Hotel Ruby (15 page)

“I wasn't feeling great and went to bed early.” That's . . . sort of the truth. I leave off the part where I hung out on the roof drinking alcohol, sneaked around with a strange boy who I almost kissed, and saw Daniel's psycho girlfriend in the elevator at sunrise. My father doesn't need
all
the details.

“Not feeling well?” he asks. “But you never get sick.”

I turn to him to see if he's joking, but his earnest expression tells me he's not. “Dad, I'm always sick. Mono, pneumonia, chicken pox?”

He presses his lips together, looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says. “Your mother usually handled that side
of the parenting.” We're both silent for a moment, letting the words sink in. “How are you feeling now?” he asks to fill space.

“Fine,” I say. “Probably just a pulled muscle, but my arm's better now. I'm not even sure how I hurt it. Slept on it wrong in the car, most likely.”

Just then Daniel walks into the restaurant—his threadbare T-shirt impossibly wrinkled, like it's been balled up at the bottom of his backpack. His hair is askew, his lips pale. He's obviously hungover. He drops into his chair and then winces and touches his temple. “Shit,” he mumbles.

“Daniel,” my father warns him. But Dad's face has brightened, and I think he might be truly happy to have us together for a meal. I used to dream about moments like this.

“Coffee, black,” Daniel says when the server comes by. He continues to moan until he lifts his head, surprised we're watching him. “Sorry,” he says. “I have no idea how this happened.”

“Consuming large quantities of alcohol?” I suggest.

Daniel screws up his face in a
You're a comedian, Aud
look. “Of course it was alcohol, but I blacked out. I've never blacked out,” he says with irritation. “But the last thing I remember, I was walking out of that party, Catherine telling me not to leave, and then
bam!
I woke up feeling like this. I swear it's like my head is split in two.” He turns to point where it hurts.

The ground drops out from under me. I gasp a scream
and jump up from my chair, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. “Daniel,” I yell, grabbing my starched white napkin. On my brother's left temple, sliding into his hairline, is a huge crack; brain matter is exposed. Blood runs down his cheek and pools at the collar of his shirt.

Tears stream from my eyes, my heart rate soaring as I fight with shaky legs around the table toward him. I look at my dad, expecting the same horrified reaction, but instead he's staring at me, wide-eyed.

“Audrey,” he says in a harsh whisper, glancing around at the other tables like he's embarrassed. “What are you doing?”

I can't even respond, instead I grip my brother's shoulder and press the napkin to his seeping wound. “Stop it,” Daniel says, swatting my hand. “Audrey!” He finally succeeds in pushing me back, but I'm hysterical. I can't lose my brother, too. I'll die without Daniel. I'll die.

I rush toward him again, but he puts up his hands defensively. “Stop it,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrists. The napkin falls into his lap, and I look down at it, surprised it's still white with all that blood. Oh, God. Why isn't anyone helping us?

“Aud,” Daniel begs, his voice cracked with worry. It draws me out of my hysterics, and when I focus on Daniel again . . . the blood is gone. The wound, too, as if it were never there. I sob out a relieved sound and take a step back, bumping into the empty table behind me.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words don't find their way past my lips. While Daniel's head is perfectly fine, his expression, and my father's, is one of extraordinary concern. As if I'm the problem here.

You were bleeding to death,
I think, but can't say.
Your brains were falling out, and yet you were still talking to me. How is that possible?
My face is wet with tears, and I dart my eyes around the room at the people who are staring at me. The moment grows heavy, expectant. But I have no explanation for what I just saw.

I reach a trembling finger to run it over Daniel's forehead, checking to make sure it's really still intact, but he shifts his head away. I've never seen my brother more scared than he is in this moment.

“Jesus, Audrey,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I respond hoarsely. “I don't think I am.” Yesterday I saw blood on Tanya, and today I imagined my brother's skull was split open. What sort of person does that? What the hell is wrong with me? “I'm going to the bathroom,” I mumble, leaving for the back of the dining room.

