Strange Perceptions (23 page)

She nodded her head up and down. “Da, Shashie,” she said.

I stood slowly. I didn’t know what language these people spoke and didn’t want to find out. I climbed over the cabinet and out the window.

I almost made it, but a hand grabbed my foot. There I was, hanging upside down outside the window, suspended by my foot. My shoe twisted off and I fell into a heap outside the window. I sprang to my feet and sprinted toward the road. When I reached it, I glanced back over my shoulder. The Baers stood outside the cabin watching me flee. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulder. She held out my shoe, offering it to me.

I ran without stopping until the road crossed another road. At the intersection was a sign “Campground - 1 mile.” On top of this sign was the butterfly I had chased into the woods. I couldn’t believe it.

I peered closely at the butterfly and, although the face looked all insect-like, I swear the sides of its mouth turned up a little. It was smiling at me.

But I no longer cared about the butterfly princess, or her castle. No. I just wanted to get back to my parents. They’d be so happy to see me. They’d be mad with worry.

I think the butterfly knew this somehow. It rested there, perched on the sign, weirdly smiling at me for a few moments and then took to the air again. In moments it was gone.

I jogged the final mile and arrived at our camp. Only, my parents hadn’t even realized I was missing. Mom and Skeeter were still in the tent and Dad still watched his pole. I ran to Dad and gave him a big hug.

“Whoa, Goldi,” Dad said, returning my hug. “What’s that for?” He looked at me and noticed the scratches and rips in my clothes. “Oh my. What happened to you?”

I told him about my adventure.

“Good story,” he said.

I put my hands on my hips. “It really happened.”

“If you say so.”

Over the next few weeks I told everyone I knew about getting lost and finding the Baer’s cabin. I didn’t realize stories grow and get reshaped until they hardly resemble the original. I was sweet and innocent, but somehow the story changed until it painted me as a spoiled and opportunistic hooligan, breaking people’s furniture, eating their food, and using their beds without asking.

I wish I’d never told my story to anyone.

I stopped talking and looked at the psychologist. He hadn’t said a word through my story.

“Anyway,” I said. “That’s what really happened.”

He stood, stepped to his desk, and grabbed something from a drawer. “Look in this.” He handed me a mirror.

I looked into the mirror and gasped.

It wasn’t me in the mirror. Couldn’t be. Gone were my golden curls, replaced by thin, fragile-looking white hair. Deep lines etched my face, especially around the eyes and mouth. The reflection was most unkind to my neck. My smooth skin had been replaced with so many wrinkles and bulges that the skin looked like messed up sheets in an unmade bed. The face in the mirror was of a very old woman.

But the eyes were mine. A bit yellowish and bloodshot maybe, but I could see myself looking back through the eyes in this old woman’s face.

The mirror slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. “It’s the queen. She did this to me.”

“The queen?” asked the psychologist. “The butterfly queen?”

“No. The queen who keeps asking her mirror if she’s the prettiest one in all the land. She discovered I was prettier and somehow changed me to this.”

“I see.” He returned to his desk, pressed a button on his phone, leaned down and spoke softly. “We’re done.”

The psychologist’s office door opened and two large men dressed in white smocks came into the room. “Let’s go, Mrs. Varley,” one of them said. “It’s time to rest.”

I did feel tired. They pulled me to my feet.

“Mom’s going to freak when she sees me,” I told the psychologist.

He patted my shoulder. “Mrs. Varley, your mother passed away over forty years ago.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t help it. Something was horribly wrong here.

One of the men grabbed my arm, urging me toward the door.

At the doorway I turned back to the psychologist, my eyes pleading. Was he going to just let them drag me away?

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “We made excellent progress today.”

Trunk of Caramel

I will never forget the events that evening last spring.

I worked the night shift at the Stars Motel. It’s just outside Warner’s Crest and doesn’t get many visitors because most folks continue down the freeway another twenty minutes to stay at a decent hotel in Spokane. The Stars Motel has eighteen units, two units per cabin, and is surrounded by woods. Actually, there are twenty units but the cabin with unit fourteen is no longer rented out.

The motel job was perfect for a college student. I’d spend my days at Eastern Washington University and my nights at the Stars Motel. I worked 6:30pm to 5am. A long shift and a low wage, but perfect for me. Joe, the owner, knew I often dozed and worked on schoolwork, but he didn’t care. As long as a warm body was in the manager’s office Joe was happy.

It was Tuesday, May 18th and we only had one guest. Just after 8pm I heard the door chime’s “bee-bah” and looked up from my laptop to see the strangest looking fellow I had ever laid eyes on. He was fence-pole thin and so tall he had to stoop his neck to get through the door. The guy must have been sixty or seventy years old and I could tell, even before he spoke, that he was foreign. His clothes looked straight off the rack from Goodwill. His black pants were at least five inches too short, the shortness accented by white socks and sandals. He wore a brown tweed jacket with his skinny wrists jutting out the sleeves like white bones. He held a cane, but seemed to carry it for style not purpose. He approached the counter and removed his fedora, revealing a bald head.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Yesss.” I couldn’t place his thick accent.

