Alix Strauss - Based upon Availability

The Four Seasons Hotel

T oday is my dead sisters birthday. She would have been thirty-five.

I eye the clock, 11:20 a.m., and phone my mother with the intention of asking if shed like to have lunch at the hotel so she wont be alone. I barely got through Thanksgiving dinner at their house, and feel as though Ive ODd on my parents rather than turkey and stuffing, but Im desperate for her to share a Dale story, a memorable moment Ive forgotten. I wish we had the type of relationship where we could do that, console each other like war buddies, reach for a hand from across the table, while carefully maneuvering past our wineglasses. I could give her my napkin, watch her dry her eyes. She would pass it back, smile lightly, tell me how much she misses her first child, then add how thankful she is to have another. Just once Id like her to phone and say, Your father and I are going to synagogue, and then well light a candle at home in memory. Ill make a roast chicken and we can grieve together. If youd like, well pick you up in a cab in a few minutes.

When she answers on the third ring, she sounds irritated. She tells me shes late for a hair appointment, that the cleaners have lost her good dress shirt, which she intended to wear today to some luncheon.

Women for Womens Rights or women who care aboutI dont know. I cant recall, she says.

I search for something in her voice, an indication that she remembers, but when I get nothing, reply with silence.

Morgan, are you still there?

I am, but I cant find my voice. Cant gulp down enough air into my lungs to say anything.

Are you smoking? she asks.

No.

Why do you sound so breathless?

I was exercising. One lie on my sisters birthday, whats the harm?

In the apartment? Youve got a beautiful gym at the hotel, its such a perk.

You and Dad could use it if you wanted, I push out. Even though Im already at work I dont correct her.

I couldnt get your father to go down there if you offered a free buffet. Just blocks from his office, youd think hed be able to work out once a week Her voice trails off.

I visualize my parents at the gym, confused by the equipment, scared to take a class. My mother assumes spinning is a cycle on the washing machine, and my father thinks its when youve had too much to drink. Theres a clacking sound coming from her end as she digs around in her makeup drawer, probably looking for a lipstick, Crimson or Dusty Velvet.

As a child, I loved to watch my mother dress for a party or a dinner date. I have vague memories of Dale and I sitting on her bed, studying her reflection in a huge oval mirror that hung above a black lacquered vanity table. Dale had just had her first operation. Theyd found a tiny tumor on her spine and after they removed it she had to wear a back brace for six months. Watching my mother change for a party was one of the only activities she could do.

My father, a hand, arm, and shoulder specialist, would often work late, performing surgical procedures, and meet her at the agreed spot: theater, restaurant, supper club. My mother would get dressed with an audience of two. Wed sit with her as she made herself up, watching her apply makeup, aching to blot our lips on tissues, take long, delicate strokes of mascara to make our lashes bold just like hers. Dale would pretend to rub blush onto my checks and blend it into my skin. Within minutes, our mother would metamorphose into a beautiful woman. Dark hair cupped her face, dewy skin was clean and lightly dusted with matte powder, her big brown eyes added a youthful appearance. And her lips were full and smudge-proof. She was perfect.

I peer at my reflection now, wondering if my mother and I are sharing this moment, if were both staring at ourselves at the same timeand if we are, what she sees. Traces of a dead daughter? Cruelty of time? Lasting, positive work from a plastic surgeon or two? Im about to ask her a question that would require her to look at a calendar, but her line beeps.

Morgan, Ive got another call. Ill talk with you later. She clicks over to someone else leaving me looking at the phone like one of those actors on a soap whos just found out their identical twin sister has slept with their husband. Im still holding the receiver when a staticky recording of an operator comes on. If youd like to make a call, please hang up and dial your number. I want to make another call. Im just not sure to who.

Instead I hang up the receiver, push back my chair, reach for my navy blazer, my cell phone, my employee card, which I stick into the back pocket of my slacks, do a quick check in the mirror, and pass though the sales office, saying a friendly hello to my co-workers.

Rather than wait for the elevator, I take the stairs. Instead of thinking about Dale, I focus on the clicking of my heels against the shiny stone, the heaviness of my breathing as I strain for air, the idea that a nuclear war could happen and Im so far underground that Id be safeall things that usually calm me, but dont.

Upstairs on the main floor of the Four Seasons Hotel I survey the clean, crisp lobby, take stock of the efficiency of my staff, of the attractive patrons who stay with us, sometimes for a night, others for days.

I walk to the front desk and slide over to the side thats momentarily not in use.

The turnover of our hotel is tremendous. According to the computers, every three minutes and forty-nine seconds someone is either checking in or out. There are three small boxes responsible for imprinting room assignments and security codes to the key cards. Upon checking out, the information is erased and a new number and code is given. When I select the room cards I never glance at the computer, let alone the guests profile that automatically pops up on the screen when the room key is activated. I like to do this without help.

I close my eyes, run my fingers over the duplicate guests keys. Like a deck of cards waiting to be fanned out by a magician, I remove one and stick it in the box. 1709 lights up in green. In the six years Ive worked here, Ive never gotten this room, until today. Ive been in 70 percent of the quarters, and Im as familiar with each line as I am with my own apartment. I know which has the best layout, the grandest view, the largest bathroom, the nicest closets. That the corner rooms are twenty-five square feet larger than the regular ones. That the water pressure in suite 2510 will never be as powerful as the others, no matter how many times we try to fix it. That Oprah will only stay in the Presidential Suite, and that the housekeeping once found a wad of cum on the wall in room 615.

I take the elevator up with an attractive Japanese couple who are decked out in Gucci. I bow my head as I exit, then utter good-bye in Japanese. They smile politely, returning the bow as the closing doors disconnect us.

The floor is quiet, deserted. Not surprising since 11:40 a.m. isnt a heavily trafficked time. Three or four hours earlier, the hallway was active with men in crisp white shirts and expensive ties, newspapers tucked under their arms, cell phones already attached to their ears. The women dress in smart pantsuits or good-girl skirts and pull boxy, black suitcases on wheels. Then there are the young, pretty ones who wear jeans and V-neck sweaters. Sunglasses hide their faces, baseball hats cover their heads, underwear is tucked in a pocket of their coats or hidden safely away in their Prada handbags. Those who want to sleep in never can because the slamming of doors pulled harshly by the fire-friendly hinges is endless. But now, all is quiet.