Chapter 37
There was a traffic jam in front of the kids’ elementary school during morning drop-off, so one of the supervising teachers approached the minivan in front of Willa and spoke to the driver through the window. Though Charlie and James were bickering in the backseat about the location of the library, Willa thought she could still make out what the teacher was saying.
“Do you want to drop your child off here, at the curb, instead of waiting until you get to the door?”
The teacher listened to the response. Then he smiled and put his hand on his heart. “That is so sweet. Of course you can wait. You want to keep him with you as long as possible. Helps you get through the day.”
Willa almost laughed out loud, since she herself was wishing she could immediately press an “eject” button in her car and launch her children into the sky.
To help her get through the day.
They were currently in a wrestling death-match, held back by their seatbelts, over what appeared to be a used plastic fork. Willa pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Stop fighting,” she said, mechanically. “Seriously. Why do you even have to talk to each other?”
They didn’t seem to hear her. She reached into the center console and pulled out a pair of earplugs.
“Don’t forget that I’m going out of town. Daddy will pick you up from school,” Willa said to the steering wheel. “Have a wonderful day. I love you.”
They clambered out of the car, a mess of skinny limbs and backpacks and water bottles, and James took off for the building. Charlie paused a moment, looked both ways, then leaned in to the car and mouthed: “I love you, too.”
Willa put her hand on her own heart, in spite of herself.
And then, she was free. Free to drive alone to the MARTA parking lot (ahh); free to ride the train to the airport by herself (ahh); free to check in for her flight without her children unhooking the retractable belt barrier that kept lines orderly, then letting it violently snap into the opposing post (ahh); free to buy a magazine and a bottle of water and a bag of Sour Patch Kids and settle in to her seat at the terminal (ahh); free to board her plane without holding six bags, two hands, 10 snacks, and her bladder (ahh?); free to read said magazine in utter peace, listen to soothing Tibetan singing bowls in her earbuds, and drink a mini screw-top bottle of white wine that paired excellently with said Sour Patch Kids (ahh).
The person next to her looked pissed off at the limited leg room and a tray table that wouldn’t stay up. But for Willa, traveling without small children was akin to the bubble-bath portion of those “Calgon, take me away” commercials in the 1980s.
Even the long line at the car-rental kiosk in Burlington couldn’t wipe the beatific smile off Willa’s face. Nor the construction delay on 89 South; she just cued up the included Sirius radio and enjoyed a prank call on the Howard Stern Show.
“I’m here to check in,” Willa said at the front desk of Topnotch Resort in Stowe.
“Wonderful,” the receptionist said, handing Willa the key card. “Your roommate is already here.”
Wait. Roommate?
That’s when her smile fell. Her whole life was spent with “roommates,” human and canine. She’d been looking forward to burying herself under downy blankets in her ugliest underwear, watching a stupid and overpriced pay-per-view movie while eating fries from room service and maybe later spending some wonderfully uninterrupted time on the toilet.
Willa stood up straight and resolved to restore her earlier mood. This wouldn’t be so bad, she decided. They’d each have their own beds, obviously, and plenty of space and time to themselves. Maybe her roommate would be really, really cool.
She ran her card in front of the room’s door sensor and pulled. The safety bolt was on.
“Hello?” Willa inquired.
“Hello?” came a squeaky voice.
“Um, hey, this is Willa,” she said. “I’m sharing a room with you this weekend.”
“Ohhhh, OK,” the voice said. “I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have a roommate.”
You and me both, sister.
“Here, come on in,” the voice said as she flipped the lock back and opened the door.
The room was chaos. It was as if this woman’s enormous suitcase had thrown up all over both beds, the bureau, and a chair by the window. A half-eaten apple was browning on a bedside table. There was something black floating in a cloudy glass of … water? A quarter-sized pot of royal-blue glitter was overturned on the carpet.
Glitter? Glitter?! Oh, hell no.
Seeing the look of terror in Willa’s eyes, the woman said. “Oh, hey, sorry for the mess. I’ll move my stuff off your bed.” She extended her hand: “My name is Axel.”
“Like the guy from Guns ‘N’ Roses?” Willa asked.
“Who? No, my parents just thought the name sounded cool,” she said, sweeping her clothes and a dirty pair of shoes off of what Willa presumed would be her bed. “They’re probably the same age as you.”
Willa was screaming inside her head.
“Well, I’m just going to get settled,” Willa said. “I guess we have to be downstairs for the ‘guided visualization with Shaman Jeff’ in about a half-hour.”
She opened the closet. Every hanger was taken. OK, maybe she wouldn’t unpack just yet.
“Where are you from?” Axel asked, turning off the TV and hopping up onto her bed, disturbing a confusingly large pile of lacy underwear. She had bright green eyes and long, straight, red hair in two high pigtails. Her arms were thin but very muscular, as were her abs, which were showing between a loose cropped tank and minuscule yoga shorts. Willa almost felt compelled to look away when Axel shifted to sit criss-cross-applesauce.
“Atlanta,” Willa said, straightening out her comforter and picking up some stray crumbs.
Axel pointed to her chest. “I’m the Studio Manager in Newport, Rhode Island.”
“Nice,” Willa said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Axel said, twirling one of her pigtails. “I grew up there, so I’m sick of it. I’m kind of hoping I can get Tara and Dee to move me to another studio.”
“Huh,” Willa said, examining her pillow case for any shiny specks of blue. She knew from experience that if glitter got on your face, it was murder to remove it.
“I was actually thinking about Atlanta,” Axel said, stretching her foot behind her head. “I hear you have good modeling agencies. And then there’s the movie industry. I’m an actor, if you hadn’t guessed. Classically trained.”
Oh, good Lord.
“You guys call it ‘Hotlanta,’ right?” Axel asked, stretching her other foot behind her head.
“No,” Willa said.
She could feel anxiety trying to break into her brain like a burglar at a window in a home-alarm ad. She checked her watch — 15 minutes until Shaman Jeff — and grabbed her hotel key and phone.
“I’m gonna head down,” Willa called over her shoulder in as friendly a tone as she could muster. “See you there.”
Axel called out after her: “Later, William!”