Last Stay

VI. A Voice from Beyond

After a relatively quick search of Google Maps, I'm able to narrow down my results to eight possible hotels. Each has at least one Starbucks within walking distance, and all have views of the river. I print out a list and head downstairs. In the laundry room, I slide into a pair of jeans, throw on a white V-neck, then grab my black coat from the front closet.

On my way out the door, I remember my sunglasses on the table in front of the kitchen counter. Just before picking them up, my eyes are drawn to the wilting, yellow tulips in the crystal vase; Angela bought those the day before she didn't come home.

Maybe I should buy a replacement bunch later since I did such a shit job of taking care of these ones. Angela prefers yellow tulips, but as long as they're tulips, she'll be happy.

I grab my Aviators, leave the apartment and take the stairs down to the parking garage. As I walk towards my black Camaro, the door to the stairwell slams shut, sending a thunderous sound through the parking garage. I jump a little and shake my head, remembering that the door still needs to be fixed.

Maybe I should email management about that again when I come back.

My footsteps echo off the concrete walls until I stop just inside yellow lines of my parking stall. I pull the car cover off, revealing white, racing stripes on the hood and trunk as specks of dust dance in the air.

Once I finish putting the folded cover into its bag, I hop in, click my seat belt in place and pause as the scent of oranges wrapped in roses drifts into my lungs.

If I close my eyes, I'd swear she's sitting right beside me. Her smile warms my soul like the summer sun while she waits for me to drive us off to a place hidden from the city's prying eyes—a place where we can be us with rocks, trees and hills as our only witnesses. My heart sinks as I glance over to the empty seat to my right.

Please let me find you; I just want to bring you home.

My thumb finds the ignition button, and the engine roars to life.

***

The downtown hotels are the closest ones, so I set a course for the heart of the city. But as I reach the East Side, I remember why I always walk to work: parking is a nightmare. Cars fill every available spot that I can see.

Hopefully, the sidewalks are ploughed, or this could get very interesting.

When I pull up near the first Starbucks, all I can do is shake my head. It seems I've unfortunately beaten the sidewalk cleaners and now have to figure out how I'm going to get inside. I guess having a drive-through in downtown was too much to ask for.

I put some music on and circle the block as I go over the plan. Each purchase I make should theoretically give me a different Starbucks transaction in my online banking. And if that Starbucks matches the one bought on Angela's card earlier, then the hotel she's staying at should be close by.

After rounding the block, a strange feeling washes over me. The temperature in the car is comfortable, but I'm shivering under my coat. I crank the heat up, put my hand over each of the vents and feel warm air coming out. But my breath is still frosting like a smoky cloud when I exhale—instantly, my mind goes back to last night in Angela's living room.

That's what this feels like. It's that same bitter cold.

I jerk my head to the right, feeling something scorching-hot breathing down my neck. Suddenly, the cold begins to melt away, and the air blowing out of the vents feels like an inferno. I quickly press the blue dial until the air feels colder and crack open my window to speed up the process.

A sharp pain shoots through my body from the place where I felt the burning breath. I wince as my shaky fingers brush my neck. Immediately, I pull the collar of my shirt away and remove my sunglasses to have a better look at the spot in the rear-view mirror.

My eyes grow wide as I see the same white powdery patches of skin with black cracks on my neck. My breathing becomes shallow as beads of sweat roll down my back. But in seconds, the marks vanish right before my eyes. Hesitantly, I touch the spot again and feel no pain; I exhale before sinking back into my seat as my heart hammering slows down.

Just breathe and try to relax. Everything's okay. I'm just tired and stressed about Angela.

And after taking a few deep breaths, I turn my attention to what's happening outside. Unfortunately, there's no sign of anyone with a shovel or snowplough, so I decide to drive to the hotel close to this Starbucks, not knowing what I expect to find there.

Roughly three minutes later, I'm parked across the street from a tall brown-brick building. It's one of the older hotels in the city, which is probably why it's so close to the river in this part of town.

According to my phone, it's a nice hotel, if the pictures online are anything to judge by. The inside looks modern and features lots of white walls, exposed brick and unusual light fixtures, which is quite the contrast from its austere exterior.

Since the sidewalks are cleared, I figure I might as well go inside and have a look around in person. As I reach for the door handle, a low, raspy voice whispers, "She's not here."

I whip my head to the side but see nothing beside me and no one in the back seat. Suddenly, it feels like a block of ice is running down my spine. I immediately open the door, jump out, slam it shut and hurry away from the car.

Part of me wants to look back, but the other part is afraid I might see something. So I hold my head straight and keep walking until I reach the glass barrier that overlooks the river.

I brush some snow off the railing while staring out at the mirror-still waters which reflect the jaded clouds overhead. The whole city seems to be cast in a greyscale kind of light. It's like all the colour has been burned out of the world. I close my eyes and breathe in the colder air coming off the steel coloured river.

Sometimes, on Sunday mornings, we would go for walks along the path near these stony banks; the city is still mostly asleep at that hour. There are no sirens or horns to be heard, only the sound of water lapping at the shore. It's so peaceful that we dared not speak above a whisper as we strolled along, holding hands, taking it all in.

But the hum of traffic ripping through the air breaks my trance. Those memories force a lament soaked sigh from my lips. I turn my attention from the river and over to the charming stone bright to my right.

A woman is standing below one of the lamp poles, wearing a dark blue coat with a matching toque. The gentle breeze rustles her long, black hair as she looks over the side of the bridge. I can scarcely believe my eyes.

"Angela."