Baby Jane

There is a peculiar orange stain on the wall near the window that I have been staring at since Mom left. It is either orange soda, or, it is the last remaining fragment of the paint that was previously on the walls. Before it got covered over with the slate gray it is today. It would make sense that in the 1950’s a clementine color would have been the selection. They wanted to go with something bright but unique, none of that mossy green, cloudy blue or powder pink that the other motels. The Dunes would have chosen the orange, orange like a goldfish cracker out of it’s box. I could really go for a goldfish cracker at this point. Save it, actually, I could go for any kind of cracker. An off brand saltine would even do. 

There is a solution to the question of the stain that I thought of earlier but have been up until this point too lazy to try. The lone naked patio chair on the terrace is pushed up into the glass door by the wind. If I don’t grab it now, it could mean that the chair eventually will be joining us inside, broken glass and all. 

“It’s Sunkist.” I sigh to the invisible audience that comes to watch me in moments I am actually bored. 

The stain is sticky, old, but sticky. The familiar sweet scent of a saturated soda. I should wash my hands. 

Instead, I drag the rusted wet chair frame inside and set it against the wall so that it obstructs the stain. Someone is knocking on the door of the room next door. I can’t believe the hotel would even put two people next to each other. I guess it could be to save the cleaning crew some steps. Maybe it’s a new policy. They noticed things like the soda stains on the wall, the long black hairs in the bathroom sink and the cookie crumbs on the carpet. Or the bouquet of flowers stationed next to the television. Real, but long past their prime and practically rotting. 

My book has been perpetually stuck on page 315. I have read for ages and never crept beyond this page. 

The knocking isn’t stopping, in fact it is getting more aggressive.

“Sweetheart, let me in.” my mom calls. 

Getting the safety lock off is hard, it keeps sticking when I try to slide it. Mom is standing outside the room next door. Her arms are filled. 

“Come on in.” I say and she walks past me. We are the kind of people who lose our cars in parking garages. We are the kind of people who keep the word “left, left, left” in our head and end up turning right. The worst part is, we are quite confident in the middle of our misdirection. 

“That’s so weird, she says, “We are room 314 right? I thought.” 

The little worn envelope with the cheap plastic card reads otherwise. She shakes her head at it, disbelieving. 

“What did you find?” I ask. 

The bed is littered with junk food that neither of us would ever eat. Candy bars with weird names like “nutrageous”. Tiny bags of chips in every color of the rainbow except the edible looking ones. 

“The stores are closed, the signal is down. And there are only two vending machines. I’m surprised we aren’t being ordered to evacuate.” she says. Then she sees something out of the corner of her eye, 

“Stupid cooler.” 

It has leaked the last remnants of melted ice onto the carpet. It’s not like we were not prepared. The cooler betrayed us and then the wind. We hadn’t even noticed everything blowing away until it was too late. 

According to my phone there are still some restaurants open for another half hour, but they are a hike and a half away. The sun going down here normally means a pink glow to the sky. Tonight there is not a hint of vibrancy in any of it. 

There is vibrancy to the candy wrappers. 

“I think after all of this, I’m just going to go to bed.” Mom says. 

Her hair is wet because even under the thickest umbrella and jacket hood, this rain is still there. It’s like swimming in a pool. 

“The pool.” I say, looking toward the window. 

The Dunes is falling apart under the weight of it’s new paint and competition from surrounding Airbnbs. However, it still has a luxurious heated pool. That is why we chose it. If I step onto the little terrace, I can see the pool. The glow of it’s lights glittering over the chemical saturated water. 

“I know sweetheart, but I’m sure we can get in there at least one of the days we are here.” 

She yawns and stretches. Takes off her coat and hugs me. 

Over the running water in the bathroom, I can hear something else aside from the weather. It is like someone is singing at the top of their lungs, far away. They can’t be in the hallway, so they must be in the parking lot. The tune is familiar, a children’s tune from an old movie maybe. There is a splash, which comes directly after the unmistakable cry of, 

“Cannonball.” 

The voice is scratchy, high pitched but somehow doesn’t sound anything like a kid. Past the terrace, down from our room at the pool are two older women in their bathing suits. The one who has just jumped in has in the process lost her dark curly wig, which is bobbing up and down in the water like a drowning animal. The one still out of the water has a ridiculously bright blonde synthetic wig on which is bobbed and curled in a way that makes her resemble an old doll. She is the source of the singing. 

When the party's getting a glow on

And singing fills the air

In the shank of the night

When the doings are right

You can tell 'em I'll be there…

She does a little dance and everything, spinning in circles. 

“What the hell is going on?” Mom asks, coming out of the bathroom in full bedtime mode. 

She joins me at the window and watches the women for a pause. 

“The one missing her wig jumped in the pool.” I fill her in with. 

“Why are they out there? Why do they both have sunglasses on? And my god, that lipstick.” she claws at my shoulder and pushes her face against the glass a little more. 

“Shhh, what if they hear you? The rain is letting up, your voice is going to carry.” I say softly. 

Mom jumps back from the window and mumbles under her breath about it being just what we need. She uses her arm to cast the mountain of junk food from her bed and onto the floor. 

“Hey, if you don’t eat your din din you can’t have any breakfast.” I tell her. 

“You’re right they do don’t they? They look like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford.” she says, starting to laugh. 

I turn back to the window to see that the singer has jumped in as well. Miraculously, her wig and sunglasses have stayed firmly put. 

“I’m going to tell them goodnight.”  

“Barbara, don’t you dare. Do not encourage them.” Mom says. 

She has the pillows propped up behind her head. If the weather tomorrow is anything like today, I don’t see what the rush is to go to bed. The only entertainment here is the beach. Later I will check the channel guides. If we are lucky, an old sitcom might run a marathon. 

“Please? It will make me happy.” I say. 

“Fine. But if they come up here looking to party, I’m sacrificing you.” 

“Deal.” I say, hand already pulling the door open. 

The two women are hand in hand next to the pool edge. The rain is no where near as bad as before but it is present. The one in the blonde wig has wrapped a pale blue scarf around her head and it is tied tightly under her chin. 

“How’s the water?” I yell down. 

“Water’s great, it’s the rain that’s the pain.” The wigless one responds back. Her saucer sized sunglasses gleam under the lights. 

The blonde one turns and smiles. The fake blonde hair is obscuring her mouth. Under that wig cannot be a real skull. Instead, there is a mountain of tentacles or a lime green skull underneath. A being who’s only training for mimicking humans has been watching Bette Davis act. 

I throw the leftover flowers to her. 

“These flowers are to die for, are these calla lilys?” she asks, lifting the wilted bouquet straight into her face. 

“Not sure. But, I liked your song. Anyway, goodnight.” I call

She waves cutely in the air. Laughing to myself and turning, the lingering wind makes sliding the door shut. 

“No matter the weather tomorrow I think we should go get ice cream cones and sit on the beach.” I say. 

“You’re lactose intolerant.” 

Mom pulls her sleep mask down and turns onto her side. 

This trip was supposed to be some kind of affirmation. Some kind of proof that everything will be okay. Every time something major in my life has fallen apart, we come to the island. This is the first time anything has not gone to plan. It feels cosy. I am used to it. And even through the dreary, I can find odd kindred spirits anywhere. Even if they are out of the past.