Because the Night

your little friend

"Huh," Annabelle said when she opened the door to their new room. 

Technically, "room" is an inaccurate description. There were many rooms in this palatial Presidential Suite. A living room with superfluous couches, a kitchen with granite galore, two bedrooms, two sinks. Surprise details, like heated floors, and a shower head with 16 settings. A high-up veranda that faced the lake. All in all, the suite was so glorious that a week in there, alone, could count as a vacation. 

"Huh, indeed," Lily said. Like her mom, she was speechless. But for different reasons. Lily was thinking of the fact that Diego had been in this room, not long before. All six feet, four inches of him had walked these floors, and decided that yes, it would be good enough for Lily. She wandered toward the bedrooms, and realized—he'd been here, too. She laid down on the bed. For research purposes, of course. 

Luckily, Annabelle had no idea that her daughter's mind had been wandering toward PG-13—no, make that R-rated inroads. While taking her shoes off in the foyer—yes, this suite had a foyer—she found herself in the middle of a long, winding, and important chat with herself. Sometimes such things conversations needed to happen.

 At least now this internal tug-of-war was happening in privacy, not like the time she knew she had to leave her ex-husband—that happened in the middle of a downpour in Times Square. Mark didn't offer her an umbrella. She had to dodge puddles as she decided on the course of her life. It's true, that women are good multi-taskers. Annabelle always was. She helped Lily with her homework as she signed her divorce papers. 

For this internal conversation, she lay down on the olive green, surprisingly plushy sofa, seated across from a fireplace. 

Was she still livid at Hotel Guy for staging a coup and stealing her daughter in the middle of the woods? Of course. She'd get her mother card revoked, if she wasn't. Was she shocked at her daughter, for being so uninterested in Annabelle's company that she decided to ditch? Yes—and a bit offended. Was she angry at herself, too, for not realizing Lily was gone, because she was so rapt in conversation with a stranger named Tex? Well, yes, if you had to know. She was.  

But now she was here. In this suite. And she couldn't deny that Hotel Guy had done something splendid, in pulling whatever strings were necessary to land her there. Her daughter was already on the second floor, humming. 

"I'll let you have the bedroom with the lake view," she said shouting down. "Because I am so nice and generous like that!"

"Mmmhm," Annabelle said. "You're only letting me have that one because you know I'd take it from you, anyway."

Lily shouted. "Colonizer!" 

"No," Annabelle said. "This is my reward for being old and responsible."

Old and responsible. Once, she had been young and responsible. She'd never been young like Lily, carefree, like her actions were dictated by breeze and whimsy. Annabelle's version of 23 was a different species than her daughter's. She was practically ancient at 23. Pinned down to her world by a baby, and a husband who whined more than the baby did. 

One day, she was a high schooler with a thick head of hair and a head full of dreams. And then—it happened so quickly she couldn't point out the exact transition—she became that sleep-deprived 23-year-old, with her hair falling out in clumps (it's a side-effect of pregnancy, people! look it up!) 

Today, she was 45. A few years ago, favorite afternoon TV host declared that 40 was the new 20 the day during her 40th birthday special. Karen was watching with her. "Isn't it time we start living?" she asked Annabelle, and that night, they split a bottle of wine eat spaghetti and meatballs with so much abandon they both stained their shirts. It was a start. But she still had hardly achieved "the new 20." 

But Lily was many experiences ahead of her in terms of "living," that much was clear in her two weeks home since graduation. Constantly acting like she was the heroine in a play. And yet, those rash actions landed them the best room in the resort. "Mom, there's a bathtub in here big enough for two people," she shouted. 

Whatever Lily was doing, whatever nonsense she was pulling—it seemed to be paying off spectacularly. 

Until that afternoon, really, Annabelle had always tried to do the right thing. She followed a life of check-marks—but ended up divorced, and ended up living in the back house of her best friend's estate. She tried to go on a vacation—but ended up transferred to a luxurious suite with multiple rooms and heated floors. 

Clearly, life did not go according to plan, for better or for worse. Well, if that's the case, Annabelle thought, wandering toward the bouquet of snacks on the marble counter in the kitchen. If that's the case, then she might as well do what she wanted.

She opened up the Sun Chips. The kind in the blue package. The one that she always took one or two chips out of, and then let Lily finish the rest. Today, she grabbed the entire package and walked up the spiral staircase to the upstairs, humming. 

Annabelle found Lily was unpacking her toiletries in the cabinet underneath one, of two, sinks. "You have to let me keep this one," she said, smiling at her mom. 

"I'll allow it," Annabelle said.

"So?" Lily asked, clearly looking for an answer. When Lily wanted something, her mouth fell open slightly. 

"Sooo?" Annabelle responded. 

Lily exhaled, and leaned on the sink. "Come on, Ma. What do you think?" 

"Your little friend really pulled it off," Annabelle said. "It is specular." 

Lily yipped, and led her to the Lakeview room, flinging open the bedroom doors.  "Another week of this!"

Yes, Annabelle thought. She could get used to this.