MOTEL CHILD (Haunted)

Abandonment

The annoying cawing of my alarm clock blared in my ears, causing my arm to swing straight up and then down on the button of my salvation. With one knock, the clock stopped and my arm slipped down over my bed, swinging back and forth like a weary pendulum. I lay in bed, looking out at the shower curtain that separated me from my mother. I didn’t see any movement from her side, so I assumed she was still asleep. Pulling my head back under my covers and tucking it underneath my pillow, I settled for a couple more winks before I heard the shrieking of the metal rings swoosh to the side and my mother was in my room, talking.

“Baby, get up, we’re taking a road trip.”

I inhaled deeply and let out a catlike stretch. Sighing, I mumbled, “Right now? Why? Where?”

“I thought about last night at the motel your father owned. I think we should go. So, pack up, it’ll be a good drive. I know it’s early, but I don’t want to get there really late.” Her voice faded in the background along with the bustling of suitcases and creaking front door. I remained in the bed, believing that if I stayed there, she would forget about me. But I knew better.

Throwing the covers off victoriously, I popped myself out of bed, itched that spot on the back of my neck, and wandered into the bathroom. I turned on the faucets, releasing a pitiful stream of icy cold water. Pursing my lips to one side, I cupped my hands under the trickle and rinsed my face. I looked up and stared at my face, searching for any teenage growths that shouldn’t be there. I had shaved yesterday (or the day before yesterday), so I was spared of that task. I walked back to my room to find the bed made and my clothes lay out. I smiled softly and pulled on the selected garments.

I smoothed my hair, slipped on my sneakers, and headed out to meet my mom by the car. She seemed eager to go, as she wore that methodical, “don’t interrupt me” face. She even had a list to make sure she had everything: she was never one to be organized. As she pitter-pattered around the house, pointing her pencil at the places she had taken things from and talking aloud, I tucked my hands in my pocket, shifted my jaw, and straightened my shoulders.

“Hey, Mom,” I stuttered.

“What is it, Oliver?” she chirped in reply, tucking the yellow pencil now behind her ear.

“Why are we going now? What’s the hurry?”

“Well, the man who has been holding the property said if we don’t put our name in; go there and show our faces, he’ll sell it.”

I didn’t see the point of us wanting to keep an orphaned motel. In my soft, defenseless voice, I said, “Couldn’t we, perhaps, sell the motel? Get money to pay off our trailer?” My shoulder found the wall behind me, making it more tolerable to stand and look comfortable.

My mother shook her head, “No, I think it’d be very disrespectful to do so, especially since that’s all your dear father left us.” She hurried out to our worn-out, sunshine yellow 1972 Honda Civic. I hated that car. The turning radius was horrible, got stuck whenever we braked and had to turn, which was at every stoplight. And I constantly had to push it to jumpstart it. It was an awful car. My mother threw the final item into the backseat and motioned me to get ready to push the car. I dutifully rolled up my sleeves and locked my arms against the back. I heard the engine groan, the motor crank, and the wheels turn ever so slightly on the ground below.

I heard my mom shout an order, and though I didn’t know exactly what she said, I knew what she meant. Digging my feet into the slippery soil behind me, I heaved against the metal, putting my back into it. I felt the muscles between my shoulder blades burn and my forearms trembled a bit. Gritting my teeth and dropping my head, I gave another shove from my legs, pushing the car out from the tiny rut it had settled into. When it was running by itself, I ran to the passenger side and hopped it. It was a success!