My body shakes, my jaw quivers, as I try to catch my breath. My left leg is suddenly stiff, and my gait shifts to a limp. I could be having a stroke.
Like my mother
, my mind whispers. I choke back a cry, pushing away the thought—terrified of it like it's a curse.

No. This is probably a reaction from the pill Lourdes gave me last night. It's causing hallucinations.

I push the swinging bathroom door, grateful to find the room empty. There's a wrought-iron bench in the corner, and I go to sit, bending forward with my head lowered in crash position.

What is happening to me?

The door flies open, the handle smacking the white tiles on the wall. I nearly jump out of my skin, and clutch my shirt over my heart. Lourdes stands there in her housekeeping uniform, her hands on her hips. She runs her dark gaze over me, gauging the situation. Then without a word she walks to the mirror and examines her reflection.

“I heard you scream, and your brother said you ran off.” She swipes her fingers over her eyelashes to unclump her mascara. “He was worried about you.” Lourdes glances back at me. “Should I be worried too?”

“I don't know,” I say with a quick shake of my head. Now that I've left the dining room, the image of a bleeding Daniel seems utterly ridiculous. “Did my brother . . .” I pause, not sure how much I should share about my current mental state. “Did he look all right to you?”

Lourdes turns back to the mirror with a devilish smile. “He's hot—even with a hangover.” She pulls a compact of foundation and a tube of lipstick out of her apron. “Why?” Lourdes pops the top off her lipstick and rings her lips in red. After smoothing them together, she runs her finger along the lower line.

As I watch her now, the moment is so filled with normal
that my nerves begin to calm. “I've been seeing things,” I offer vaguely, and wave my hand. “I'm also losing time—not blacking out, but just . . .” I stop and sigh. “I'm just confused, really.”

“Have you eaten today?” she asks casually.

“No, not yet. Do you think that could be it?”

“Well, that and you had alcohol,” she points out. “
And
you took a muscle relaxer.
And
you stayed up all night with Eli.” She meets my eyes in the mirror and winks. “See where I'm going here?”

I'm feeling more ridiculous by the second. I haven't exactly been making the healthiest life choices the past few days. “Or,” she adds, tapping her palm under her curls to fluff them, “it could just be the ghosts fucking with you.” She laughs before turning around, her hip against the porcelain sink.

“I'm definitely blaming the ghosts,” I say, calmed now that Lourdes has shed some light on the situation.

“By the way,” she says, “I'm not sure what happened last night, but Eli hasn't shut up about you.”

“What did he say?” I'm slow to stand, still a little shaky, and make my way over to the mirror to check my reflection. It's not too terrible, although I have to wipe away a bit of mascara from under my eyes.

Lourdes purses her lips as if weighing how much to tell me. The scale doesn't tip in my favor. “Doesn't matter,” she says. “But I told him to be careful. Elias is a really
good friend of mine, and I don't want him to get in trouble because of this little thing you have. It is a
thing
, right? Because he seems to think so.”

“We're just hanging out,” I say. “It's not a big deal.” I have a hard time holding back my smile. In reality, I'm only here until tomorrow. Our “thing” is going to be short lived no matter what.

Lourdes watches me, and a slow drip from the faucet echoes in the silence. “He's in the garden,” she says. “I can't remember the last time I saw him outside.” Her expression softens, and I can see how much she cares about him. “He's worth it,” she adds quietly. “If it were me, I'd think he was worth it.”

“Worth what?”

The door opens and two older women with fur shawls stagger in as if their shoes are painful. One woman moves to the sink nearest Lourdes, knocking her compact into the sink without apologizing. Without acknowledgment. Lourdes quickly snatches up her supplies and shoves them into her apron. She's flustered, and I expect her to confront the woman, but instead the housekeeper rushes out without another word.

The gray-haired woman glances at the powder residue spilled from Lourdes's compact. “The help in this place is disgusting,” she murmurs to her friend. “Absolutely worthless.”

“Report it to the front desk,” her friend replies, hobbling
over to the stall door. “They'll straighten them out. This place does have a reputation, you know.”

