5. Gavin-1
906 Words
GavinI wake up a hundred times, and fall back asleep a hundred more. Each time, hovering in half-wakefulness, I see her. Raven hair draped over me like a blanket, crimson lips curled in a secret half-smile. My last night. The woman whose name I still don’t know.
Each time, I drift back off.
Until one time I extend my arm into nothingness.
Cold. The spot on the mattress where she lay is cold. She’s gone.
I stretch, sit up, listen. For the sound of the faucet, footsteps, anything. But the motel room is as silent as a tomb.
The bathroom door is closed. No light is coming out the bottom.
I get up and open it, stare into the dingy, untouched-looking box. There’s no sign of her. Not a trace. It’s as if she never existed at all.
Back in the room, everything else is similarly untouched: the leaning hulk of the cabinet, the somber sunset painting that looks more like an ode to pollution than anything. Even the front door mat is parallel to the door, not askew in the slightest.
No, there’s no denying it. She’s gone, and I may never see her again.
I fling open the door and storm outside.
A woman further down the balcony takes another drag of her cigarette, while her open robe trembles in the breeze.
Shit, I love my life, but sometimes….
I get out my phone and remember. I can’t text Hannah.
She’s not going to be answering me anytime soon.
Still, my fingers dial her number before my brain can think better of it.
The hopeless rings echo down the balcony hallway.
It’s just been a week. A week since that horrible omen of a text and no sign of her.
I jam my phone to silent, shove it in my back pocket. I can’t take any more of it, any more of those mocking rings.
Leaning on the balcony railing, I stare out into the highway wasteland before me, everything in a gray, molasses-like motion. A waft of smoke from the woman further down the balcony throws a tempting finger in my face.
I shake my head to get rid of the smell.
No. No way. I quit smoking a year ago for Hannah, and I’m not about to start up again now.
I go back inside.
On the bed, staring at the wall, I inhale, then exhale. There.
I’m fine now. I won’t go back there, to my twenties, all of it a haze of girls, money and drugs. After Mom died, I almost went over the edge.
No, there’s no going back.
I get out my phone, then put it away again.
Hannah was the one who got me out of those dark days, the only reason I’m still here today.
I see her at the edge of the bed now, her eyes wide with the solemnity of her words, “You can’t keep doing this, Gav. You’ll die and I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
“I don’t know what to do without you, Hannah,” I murmur to myself.
I get out my phone again, call Pip.
“Hey Boss,” he says in that strange high-pitched shrill I can never believe belongs to the bulky beast of a man.
Most people look at me like I’m on crack when I tell them he’s the tech guy and Jaws is the hit guy.
“Hey Pip. Can you run another scan on Hannah’s phone?”
“Sure thing,” he says, “Just a sec.”
His “sec” is actually a few minutes of heart-pounding waiting before he says, “Sorry.”
While the last of my hope works its way out of me, burrowing out my toes into the orange shag I’m standing on, Pip continues, “Same as before, Boss. Her phone’s still off. I can’t get any sort of trace on it.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” I say, my hand lifting the phone away from my ear, my thumb reaching to the screen, ready to hang up.
But I don’t and neither does he.
For some reason, I can’t bear the thought of hanging up and facing this dismal room and this Hannah-less world alone.
“Hey Boss?” Pip says after a minute.
“Yeah?”
“What about her friends, her boyfriend, her neighbors?”
I stare into the gloom. I don’t want to admit it. That I’ve avoided asking around, checking in. Because then it means the crisis is real.
“I can help,” Pip continues, “But today you have a meeting with Jaws.”
“Right, thanks Pip. I almost forgot. Tell him I’ll be at the usual place in thirty minutes.”
“Ok,” he says, and I hang up.
It doesn’t take long for me to pack up my things. Coming in last night, I barely had time to put my bag down, let alone put my stuff anywhere.
I brush my teeth, sweeping the vibrating bristles over my top teeth for 100 seconds, then my bottom for 100 more. Just like Momma taught me.
Momma.
My reflection in the mirror sags.
It’s been almost four years and still, most times it returns to me as a hit to the gut.
Now it’s even worse.
“Always take care of your sister, Gav my boy. Protect her.” Those were her last words to me. Not “I love you,” because I knew that already, not even “Be careful” because she knew me too well. No, my mom used her last words for what was most important: family.
What would she say now that Hannah is all but confirmed missing?
When I lean over the bedside table to pick up my wallet I see it. Tucked behind my wallet. A note. A phone number.
416-747-1111.
My hand grasps it, and a smile slinks onto my face.
No f*****g way.
But there’s no other explanation. It has to be hers.
I tuck both in my back pocket. Maybe it’s just me, but the room looks a little lighter now.
- Writer
