Montana Motel Blues #2

She awoke in the middle of the night in panic. Startled by something she couldn’t exactly pinpoint at that moment. Her heart beating fast. Like it was about to jump out of her chest. She sat down in the bed. Her head resting on the fake mahogany headboard. She placed the sweaty palm of her right hand firmly over her chest. That seemed to calm her down a little. She was sweating as much from whatever had suddenly awoken her from her sleep as from the A/C she had left turned on to medium hot before going to bed. She pulled back the cheap fabric comforter and sat in silence looking at her chipped red toenails. She thought to herself, how can her head be of a sound mind if she doesn’t take care of her body first. She had a notion of painting her toenails a different bright shade of red but decided she was too jumpy to attempt such a task. She stood up from the bed and took a deep breath, curling her toenails in the Scottish plaid carpet. She looked at the drawn caramel pinstriped drapes and at the subtle sign of neon light emanating from the motel sign outside her room by the small gap between the two drapes. She went to the powder room adjacent to the bathroom and turned the cold water faucet on. She listened to the sound of the running water hitting the marble sink and looked closely in the mirror at herself. “What are you doing here”, she asked herself out loud in a heavy mid-western accent and starred at herself in the mirror looking for an answer from the other side of the mirror. She poured a splash of cold water in her face saying “Wake up” to herself in the mirror. She went and switched off the A/C completely and sat in the brown leather recliner curling her legs in a lotus position. She looked at the sun-bleached color photos of some tropical beach mounted above the double bed. She wondered what was the idea behind having those photos framed in a motel room in the middle of winter in Montana. She became intrigued by it. Maybe they were vacation souvenirs from the motel owners. But then she remembered the owners being a family from India. Or maybe they just bought the motel from some wholesome American old couple who had decided to retire from their family business and sell the motel. Maybe they had no other family heirs or their kids didn’t want any part of the business anyway. Maybe the old couple decided it was time to start living after giving so much of their life to keep the motel running. Maybe they took the money from the motel sale without telling their kids and moved to some tropical paradise for their twilight years. She began to picture this old couple, grey hairs, sitting on beach lounge chairs, sipping Mai Tais, watching the sunset together. Maybe the photos were a way for them to leave their imprint on this place. They worked so hard for this dream of theirs. Maybe they thought it would also serve as an inspiration for somebody one day at the end of their rope in the middle of another Montana winter. She began to cry. But she would not let the tears roll down her face. She jumped off the recliner and began to pack. The sun had begun to peek just slightly through the drapes. She opened them up to let the rising sun start filling the room. Outside, the Mexican cleaning ladies were ready to start another workday. Each with their own cleaning cart full of cleaning supplies, toilet paper, clean towels, mint sugar drops for the pillows. The kidney-shaped swimming pool was still covered with the polyethylene winter pool cover. She exited the room carrying a black 4-wheeled travel bag, her skirt hiked up, wearing high heeled sandals showing her toenails freshly painted with a bright red nail polish. She put her bag in the trunk of her red 2006 Chevy Monte Carlo parked outside, closed the trunk and went inside the room. She came out of the room with a black cloth Walton duffle bag and carrying a picture frame under her left arm. She left the duffle bag on top of the custom logo welcome mat outside the motel room door and got into her car. Leaving the motel parking lot her mood started shifting. She stopped just before leaving the motel behind. She looked at one of the framed photos from the motel room resting in the passenger seat. She looked in the rear view and saw the Mexican cleaning ladies fake modeling some of the clothes they found in the duffle bag for one another and sharing them amongst themselves. She began to smile. She looked right and left before leaving the motel. The road was clear. She pressed on the gas. And never looked back.