The suite is carefully decorated, with heavy off-white furniture and sage green walls. The bed is massive, covered in thick blankets, all sage green, all soothing.
But it’s not the room of a child, or a teenager, or even a young woman.
It lacks youthful energy.
But I still feel her here.
Somehow.
Sinking onto the bed, I find that I’m surrounded by windows.
All
along one wall, they stretch from floor to ceiling. They let in the dying evening light, and I feel exposed. Getting to my feet, I pull the drapes closed.
I feel a little safer now, but not much.
My suitcases are stacked inside the door, and so I set about unpacking. I put my sweaters away, my toiletries in the fancy bathroom, and while I’m standing on the marble tiles, I envision my mother here.
She loved a good bath, and this bathtub is fit for a queen.
I imagine her soaking here, reading a good book, and my eyes well up.
She’s gone.
I know that.
I pull open the closet doors, and for a moment, a very brief moment, I swear I catch a whiff of her perfume.
She’s worn the same scent for as long as I’ve known her.
There are shelves in this walk-in closet, and on one, I see a bottle of Chanel.
Her scent.
I clutch it to me, and inhale it, and it brings a firestorm of memories down on my head. Of my mother laughing, of her baking cookies, of her grinning at me over the top of her book.
With burning eyes, I put the bottle back.
This isn’t helping anything.
I hang my shirts and my sweaters.
There’s a knock on the door, and Sabine comes in with a tray. A teapot and a cup.
“I brought you some tea,” she tells me quietly, setting it on a table. “It’ll perk you up. Traveling is hard on a person.”
Losing their entire life is hard on a person.
But of course I don’t say that.
I just smile and say thank you.
She pours me a cup and hands it to me.
“This will help you rest. It’s calming.”
I sip at it, and Sabine turns around, surveying my empty bags.