Chapter 3

3

I choose a back route, no highways, hoping for a scenic drive. The sun melted the ice, the snow, leaving the roads slushy. Everything drips; everything is wet, the snow-covered hills gone muddy and soft. I pass by antique malls and dilapidated barns and rusty tractors and the occasional cow. I pass through small towns with general stores and unsavory political signage. A lot of Christmas decorations are still up, strands of lights drooping, wreaths browning, nativity scenes missing wise men, Santas covered in muck. I pass by beautiful lake houses and wonder what the owners do for a living. Who can afford such houses? What decisions did they make? What mistakes did I make?

I sing along to “American Pie” because no one is around to judge me. I think about Buddy Holly dead in a field. The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens—who was only seventeen. I think about Patsy Cline, also killed in a plane crash. Before her death, she supposedly said, “Don’t worry about me, hoss. When it’s my time to go, it’s my time.” I wonder if she was able to maintain that attitude as the plane went down.

I hope so. It seems the cruelest fate, to die scared. But maybe that’s the only way.

I put on “Walkin’ After Midnight.” I wonder if I should start calling people “hoss.” If I could pull it off.

When I arrive in Auburn, I crack my window and inhale. Pure, crisp winter air. There’s music playing, big-band jazz. There’s a quaint Main Street with a movie theater that has a classic marquee, and an ice-cream shop, a bar called the Pharmacy, a pharmacy called the Drug Store, some retail shops that I know must be overpriced, gouging tourists like me. There’s a Chase bank, which shatters the illusion of the old-fashioned, the 1950s “aw, gee, shucks,” “take a nickel to the soda fountain for a cherry-lime rickey,” “call your sweetheart on a rotary phone,” “listen to a transistor radio,” meat-loaf-and-mashed-potatoes Americana.

At a traffic light, I make a right onto a tree-lined street. Grand Victorian houses are spaced evenly, set back on clean lawns—all with hibernating gardens and ornate birdbaths or fountains, each with its long driveway neatly plowed. Any remnants of snow are white, unsullied. Again I wonder, Who lives in these houses? How do they have this kind of money, living out here? What do they do?

This place is a postcard, a fantasy. A profound trepidation materializes in my chest, spreading quickly to my limbs, giving me pins and needles. I shudder and close my window. The GPS advises that I make a left in four hundred feet. All I can think about is going home.

But it’s too late for that, and there’s a car coming up behind me, so I go ahead and take the left.

The road winds down a wooded hill, and through the skeletal trees I get glimpses of the lake glittering beneath the rapidly setting sun. The main building reveals itself at the bottom of the slope—a titanic stone mansion with an elaborate porch, countless arched windows, tall chimneys. The whole structure is swathed in thick vines, which contribute significantly to its air of Gothic romance. Aptly named the Waterfront, it seems to rest precariously on the edge of the lake, at least from this vantage point. I pull around the circular drive and park in front of what I assume to be the entrance. There’s an awning—an extension of the porch.

By the time I open my car door, there’s a porter, a boy who might be fresh out of high school or college—I can’t tell. He wears a ridiculous old-timey uniform. He must hate it.

“Hello, ma’am,” he says. Ugh. Ma’am. “Checking in?”

“Hey. Yes,” I say. “Okay to park here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Again with the “ma’am.”

I follow him inside to the lobby, a two-story foyer with a grand staircase, dark walls, gilded molding. There’s a marble counter to the side, and another adolescent appears behind it, a bony girl in a similarly old-fashioned getup. She bounces upon seeing me, smiles widely, revealing gapped teeth encased in plastic aligners.

“Hello. Welcome to the Waterfront Collective retreat, resort, and spa. My name is Mary Beth. Do you have a reservation with us?”

“Yes. Should be under Parker.”

She stoops behind a gold MacBook. “Ah! Yes, Ms.Parker.”

Ms. Thank God.

“I see we have you with us for three nights in our Whispering Woods Cottage.”

Heaven help me if Naomi finds out that’s what it’s called.