How dare they? “You're the one who knocked it over,” I say, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and tossing it at her. “Report that.”

The woman gasps, looking offended that I'd even suggest she clean up after herself. She stares at where the paper towel landed on the side of the sink. She straightens her back, skin paled, and then goes to enter the stall next to her friend. At first her voice is shaky, but then she and her friend continue talking between stalls, complaining about the food, the service. I stare at their closed doors, wondering how they could be so rude.

I'm angry, and I want to kick open their stalls to tell them they're not allowed to treat people like this. That money doesn't buy class. I'd tell them not to report it to the front desk because Kenneth is an asshole and the staff is afraid of him.

Instead I pull open the main door and then flick off the light, submerging the room in darkness. The women yelp and howl for help, but I pretend I don't hear, and shut the door behind me.

I
'm not hungry when I return to the table. Dad and Daniel seem to be at the tail end of an argument I luckily missed, and my plate of crepes are pale and withered. I tentatively sit down, anticipating their questions. Daniel is the first to look over, and my breath catches but is soon replaced with a sigh when his head is still wound-free. I imagined the entire thing.

“You all right?” he asks, halfway between panic and annoyance. I nod and then cut a piece of crepe and shove it into my mouth. If starvation is the cause of my hallucination, I'm going to ensure I'm well fed through the rest of this trip. The food is dry and cold. I take a sip of water and force down another mouthful.

“Your sister said her arm's been hurting,” my dad says for me, then shoots me a worried glance. “Could this . . . outburst be related?”

He's thinking stroke. I know he is.

“I'm fine,” I reassure him, sipping from my water before taking another bite. Lourdes already placated my fears, and I don't want to think more about it. See the flaws in her logic. “Probably need to eat more,” I add, and smile
unconvincingly, judging by the looks on their faces.

“Lay off the drugs, sister,” Daniel mumbles, drinking from his coffee. I laugh, but Dad has turned his attention to my brother. He folds his hands on the table with a show so parental it seems fake.

“Now let's talk about you,” he says in his new-and-improved Dad voice. “Drinking? Blacking out? Daniel, this isn't acceptable behavior.”

My brother straightens in his chair, knocked sideways by the fact that our father would criticize him now. He clenches his jaw, and leans his elbow on the table. “Dad, we've been past acceptable behavior for a long time. Starting with you. Don't think you're fooling either of us with this father-of-the-year bullshit.”

“Daniel,” I whisper, stunned that he would confront our father so plainly. Normally, he'd storm off and then vent to me later. But right now his cheeks have gone red, his fist curled up. I repeat his name and he looks over at me. The fight evaporates from his expression.

The three of us stay silent for a long moment, digesting the new dynamics. I watch my father, waiting to see his reaction. See if he really is the doting man who showed up for lunch today. My father picks up his water and takes a calm sip, then sets his glass down with a
clank.

“You're right,” he says calmly. Daniel and I exchange a look, unsure if he's just being passive-aggressive. “I've changed, Daniel,” he says. “I'm finally seeing clearly again.
And I'll do anything to keep this family together. Forever.”

Okay, then
. My dad's eyes are sincere, which only succeeds in making him sound and look like a deranged cult leader. Now that our conversation has taken a turn into the truly bizarre, I stand up from my seat at the table.

“Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say, “but I have to go. I'm meeting up with my friends at the pool. Find you later?” Daniel pushes his cup aside, standing as if I've made an excuse for him to leave too. Smooth.

“I'm happy to hear you're making friends,” my father says. I wait for a dig at my past, the mistakes I've made since my mother died, but no insults follow. He might actually mean it. “Let's meet for a movie later,” he suggests to me and Daniel. “Around six?”

“Sure,” I say. It's been years since I've been to a movie with my father. A wave of nostalgia sweeps over me, and I smile at my brother. Daniel rolls his eyes, still skeptical of my father's sincerity. He hums something noncommittal, and then he takes my arm and tugs me toward the exit. Since arriving at the Ruby, Daniel's been standing up more to our father. There's a new resentment there, anger.