Page 23 of Gone Before Goodbye
Maggie turns on the showerheads, all of them, full blast. She steps into the middle and lets the sprays blast away at her skin from every direction. The water pressure is excellent, almost piercing her skin. She doesn’t want to move. She thinks back to her time overseas, how she’d yearn for a hot shower, how she realized that one of life’s greatest and most unappreciated luxuries was a hot shower. If you think about it, no human on planet Earth had even experienced a hot shower until, what, a hundred years ago maybe? She once googled it—because that’s how her brain works—and hot showers were not common until the 1970s.
“Enjoy the smaller moments,” her father had often told her. “That’s where life is lived.”
So she does—at least for right now. After some time passes, when she realizes that she must regretfully turn off the sprays and step out of her black-stoned cocoon, there are plush Frette robes and thick towels. The hotel phone rings, a gentle gong, letting guests know that there is an incoming call but not wanting to disturb their serenity.Maggie answers. The voice on the other end of the line probably does voice-overs for hypnosis apps. The voice asks what food or beverage she “craves” for breakfast, promising an arrival in five minutes.
“Coffee,” she says. “Black. Strong.”
“The Florentine omelet is a specialty.”
Maggie passes. Just the coffee.
Her mobile phone jangles in the stillness. It’s Porkchop. She answers on speakerphone.
“Good morning,” she says in a quiet voice.
“Why are you whispering?” he asks.
“Something about this room is making me stay quiet.”
“You quiet? Must be a miracle room.”
“Are you being a wiseass?”
“Just a little.” Then he adds, “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
He waits.
She sighs. “It was just a lot, you know.”
“I do.”
“I wasn’t really prepared for that.”
“That’s on me.”
“No, it’s not,” she says.
“Everyone was happy to see you.”
“I know I sort of zoned out.”
“You did, yeah.”
“I hope I wasn’t rude.”
“You’re family—no such thing as rude,” Porkchop says. “How are you feeling now?”
“Pretty hungover.”
“Same.”
“Wait, you?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be, Mags.”
Pinky had been the designated biker. He drove her back last night.She feels weird about having too much to drink, but again, her issue had been pills, not booze, and boy, that sounds like a pathetic loophole. So did the idea that she had “issues” with pills and not an “addiction.” She had stopped taking them cold after the… What does she call it? Incident? Accident? Catastrophe? Could she have done that—stopped the pills cold—if it had been a real addiction? She doubts it, but does it matter? The damage was done.