“If you’ll please give me a moment, I’ll get you your key cards,” Mary Beth says, opening a drawer. “And here we are! Will you be taking advantage of our valet service? We have a heated garage, convenient for winter months. We can escort you to your cottage, and then for your stay we have a shuttle service available as well.”

“Uh, sure.” I drop my Mazda fob on the counter and pick up the small black velvet envelope with two matte crimson key cards. Fancy, fancy.

“Have you stayed with us before or is this your first time?” she asks. She’s using a sort of fitness-instructor voice. Overenthusiastic, with an ever so slight undercurrent of condescension. She’s young, and I can tell that she’s performing her idea of adulthood, using this affectation in an attempt to appear professional. I used to do it, too. You never feel old enough, until the day you don’t feel young enough.

“First time,” I say.

“We’re so glad to have you! I’m delighted to tell you about our amenities….” She chatters on about the spa, the wellness center; about snowshoe rentals, snow tubing, ice-skating, cross-country skiing. She takes out a pamphlet, then proceeds to read me the entire pamphlet. She talks about how the Finger Lakes region rivals Napa when it comes to wine. She lists every restaurant and store on Main Street.

“Matthew will take you to your cottage,” she says, gesturing to the porter, who hovers at my back. “Please let us know if you need anything. Thank you for choosing the Waterfront Collective. We do hope you enjoy your stay!”

“Ready?” Matthew asks me. Something about how he says it gives me the impression that he’s annoyed with me. Completely uninterested in my existence. Or maybe he’s perfectly pleasant, but Mary Beth was so bubbly and saccharine that he seems stoic in comparison. I don’t know. He’s not looking at me.

It pinches a little, that no one really looks at me anymore. Not like they used to.

“Ma’am?”

“Sorry. I’m ready.” I give a thumbs-up for some reason. He grabs my fob off the counter and then opens the lobby door for me. I realize this isn’t an act of chivalry, that I’m probably expected to tip him. I hope I have cash.

I follow him out to my car, where he opens the passenger-side door and gestures to me.

“Oh. Um, okay,” I mutter to myself, climbing in.

He gets in on the driver’s side, adjusts the seat.

He pulls onto a gravel drive behind the main mansion.

“I have a friend meeting me here. She’s taking a car service from Syracuse. Is there…” As he waits for me to finish my question, I begin to feel like it’s a stupid one. “…transportation for her? Should I direct her to the cottage or…?”

“She can check in at the desk. The shuttle will take her to you,” he says, making a left onto a dirt road. Tucked back in the trees, there’s a contemporary cottage, white, with a red arched door. It’s tall, two stories, and oddly narrow. All windows at the front. A stone chimney rises up off the steeply pitched roof.

Matthew puts the car in park and makes quick work of getting my suitcase out of the trunk. I grab my bag, Joel’s mystery gift, the key cards.

The ground here is hard and crunchy, winter frozen. The trees sway, and it really does sound like the woods are whispering.

Matthew drags my suitcase up to the cottage door.

“Thanks,” I say when we reach it. “I can take it from here.”

I fumble around in my bag for my wallet, then gracelessly search for an appropriate bill. I give him a five.

“Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your weekend,” he says. Doesn’t sound like he means it. He bows slightly before getting back into my car and driving it away. Hopefully to that heated garage. It’s a seven-year-old Mazda, though, nothing worth taking for a joyride.

I burrow inside my coat and take a moment to look around, wonder how close the nearest cottage is. Who’s inside it, what they’re doing, and if they’re doing it in matching plaid onesies. It’s too cold to continue to stand here speculating.

Blowing into my hands, I admire the view of the lake—the water dark and eerily still. The sun has gone pale as it sinks behind the trees, steeping the horizon in a tawny haze.

Shivering, I turn around, slip one of the key cards out of the velvet envelope, and tap it on the scanner. There’s a faint click, and I twist the knob, open the door. I’m greeted by an aggressive woody scent and a soft wave of light. I grab my suitcase and step inside, letting the door shut itself behind me with a heavy thunk.

