Comfort & Joy

Now my head is pounding

“Nope. ”

This has certainly been my day. “Great. ” This half-baked adventure of mine is going from bad to worse.

“We got rooms, though,” he says tiredly. “And I know how to check guests in. ”

“Really? I need . . . ” my voice cracks on that. There are too many things I need. It’s best to focus on just the one. “A room for the night would be great. ”

“My dad won’t like it, but this is my house, too. ” He throws back the covers and gets out of bed. Walking past me, he heads out into the hallway, and then looks back at me. “You coming?”

“Oh. Sure. ”

He leads me downstairs and shows me to the last door on the left side of the hallway. “Here. ” He twists the knob and opens the door.

Inside the room, I find a narrow dresser, a queen-sized bed, and a desk in the corner. In the shadowy darkness, everything looks shabby but clean. “Thank you,” I say. “About paying . . . ”

“People pay when they leave. ”

That’s a relief. I can get my bank to wire funds at the end of my stay if I don’t have enough cash.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s off, running for the stairs.

I close the door behind me, and there I am, caught by moonlight in the rectangular mirror above the dresser.

I look like hell. Leaves and twigs inhabit my red hair, which has somehow puffed up to three times its usual size. My blue eyes—usually my best feature—are bloodshot, and my pale, freckled skin is blotchy with dirt.

Something’s wrong.

Blood.

Where is it?

I see scratches and scrapes but no deep wounds.

Thank God.

It must have been rain I tasted as I lay there. Maybe I bit my tongue . . . or maybe that metallic taste was tears.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters are a bath and a bed. In that order. I open the small connecting door to my bathroom.

Shower. Not a bath. A shower. I’m disappointed but hardly surprised. This has not been a day when things went my way.

I step into a steaming hot shower with my clothes on.

Why not?

Everything needs to be washed.

The first part of my slumber is bad, I’ll admit it—a kaleidoscope of ugly memories. The crash. My sister. Thom. The crash. But what I learn is this: when you’re tired enough, you fall asleep, and nothing heals your mind like a peaceful night. When I waken, I feel remarkably good for a woman who survived a small plane crash and is currently running away from her real life.

No.

I’m not running away. I’m on my first adventure.

Still, I can’t help hoping—just for a second—that Stacey is still at my house, waiting for me. Worrying. Maybe she’ll think I’ve been kidnapped and call the police. Then she’d be sorry for sleeping with my husband and breaking my heart. But even as I dive into the warm fantasy, I feel it grow cold. She won’t call the cops, won’t mount a search. A year ago, she would have. Not now. She no longer knows my life well enough to wonder at my absence. For all she knows, I’m on the beach in Jamaica with some young hottie.