Edward Adrift by Craig Lancaster

Author:Craig Lancaster [Lancaster, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: N, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 1611099056
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2013-04-09T04:00:00+00:00

By the time we get back to the motel, it’s an onslaught (I love the word “onslaught”) of snow. The flakes are fat and wet, and they cling to the windshield almost as fast as I can use the wipers to get rid of them. The streets of Cheyenne Wells fill quickly with snow, and the Cadillac DTS fishtails as we pull into the parking lot.

Inside, the motel owner is waiting for us.

“I was watching for you,” she says. “I told you a storm was coming.”

I rub the top of my head with my hand, feeling the snow melt in my hair, and Kyle stomps on the entryway rug to get the snow off his shoes.

“It came on with no warning,” I say.

“No,” she says, “I warned you. I told you ‘storm’s coming.’ I couldn’t have been more clear than I was.”

Again, her eyes are playing games with me. Every time she speaks they sparkle, or seem to. I know this is a trick of the light. And her mouth crinkles like she’s holding something back—it flummoxes me that I can’t tell if it’s a grin or disdain for how stupid I was, getting caught in the storm like that.

“I don’t believe I got your name,” I say to her. Kyle tugs at my jacket and asks for the room key because “this is boring.” I hand it to him, and he skips down the hallway.

“I don’t believe I offered it to you,” she says. “My name is Sheila Renfro.”

She extends her right hand to me, and I take it in my right hand. Her fingers feel rough and chalky. She shakes my hand firmly, up and down three times, and then she lets go.

“I think I stayed in this motel when I was a little boy, with my father.”

“It’s the only motel in town. If you stayed in Cheyenne Wells, you stayed here.”

“It was nineteen seventy-eight. I was nine years old.”

“When in nineteen seventy-eight?”

“June.”

“What day in June?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I was either two years old or three years old. I was born June fifteenth, nineteen seventy-five, so it depends on when you were here.”

“When I was here, the motel was run by a big, fat guy who had white hair.”

“That was my father. He wasn’t fat. He was pleasantly plump. He’s in the ground now.”

“He and his wife had a little girl.”

“That was me.”

“That was you?”

She narrows her blue eyes at me. “Yes, silly. I just told you.”

“So we’ve met before?”

“I guess we have.”

“Do you remember me?”

“No, silly. I was just a little girl. Plus, you only have to remember a couple of people. Do you think I can remember everyone who has ever come to this motel? Sure, I could look at the register and see who’s been here, but that doesn’t mean I would remember them.”

I’m really foundering (I love the word “foundering,” but I hate to do it). I keep saying dumb things, and she keeps pointing out that they’re dumb. And yet, I do not want to stop talking to Sheila Renfro.

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