“A room?”

“Pleassse,” he said, “Number thirteen.”

I cocked my head at him. “We don’t have a number thirteen on account the boss’s superstitious. It goes from twelve to fourteen.”

“Fourteen, please.”

“I’m sorry fourteen’s unavailable. We have 2 through 12 and 15 to 21 available.”

He leaned forward on the counter, elbows propped, hands clasped, his eyes intense. “Must have fourteen.”

Although fourteen was empty Joe didn’t want it rented. Joe’s a bit superstitious and after what happened in unit fourteen back in April, he thought it best not to rent out.

The man noticed my hesitation and continued. “I pay double. Here isss nice tip.” He laid a twenty on the counter.

Joe would surely want fourteen rented at double the cost. I placed a clipboard on the counter and snatched the twenty.

The man took the clipboard, scribbled on it and handed it back.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We need a credit card number.”

“I pay cash.”

“Well, that’s fine. But in case there’s damages.” I shrugged. “It’s just policy.”

The man laid two one-hundred dollar bills on the counter. “This for damage?”

I grimaced. “I don’t know.”

He laid another hundred-dollar bill on top of the others.

“Fine.” I pulled the room key from the peg board and handed it to him and grabbed the cash. Joe could figure out how to handle this character in the morning.

“One thing,” the man said. “I need help for to carry trunk.”

“Uh, I can’t really leave the office.”

He peeled off two more bills from his wad of cash and laid them on the counter. Twenties. “Pleassse.”

“It’s pretty quiet tonight.” I took the cash. “Sure.”

I grabbed the keys to the office and followed the man into the parking lot, locking the office behind me.

I pointed. “Unit fourteen is about halfway—” I stopped, surprised at the car in the parking lot. It was a long, black hearse. “—I’ll meet you there.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Sixty extra dollars in my pocket. I walked toward unit fourteen looking back at this bizarre dude and his car.

Even though the hearse was not small, the tall man had to fold himself double to get into it. I walked to unit fourteen and waited while the man backed the hearse into the parking spot.

Suddenly I feared the worst. He needed help with a trunk from a hearse? Was the trunk a casket? Even with the sixty dollar tip I wanted no part of this activity.

The man exited the hearse like a limbo dancer, sticking his legs out and standing but bending backward until his head cleared the door frame. He walked to the back of the hearse where I stood. I opened my mouth to tell him I changed my mind but before I could say anything he held up a hand with one long finger extended. He leaned on the back of the hearse for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

Just my luck. This guy looked ready to keel over with a heart attack. I’d have to call 9-1-1 and call Joe. I wouldn’t get any schoolwork done.

The man caught his breath. “Sorry, I drive two days to get here. I not young any more.” He smiled weakly.

Before I could say anything he opened the back of the hearse and pulled out a track on runners which was obviously designed to slide caskets in and out. A large, black trunk with brass corners and a brass clasp sat on the track. Thank god it wasn’t a casket. He motioned me forward.

I stepped up to the trunk. It was three feet wide and two feet deep and as tall as it was wide. I grabbed a brass handle and waited for the man to grab the other, but he fetched a small satchel from the hearse and made his way to the cabin.

I sighed and grabbed the handle on the other side and lifted. The trunk must have weighed eighty pounds. I’m not a weak guy, but I had to strain to heft it off the casket trolley.

The man held the door open while I trudged through it, shuffling my feet. “What are you carrying in here?” I asked. “Anvils?”

The strange man chortled. “No. Something much sssweeter. Here, next to bed.”

I set it down and scooted it across the rug to the foot of the bed and turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said.

He pulled out a key ring from his satchel, a large silver loop with dozens of keys, and picked through the keys for a moment before selecting one. He unlocked the trunk and flipped open the lid.

Caramels filled the entire trunk, little one inch cubes of light brown candy. He tossed a couple caramels to me.

I caught them. “Uh, thanks.” I nodded and shut the cabin door behind me as I left.

On the way back to the hotel office I tossed the candies into the bushes. I wasn’t about to eat caramels that were laying loose in a trunk. They weren’t even wrapped in plastic. Not very hygienic if you ask me.

I unlocked the office door, flipped the lights back on and when I turned around to shut the door I jumped backward bringing my hands up protectively. The old guy was standing right behind me. He had followed me back to the hotel office and I hadn’t heard him. Instead of bizarre, now he was outright creepy.

“Question.”

“Yeah?”

“Paper did not say how Miss Pottridge killed self. I am believing it wasss pills.”

For a minute I couldn’t respond. How did this guy know? And why was he interested in the suicide?

He stood there, holding his fedora in front of his waist with both hands, waiting for me to respond.