It’s tricky to figure out how I feel about the space because I’m too busy anticipating what Naomi will think of it. What she’ll make fun of or comment on.

It’s small but open. To the right there’s a floating staircase that leads up to a loft. To the left is the fireplace, rustic white stone. There’s a leather couch in front of it, covered partially by a chunky knit throw blanket. There’s a modern kitchenette in the corner, a basket of apples on the counter. A café table and chairs. Under the staircase are two doors. One to a surprisingly spacious bathroom, all white marble and glass, with a double vanity, a waterfall shower, and a freestanding tub. It smells of fresh linen. There are fuzzy towels, and two luxe robes that I know Naomi and I will end up in.

The other door leads to a bedroom. There’s a four-poster bed and a midcentury dresser, some funky wallpaper to make it a little less West Elm. The lone window is covered with heavy curtains. I pull them back to check out the view. The lake is there, obscured only partially by the trees. This will be Naomi’s room.

I lug my suitcase up the stairs to the loft. There’s a daybed; a nightstand with a twin-bell alarm clock; one of those flat TVs that can look like pieces of art, only it’s on a stand, not mounted, so the jig is up. The ceiling is vaulted, which helps it not to feel too top bunk, too cramped. Especially with the windows. At the back and the front, just walls of glass. Through them the trees, the lake. It’s a stunning view. But I don’t get any curtains, so I guess I’ll be up with the sun.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. I take a breath, shimmy it free from my jeans. A message from Naomi. Be there soon!!! Don’t have any fun without me. Seriously. Not even a little.

Wouldn’t dream of it , I reply.

“Soon” is a vague term in Naomi-speak. Could mean ten minutes, could mean an hour.

I hate not knowing how much time I have to kill.

I use the bathroom, wash my hands, sample the complimentary lotion. It smells too strong, too floral. I attempt to wash it off, rigorously soaping my hands, running the water hot, despite knowing I’m stripping my skin of its natural oils, which I’ve read in numerous articles is very bad and will age me faster. Women’s hands are the tell. There are no fillers, no lifts for withered, veiny witch hands. At least not that I know of. Not yet.

I take a quick glance in the mirror. There are bags under my eyes that I need an ice cube and concealer to correct. I take my hair down and put it back up, smoothing some flyaways that pop right back out. It’s exhausting to care this much.

I slog back upstairs to my suitcase, get out my cosmetics bag, which is the size and weight of a concrete block. I take it into the bathroom and get to work. I put on a podcast about Chernobyl while I primp, because there’s nothing like hearing the grisly details of acute radiation syndrome while staring at your own face to really put things in perspective.

I know Naomi doesn’t care what I look like, that she’ll just be happy to see me. She’s also high on something half the time, so everything and everyone is beautiful to her. But still, it feels necessary that I do this, that I attempt to put myself together. Otherwise I’ll be too preoccupied for any chance of a good time.

It’s moisturizer, foundation, concealer, blush, highlighter, mascara. Lipstick.

But lipstick is never just lipstick. It’s a sort of soul-preserving lie, like putting on armor before battle. You can die wearing armor, but you’ll feel better about your chances. Confident on the front lines before the arrows fly.

I go for my most expensive tube, a splurge purchase from a designer more famous for couture than for makeup. I read online that it’s the best there is, that it has a cult following, which made me sad but also made me buy it. It is pretty. A satin-finish crimson red. The shade is Killer.

“Sure,” I say to myself, and blot with a tissue. “Sure.”

Then I rewind the podcast thirty seconds in case I missed something crucial about the rupture of the reactor core.

I wonder if anyone living near the plant had any inkling of doubt. If, as they passed under the shadows of the smokestacks, they’d ever considered the worst-case scenario. I think I would have, but who knows?

Besides, anticipating the worst-case scenario doesn’t prepare you for the worst-case scenario. Just gives you the opportunity to be smug in the face of disaster.