(January 30) Hattie: Thanks, girl. That means a lot to me. More than you probably know.
(February 1) Hattie: Hi again! Hope you have a great day today.
(February 9) Hattie: Helloooo ☺
(February 14) Hattie: Happy Valentine’s Day! Miss you so much.
I swallow the hard lump in my throat. I feel like the biggest jerk in the world. Because I know I shouldn’t have blamed her for what happened. I know I shouldn’t give her the cold shoulder. It’s not fair. And I don’t like the feeling I get in my stomach when I think about it. The queasiness. The tightness.
But the truth is, I don’t really know how to talk to her anymore. When I see her texts, I usually end up avoiding them, telling myself I’ll respond later. Once the weird feelings pass. Once the right words come to me. And then too much time will pass, and I’ll start to worry that I ruined our friendship.
My phone buzzes in my hand; a new notification drops down from Eva. She’s moved on from the pointe shoes, and is now asking if I’ve watched Catriona’s Crown, the new TV show she told me about. I reply that I haven’t seen any of it yet, and she starts shouting at me in all caps, and I type back with lots of exclamation marks and emojis, even though the guilt and queasiness over Hattie continues to gnaw at me.
15
Tse-Whit-Zen
February 16
By the early afternoon, we arrive at our motel in Port Angeles.
The asphalt in the parking lot is dark and gleaming, its white paint strips faded almost to the point of nonexistence. Cracks spiderweb out from an indent near the sewer grate. We pull into a spot near the front office.
This building is calm and quiet and a little sad. The air outside is cold as glass.
Jack goes inside alone to get us checked in, and returns to the car with an abnormally serious look on his face. It makes the rest of us instantly anxious.
Mom lowers the passenger-side window. Leans across the center console to ask, “Is something wrong?”
Jack frowns. “Their elevator is out of order.”
For a brief second, my first thought is: And? But then Mom and Jack both turn to me.
Connor lifts his headphones from his ears and asks, “Wait, what’s going on?”
Jack says, “Your knee—”
“Is fine,” I insist.
“Are you sure?”
Something inside me snaps. “Yes, Jack. Mr. Lawson has me do exercises that are much harder than going up and down stairs, I promise you. I’ve been doing squats. I’ve been using resistance bands. And we’re about to go hiking on this trip! I can handle the stairs.”
Jack blinks, surprised by my outburst. Honestly, I’m surprised by it, too. Embarrassed by the sharp tone of my voice. I don’t meet Mom’s gaze, but I can sense the lift of her brows. Even Connor stays quiet for a moment.
“Okaaaay,” Jack says, drawing the two syllables out all awkwardly.
“It’s not a big deal.”
I push the car door open and scramble outside. Unfortunately, there is a low pulse in my knee right now, a dull throbbing sensation that feels the way distant sirens sound. And because of this, I lose my footing, stumbling slightly.
Jack reaches for me reflexively, lifting his arm as a barrier behind me; I flinch away from his touch.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “My leg is asleep, that’s all. It was a long car ride.”
“Sure,” Jack says, but his voice sounds hollow.
Mom and Connor exit the car in silence, and I avoid looking at everyone as we pull our bags out of the open trunk. I swallow my guilt and hoist my own over my shoulder, just to make a point that I can carry it myself. That my recovery is going well. That I’m getting strong again.
My parents need to see it. They need to start believing it. I haven’t told them about Mr. Lawson’s update yet. That in addition to fewer and shorter physical therapy visits, it’s possible I could return to ballet as soon as the summer. That I might be okay to participate in at least one or two auditions this spring.
If Mom and Jack think I can’t even handle a bag, or a set of stairs, there’s no way they’ll let me audition. There’s no way they’ll trust me on my own.
I ask Jack, “What’s the room number?”
He says, “206.”
I nod and lead the way. The motel is painted a deep shade of gray. Its rows of windows are outlined in bright white trim. Its doors are dark blue, with bronze number plates posted above the peepholes. There is a handrail leading up the concrete stairs, lined with thin white metal bars that have rusted in places, reddish-brown flecks peeking through the chipped paint.
At the top of the stairs, I’m embarrassingly winded, but I refuse to let it show. I keep my mouth sealed to prevent myself from gasping for air; I force my breathing into a steady rhythm. A light sheen of sweat forms along my hairline at the base of my neck as I move down the row of doors to find 206.
My knee is still pulsing, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel terrible.
But as a person, I feel kind of terrible right now. That fierce surge I felt a few moments ago has already left me. Evaporated into nothing.
I sounded so childish. Childish and wrong.
Once I reach our room, I lower my eyes and step aside to let Jack use his key. The door opens with a gentle creak, and we all shuffle our way inside.
The heat is already on in our room. Warm air blows through the vents, rattling slightly with the steady gusts. There are two queen-sized beds in here, pushed against the wall, with identical nightstands and lamps positioned on either side of them. Both beds are layered in stiff, thick blankets and way too many pillows. The comforters are the color of green olives, the fabric stitched with swirling lines. There is a long dresser against the opposite wall, topped with a plasma TV, an empty ice bucket, a small tray filled with travel brochures for Port Angeles, the Olympic National Park, and the Pacific Coast. There are two wide windows with sheer curtains, a closet with an ironing board tucked inside, a mini fridge, a mini wastebasket. A kitchenette with white cupboards, a white enamel sink, a stovetop, and a coffeepot.
Our home for the next few days.
Connor and I claim the bed closest to the windows; Mom and Jack take the bed closer to the door. We fall into a quiet rhythm of unpacking and settling in. Jack carries the cooler we brought, filled with cut veggies and sandwiches and juice boxes, and starts to transfer everything over to the fridge. Mom unzips her cosmetics bag in the bathroom, lining her preferred shampoos and conditioners along the edge of the bathtub, her skin creams and cleansing tonics across the counter. Connor sprawls on the bed—with his shoes and rain jacket still on, ugh—his tablet held a few inches away from his nose, glued to the next episode of his TV show, absorbing as much as he can until someone finally cuts off his screen time.
I sit in the armchair by the windows, refreshing my messages, but there’s nothing new to see from Eva. There’s nothing new from anybody. And as my family continues to focus on their own things, smoothly forgetting about the awkwardness over the elevator, I feel more and more like a lonely storm cloud. Like a dark and dreaded presence, hovering at the edge of their happy vacation.
16
End of the Road I
February 16
“There’s a high-pressure system moving down from Alaska tonight,” Jack tells us. “Which is good, because that means it should hopefully stay clear over the next few days. We might get lucky.”