by my last moments with my mother, the way I took her for granted that morning before she left for school. She was a counselor at my high school, beloved. Respected. And I sent her away to her death without so much as a good-bye.

I clear my throat and turn in my seat, restricted by the seat belt. I unfasten it to get comfortable and then force down my sorrow.
Stop thinking
. I let the song lyrics flood my mind and wash away my mother. And in the absence of pain I finally drift off to sleep. It might have been only a moment or an hour, but when I hear the clicking of the blinker, I sit up, slightly disoriented.

“We're here,” my father says in a tired voice. I'm stricken for a moment by the glistening of tears on his cheek. He wipes his sleeve over his face and then takes a hard turn that knocks my shoulder into the door.

There's a pathway into the trees, a road covered in debris of broken branches. I'm about to ask my father where the
hell he's going when a set of open iron gates appears in front of us. They're ornate and oversize. Beautiful. Golden lights wrap their way up the tree trunks and illuminate the drive, now cleared. We pass the courtyard, a circle of stone benches and statues, low manicured shrubs with tiny lights brightening everything. But when the hotel itself comes into view, Daniel leans between the front seats.

“No way,” he murmurs. “Are we stopping here?”

Here, in the middle of nowhere, is a grand building—lit up at 3 a.m. like it's New Year's Eve. A white stone front, huge archway with ivy crawling up the walls. I can't help but smile as we park at the entrance.

“I'm exhausted,” my father says. “And when I saw the sign for the Hotel Ruby, I thought we could splurge for the night.” I see a shadow of my father, of who he used to be. “Think of this as our family vacation,” he adds.

“Well, in that case I want my own room,” Daniel says from the backseat.

Our father sniffs a laugh, and agrees. He turns off the engine just as a guy in a burgundy uniform approaches the car. Daniel disappears into the back of the SUV to grab his suitcase, and I tug my pack onto my lap when the driver's door opens.

“Welcome to the Ruby,” the guy in red says. I can't quite place his accent, but he's handsome—dark hair and dark eyes. He glances inside and notices me. “Can I help with your bags, miss?” His lips curve with a smile, and I'm
not imagining that he's flirting with me. But I'm disoriented from the drive, from my father's behavior. I shake my head no.

“I've got it,” I tell the valet. “But thanks.”

He comes around to open my door, and I'm aware of how close he's standing when I have to dip under his arm to get out. The guy helps to load bags onto a gold rolling cart, and my father tips him a fold of money before opening the massive wooden doors. I glance back and find the valet waiting. He smiles again, his chin lowered as he watches me. I quickly turn away, an uneasy feeling crawling up my arms.

The lobby is an explosion of grandeur: rich wood furniture, fringed velvet fabrics, and an impossibly large chandelier hanging above it all. Paintings and tapestries decorate the walls, which must be at least three stories high. I turn to Daniel and he smiles—an actual smile.