Synesthesia: Chapter Thirty-Seven

serial fiction

Image: Lisha Riabinina, Unsplash

I forgot about Roberta as soon as Amber unlocked the door and I walked into the dingy hotel room. I collapsed onto the closer of the two double beds and lost consciousness the moment my body was horizontal.

But when I opened my eyes again, staring in confusion at the dust floating in the sunlight that filtered in at the edges of the ancient hotel curtains, I remembered.

The sudden memory of her smiling face in the lobby, the same face that had watched me while I slept at Hoka guy’s house in Phoenix, made me gasp. What was she doing here? Wasn’t she buried in the front yard back in that fancy subdivision?

I sat up, scratched at the stubble on my face, and looked around. The double bed farthest from the door looked like it had been slept in, but the room was empty and silent.

The air in my lungs felt like it had disappeared, and my heart performed a painful twist in my chest. I forced myself to stay calm. She’s not going to leave you, I lectured myself for what felt like the millionth time.

I rose and headed for the bathroom. I desperately needed a shower and a shave.

On the sink were two miniature bars of soap, wrapped in white plastic and labeled with a name that had tried and probably failed to be French. There was also a tiny bottle of shampoo, a shower cap packed into a cellophane wrapper, and a white plastic safety razor.

I surveyed my available tools, then undressed, tossing my clothes onto the threadbare carpet that might once have been maroon.

After several unsuccessful attempts, I managed to coax hot water out of the old rusty showerhead. A few minutes later, I emerged from the shower with clean hair and skin, opening the bathroom door to let the steam dissipate. I then set to work on the overgrown jungle that was my face.

I lathered up my face with soap and water as best I could, then began hacking away at the beard growth with the safety razor. I only cut myself four or five times, but at least I didn’t look so much like Ted Kaczynski anymore.

I regarded my reflection in the mirror. Cleaned up like this, I might even pass for handsome. In the right light, maybe.

Behind me, I heard the jangling of keys, then the unsticking of aged weatherstripping as the door of the hotel room was pushed open. In panic, I reached for the used towel I’d dropped onto the floor and simultaneously tried to kick the bathroom door closed, but my foot slipped on the wet tile. I fell into a naked heap on the floor, my head narrowly missing the tub.

Before I could register what was happening, Amber was kneeling beside me.

“Jesus Christ, Zodiac, are you alright?” she asked as I scrambled to pull the towel out from underneath my body to cover my intimate areas.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, still yanking uselessly at the stuck towel, my newly shaved face stinging from dull blades and embarrassment.

“Did you break anything?” she asked.

Just my dignity, I thought.

“No, I’m fine,” I insisted, giving up on the towel and covering my groin with my hands. “Just get out. Please.”

Amber nodded and stood. She walked out of the bathroom, taking the musty smell of mildew and panic with her, and I pushed the door closed behind her.

Resting my head on the wet floor, I sighed, then started taking stock of my body, trying to determine if I’d injured myself or broken anything in my fall.

I could wiggle my fingers and toes. I didn’t see any blood. The back of my head hurt where it had collided with the floor, and I guessed I’d have a bruise there. But I didn’t think I had any serious injuries.

I got to my feet slowly, not wanting another fall. I looked around.

My clothes were still on the floor in the main part of the hotel room.

“Hey, Amber?” I called out.

Silence.

“Amber?”

“Shhh!”

I opened the bathroom door a crack and stuck my head out. Jacob was face-down on the bed, his shoes off, and Amber was rubbing his back. I heard what might have been a low humming or singing.

“Can I come out and get my clothes?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she whispered back.

I wrapped myself in my towel and retrieved my clothes from the floor, then slunk back into the bathroom with them, stepping carefully so as not to fall again on the slick tile.

When I came out a few minutes later, my clothes smelling unpleasantly of several days’ worth of dried sweat, Jacob was still on the bed, apparently asleep. But Amber was standing at the window. The curtains were still drawn, but she held one edge aside, pressing her face up close to the glass.

I moved to stand beside her, seeing for the first time where we had actually ended up the night before.

Across a mostly empty parking lot, looking both impossibly far away and so close I could almost touch it, stood a huge wedge of a mountain, rust-colored streaks running horizontally across its base, a smaller ridge jutting out toward the right.

“Wow,” I said, the word slipping out without my conscious intention.

Amber nodded slowly, still staring. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

My nose stung with the spicy, prickling burn of Louisiana hot sauce. I pulled my gaze away from the mountain and looked at Amber. Her full attention was on the mountain that dominated the landscape, standing regally in the distance, somewhere beyond the asphalt.

The smell of her reaction to the mountain burned my sinuses and stung my eyes, but I didn’t care. She was right; it was an incredible sight.

I turned my eyes back to the window. But I couldn’t focus on the mountain. From one edge of the parking lot came a flurry of noise and movement. A heavy figure in pink was shouting and waving its arms at a huge shape emerging from the cab of a black pickup. As the shape closed the door, I got a clearer look at it: a heavyset but muscular man, twice the size of an ordinary human being, with an ample belly and a voice that boomed deep and loud across the parking lot.

My blood froze in my veins.

Gas Stove.