Night Auditor

Meredith (7)

Hacienda ni Lola was an eyesore in Lagro's microscopic world of abandoned strip malls and foreclosed family homes. The estate, which looked like it had up to five floors judging by the old-school windows in desperate need of repainting, nestled on a flat patch of greenery about a quarter mile away from its secluded entrance. White porch lined with vining ivy entombed the estate, and a small sign that said Hacienda ni Lola stood erect by the steps leading up to the mahogany doors. I'd never seen such a beautiful hotel, though it felt more like a bed-and-breakfast than anything else.

"I'm the only housekeeper right now," said Amy, with me following behind her, as we walked up to the enormous double-doors. "We don't get lots of guests here and like I said, it's mostly Damas fanatics that come here anyway. There's just one other guest here now but other than that, the hotel is mostly empty. Usually how it is."

Georgian houses were the first thing that came to mind when I stepped foot in the spacious hotel lobby of Hacienda. Maroon carpets, similar to the likes I would see in my grandma's house or Ocala's Cracker Barrel's gift shop, laid on top of shiny walnut flooring. Antique but well-kept furniture was neatly situated in the living room to the right. Golden chandeliers adorned the spotless face of the ceiling. In the midst of it all was a while marble counter paired with a five foot fiddle leaf tree. Behind it was a man, probably in his late 50's, offering his most welcoming smile before he said, "Welcome to Hacienda, miss."

A quick introduction between I, the single newcomer who apparently had too much time in my hands for an unplanned vacation, and Richard, the front desk clerk, who also had too much time in his hands after retirement.

"There ain't too many pretty jobs to choose from around here," he said as he applied the discount code to my walk-in reservation (thanks to my new friend Amy) then keyed in the information from my driver's license. "Either this or spend the day at the Denny's."

Amy, with her family still waiting in the car outside of the Hacienda, quickly bid her goodbye and let me know she was scheduled to work that evening at which point they could hang out again, that was if I didn't change my mind about staying in town. I agreed and genuinely looked forward to possibly seeing Amy again in a few hours, then watched Amy struggle to lift the heavy double-doors on her way out.

Lagro was my refuge for the next two days. Like the bright lights of the Busy Bee in the middle of I-10's dark stretch. For the first time on this road trip, I felt like I was on vacation. My sleeps were satisfying-- long and uninterrupted, my dreams were mostly of my lazy nights with Billy back in Clovis. In the peace of it all, not once did I space out. No auto mode, not even for a few minutes. Each waking moment (and sleeping moment!) was accounted for. I remembered the hours of parching heat I spent at Lagro Springs the next day, and I remembered chatting with Amy that night, learning about what it was like for her to grow up in a small space with her four sisters, and now living in a small trailer with her two children and a boyfriend who was often gone to work in Papua New Guinea.

Most important of all, I hadn't seen Billy the past two nights I slept in one of the hotel's quaint rooms on the first floor (I repeatedly refused to stay in one of the suites Richard and Amy offered for the same rate). I could barely remember the first time I started cocooning myself in bed sheets and pillows, but I remembered the terror I felt for each night I did. Sometimes I would close my eyelids shut and so tight that I would start seeing red spots in the darkness I was hiding in. Sometimes I would tremble to almost a seizure, my body reflexively reacting from whatever horrors my mind was imagining.

But I was sure I wasn't imagining the waking nightmares, at least not most of it. In the minutes leading up to my surrendering sleep, I would see Billy watching me, sometimes from the farthest corner of the room I slept in, sometimes sitting on the floor next to my bed as he'd watch over me, his head poking from under, or sometimes hovering only inches above my trembling body. It didn't matter at all which spot Billy would decide to observe me that night for it was all just the same. Billy, with his wavy brunette hair that gave away strands of white hair on a given angle, would simply gaze at me. The irises in his eyes, gray and gleaming in life, were pale and dreary in death. Color would be absent from his face and skin with only the vapid undertones to demind me, always so scared of this version of Billy, that my husband was on the other side where there was no warmth.

Here in Lagro, Billy wasn't a walking ghost of a nightmare. He was just Billy, with his wavy brunette hair yet to be tarnished by graying strands of hair, his cheeks flushed pink from the sunburn thanks to Florida heat, and his eyes silver and sparkling like it did when he was alive. I still couldn't talk to my husband, and I still couldn't touch him and feel if his skin was as warm as it looked sometimes. But this was much better than the other version of him. The one that unspokenly envied the life I continued to have, the one that gave up from wondering why, of the billions of people that lived, why he was chosen to involuntarily cut his young life short and watch his wife like a boring TV show.

Now, in this sunny utopia of a Tuesday afternoon, I relaxed on the hammock suspended between two acacia trees in the rear of the hotel, quietly watching Billy, the dreamy version of Billy, also watching me back from the trees further ahead. I didn't feel scared about knowing my late husband was watching me now, nor did I feel intimidated reciprocating his observing eyes. If anything, the tacitness of it all felt like a conversation between us. Like when Billy and I exchanged dirty looks at his cousin's wedding, and like the time we went to dinner with his crooked boss and his Karen of a wife. Decade-long relationships allowed for this shared skill which would come in handy more often than not.