Life Of Dreams

Chapter 5

The taxi pulled up to the curb and the nurse attendant, Larry, dutifully wheeled me over and finagled the wheelchair close to the back door.

“Are you sure you know how to use those crutches?  Did you call the pharmacy for your pills?  You know those samples they give you will only last a few days.  Do you have anyone at home who can help you get around?”  The attendant seemed to have a rolodex in his mind, spitting out all instructions and cautions by rote, even though everything was written on the typed sheet of paper grasped in my hand.

“Yes, I practiced on them all yesterday afternoon and this morning.  My pharmacy delivers and they promised I’d get the pills tomorrow.  And I  have plenty of help when I get home.”  The last was a lie, but he’d never know.  My head was throbbing.  It was such an exertion to use those crutches, let alone get dressed and ready to leave.  But I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of me getting home.

Larry, confident that he had done all he needed to do, helped me scoot into the back seat along with my little suitcase and crutches.  I told the cab driver where I lived, smiled and waved goodbye to Larry and then leaned back.  Every bump, every turn caused a sharp pain in either my head or side.  I had to will myself not to get sick.

I had had to fight tooth and nail to be released this morning.  Dr. Kragar got so annoyed at me continually badgering him and the staff, that he finally relented, more to get rid of me than anything else.  He did make me promise to make an appointment to have my latest tests explained to me when he finally got the results back.  I dutifully made that appointment for two days out and that appeased him somewhat.  I was sick and tired of being prodded and poked and x-rayed and MRI’d along with white rooms and sour-faced nurses and perky nurses and everything else that I had had to endure these past several days.  I even lied about the extent and frequency of my headaches, I did everything I could think of to get that ticket out of there.   

In less than ten minutes, the taxi pulled onto the driveway of my townhouse.  The driver got out and helped me get onto my crutches and walked with me to the door.  Once I got the door opened, he put my suitcase inside, nodded to me, and then headed back to his cab.  I gingerly did the crutch-swing-foot thing over the threshold and entered my sanctuary.  As I turned off the alarm, I had a weird feeling.  I had expected the place to have that closed-in musty smell, after all, it’s been a week since my accident, and I hadn’t even taken out the trash.  But everything smelled fresh, as though everything had been washed and sanitized. 

I shuffled into my living room and found a fruit basket had been placed on my coffee table.  Reaching over, I pulled out a card from my co-workers, welcoming me home to a clean house along with the cleaner’s business card.  The place had never sparkled like this before and although I appreciated the gesture, I wish someone had talked to me about it first.  It was very disorienting; nothing seemed to be in its proper place.

My phone was blinking, an indication that I had voice mails.  I picked up the receiver, pushed the keys to hear my messages, put in my code and started to listen.  There were several from my co-workers, some solicitations and a few political messages, all of which I fast forwarded through.  Then there were several hang-ups and I paused the recordings to check the phone numbers, all indicated “unknown cell phone”.  Maybe Trent had tried to call me, all of the hang-ups must have been from him.

I found my back-up charger and plugged my cell phone in to juice it up.  I waited impatiently for ten minutes or so until I could check for any information left on the phone.  But it was devoid of all contacts and phone numbers.  There were also no voice mail messages, not even those that I had previously saved.  How could that have happened? 

Depressed and confused, I ripped through my desk, finally finding my small phone book which I could have sworn had been in my purse.  Flipping through, I found a piece of paper with a penciled phone number discreetly slipped in between the pages for the ‘T’s.  No name, just a number.  This must be the number Trent gave me, I can’t remember exactly when I put it here, but this has to be it.

I dialed the number with trembling hands, uttering a prayer “please let him be the one to answer”.  There were several clicks, a short ring, and then“Sorry the number you have dialed is no longer in service” came through.  I whimpered as I hung up the phone, how was I to get in contact with Trent?  How was I to explain the situation to him?

A full blown tap dance was going on in my head.  I dug into my purse and came out with the bottle containing the pain pills.  Ignoring the instructions to drink plenty of water, I downed them dry, grimacing at the powdery harsh taste it left in my mouth.

I needed comfort, I needed something to connect me with Trent.  The place to start had to be Casa del Susurros, maybe he had left a message.  I found the number and dialed.

“Hello, Casa del Susurros, Erica speaking.  How may I direct your call?”

“May I speak with Renaldo?  Is he on today?”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

“This is Carolyn Collins, I’m a frequent guest there.”

“Just one moment please.”

As I waited, I tried to figure out how I could ask my questions without sounding as though I didn’t have a brain in my head.  I heard a click.

“Ms Collins, how can I help you?”

“Renaldo? I know I should have been there this past weekend … “

He cut me short “If it’s about your room, you never called to confirm, so we gave it to someone else but there is a penalty fee.  I’m sorry …”

“No, no.  That’s all right.  I was in an accident and wasn’t able to get there.”  I heard him mumble a condescending apology.  Never did like the patronizing bastard.  Just because I wasn’t famous, he acted as though I wasn’t even there, no matter that I could afford the stay.  “But that’s not why I called.  Has anyone left me a note or message?”

“No, I don’t recall anyone leaving anything here for you.  But if someone had, and you didn’t stay with us, we would have notified you at your contact address.”

“Well, what about my companion that I was with the last time I was there?”

I heard fingers flick over a keyboard.  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have anyone listed as staying with you.”  A few more clicks.  “At least not since a year or so ago when a Mr. Gary ...”

“No, no.  Well, he wasn’t exactly with me, not in the same room.”

“If you met someone here, I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge anything about other guests.  We take their privacy very seriously.  You should know that very well considering how many times you’ve been here through the years.”

Yes, I had known that very well; Casa Del Susurros, the House of Whispers.  It was the main reason Trent and I met there in the first place.  “Well, no. I don’t want you to … I would just like to get in contact with someone who should also have been there this weekend.  Maybe cancelled at the last minute, or cut his stay short?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was almost deafening and I could just picture Renaldo’s skinny checks scrunched up and lips pursed.  “No, I’m sorry Ms. Collins but I don’t recall anything like that, and quite truthfully, would not disclose that information to anyone, including you.  Now is there anything else I could help you with?  Do you want to make another reservation?”

“No, no.  I’m sorry.  I’m just … thank you Renaldo.”  I hung up.  My frustration level was climbing.  I couldn’t catch a break.  No matter which way I turned, something was always blocking my way.