The Hotel

Chapter Four

Mrs. And Mr. Smith ran the hotel. It had no name, just the hotel. I found it odd, but it wasn't something I dwelled on in the early days there. There were over three hundred rooms. On our first night there, Mrs. Smith gave me a hand-drawn map to help me find my way around.

I liked Mrs Smith; if talking were an Olympic sport, she'd have won gold every time. Mr. Smith was the opposite of his wife. He rarely spoke. At first, I found that strange. Every boyfriend Mama ever had was loud. They would shout a lot, and they never seemed to shut up. I thought that was the way all men behaved.

The hotel had three permanent guests. A sixty-year-old woman called Caroline. She lived in room number eight. When her husband died; and her children didn't visit, Caroline sold her home and decided to squander their inheritance by spending it at the hotel.

Caroline kept to herself mostly, but when Mama was in one of her moods,  she'd let me sit in room number right and do puzzles with her.

The second permanent guest was Clarissa. She was twenty-one and refused to talk about her past or why she was there. Clarissa lived in room seventy-two, right next to the door to Mama and me. And if she ever heard Mama screaming on her bad days, she never said.

Jake was the third permanent guest. After his marriage failed, he needed to get away for a while. He stayed in room fifty-eight.

Sometimes, Jake would lend me one of the books he'd kept in his room. But not when Mama was around. Jake avoided her like she carried the plague. Once I heard him tell Mr. Smith, "Dawn is crazy. You can see it in her eyes."

Mr. Smith replied, "It isn't my place or your place to judge Dawn."

I didn't blame Jake for thinking Mama was crazy. At times she was. Although, I would never admit it out loud.

On good days Mama would drink wine with Mrs. Smith. She'd get herself all dolled up with clothes she found in the wardrobe in our room. Then we would have a picnic outside.

Looking at her, no one would have suspected she'd killed anyone. In those moments, I would foolishly believe Mama was getting better.

On bad days Mama would stay in bed crying, or she'd be agitated. Anger and madness burned in her eyes brighter than any fire. On those days, I tried to keep her away from others.

When Mama was at her worse, the only thing that would calm her was going to the van and talking to Tom. On those days, she would get confused. One moment she'd call me Lucy and scream at me. The next, Ruby and talk to me calmly.

Sometimes, on the radio, we'd catch the news headlines. More than once, they mentioned our real names. The police were concerned for my well-being. I was grateful the hotel had no televisions. I've no doubt our faces were plastered all over the news.

Those days Mama slept all day and drank all night. I was sure the police would turn up and take Mama away, but they didn't.

No one came. Not the police, not any quests, no posts or deliveries. We ate the food grown on the grounds of the hotel. Mama drank wine made by Mr. Smith. No one left to go anywhere. They never asked Mama to pay for anything.

At times it felt like the rest of the world had vanished. The hotel and those of us in it were all that existed.

Days turned into weeks, and eventually, Mrs. Smith offered Mama a job helping to clean the rooms. Mama took it. It's not like she had other choices.

There was no talk of sending me to school, and I didn't mention it. I'd spend my days wandering the many rooms of the hotel. Sometimes, I'd sit outside room twenty-three, the only one I wasn't allowed to enter. I'd peep under the door, but I'd only ever see darkness.

At night I'd lay awake wondering whether Mama would have a good or bad day. Sometimes, my thoughts would drift towards Tom. Our old life.

Part of me missed the man who laughed and joked. The other part of me was glad the man who hit Mama was dead.

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