Sanctuary

“Hey, Hazel,” Miriam says, “just the hour, please.”

“Usual room?” Hazel asks. She peers down bright pink reading glasses, perched precariously on the tip of a bony nose. She is all angles and anger today, irritated because Miriam is late. Hazel’s already deep into her puzzle book, a flimsy tome that manages to occupy the same shelf as the Holy Bible and a warped paperback so worn its spine bears no identity.

“If you can spare it,” Miriam forces a laugh and it comes out like the squawk of the territorial swan on the 7th Hole, the one she always warns the kids against taunting.

“Shit, ‘course I can,” Hazel mutters under her breath. Twice offended already. Miriam hands over an extra twenty, locking eyes with the woman. Hazel says nothing, but she smirks as she slides the crisp bill into her puzzle book and hands Miriam a worn key with a chipped plastic key ring, the number 202 fading in dull, gold letters.

Miriam pulls her scarf over her hair as she exits the office. She does not anticipate running into anyone here, but she won’t take any chances. Friends and acquaintances know the buxom blonde as Miriam Ashley; strangers mistake her for a well-preserved, resurrected Marilyn Monroe.

The road by the motel is quiet. No cars pass, and Miriam lets her guard down as she climbs the stairs. Her heart pounds as she slips the key into the lock.

202 is Miriam’s favorite. Hazel told her once that she wanted each room to be a little unique, like one of those boutique hotels. The exteriors are Miriam’s point of reference. She has only ever stayed in 202, worried that after the first time here the experience might be compromised in any other room. 202 is Miriam’s, and when she closes the door she breathes in her air.

Miriam takes out her iPhone, the unlock sound a familiar echo. She sets the timer for an hour, making her usual personal vow: she will not touch the phone, not until she hears the shrill sound of the alarm, a stark trill that slams her back into reality, into responsibility and selflessness and goddamned duty.

Miriam places the phone on the old dresser. It still smells of varnish, and she catches her hand on the sticky patch. Sometimes she does not think about what the tacky substance could be, and sometimes it is all she thinks about during the hour: the pleasure of endless possibilities, permutations of something meaningless.

A low moan interrupts the stillness. It is the man next door, the one Miriam has seen the last few weeks. He wears his graying hair long and thick, giving him a savage and primal appearance.

Miriam takes a deep breath, ignores the sound: this is her hour and she doesn’t want to share it with anyone, even aural interlopers. She closes her eyes, going through the list of options for how she can use this time.

One day she sobbed: thick, heavy wails muffled into a lumpy pillow and itchy comforter. Miriam cried until the skin under her eyes thinned and bruised, tears eroding makeup. But she is not in a maudlin mood today, so Miriam eliminates that activity from her list.

Miriam takes off her clothes and places them on the bed, each piece forming a preppy outline. She stands naked and stares at the silhouette; this is how it will look when the Rapture happens.

The Rapture. The fear of it, instilled by a lifetime of Southern Baptist services, makes her heart pound. Instinct compels her to pray, to get down on her knees on the worn rough carpet and call on God for salvation.

Miriam turns her back to him and the rest of the world.

“My hour,” she says, her voice heavy with guilt, “I’m sorry, but my hour.”

Miriam knows what she wants to do. She walks to the bathroom and turns the faucet as far as she can. The shower sputters to life, and after a moment the water is a steady, scalding stream. When she steps in, the steam envelops her. The water doesn’t feel as hot as she knows it is; she thinks of heated pools and warm summer days at the lake.

Howard maintains that a long, hot shower will cure almost anything mental or emotional that ails you. And Miriam gets it now - but Howard hasn’t been in her shoes. He hasn’t missed a long, hot shower in months. At best, Miriam gets five lukewarm, tepid minutes. More often than not, there’s a perpetual repeat of this morning: a speedy cold shower with a tantrum or fight (or both) happening in the background.

Miriam spots a bar of soap and unwraps the flimsy paper. It’s cheap, breaking in her hands, but she scrubs herself until her skin smells medicinal and floral. She wants to stay in the shower longer, stay all day and not have to worry about screaming kids or meals or whether she should keep the door open or closed, but the heat and possible allergic reaction to the soap have turned her skin a violent red.

When she steps out of the shower, residual steam clings to her in a warm embrace. Miriam smiles and wipes the mirror down. Her hair is half-wet and limp, but she’ll let it air-dry, tell everyone she’s just trying something new for a change.

Miriam has just finished dressing when the alarm shrieks its warning. She slides her finger across the iPhone and pulls sunglasses out of her bag. Even with the extra $20, her therapy is pretty darn cheap.

Howard calls her as she drives home, the windows down and the air fresh and cool.

“Hey gorgeous,” her husband’s voice radiates love, “what’s for dinner?”

Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe

After the Storm

The first frost came early that year, hardening the alluvial mountain earth – with it, soon after, the first winter storm. That meant the main road that cut through the mountains and out of the town was closed early, though it was at some point every winter. So Arata waited.

Time’s forward progression no longer felt like a certainty as the harsh frost froze everything it touched. Arata waited without any assurance that waiting would bring her any closer to realizing her plans. She sat patiently in the quiet of her living room watching the smoke snake out of her neighbor’s detached kitchen. Now and again, a huddled mass could be seen rushing from the kitchen to its attendant house with an armful of steaming food. She thought how curious it was that a detached kitchen, an antiquated and inconvenient architectural design, should still exist. The days and weeks and months passed and Arata continued to sit and wait. There was nothing else left for her to do.

Then spring came.

The winter weather had finally broken and the heavy curtain of cold lifted. The transformation was sudden. In a matter of days, the accumulated snow gave way to a dramatic explosion of green.

Arata gathered her worn suitcase, one her father had given to her before she went off to university, which she had prepared months before that first winter storm. Bits of dried faux leather flaked at its corners, revealing a layer of thin foam intended to mimic the suppleness of real animal hide. Memories of her father soon occupied her mind and she thought of how she had always despised her name. She was older now, but still carried a harmless resentment towards her parents for having given her a boy’s name.

At her doorway, decrepit suitcase in hand, she turned to look at the house where she had raised her family. She had always been, first and foremost, a mother and the house was her domain. From where she stood, the living room to her right and the hallway leading to the two bedrooms to her left, she could see the small kitchen, gently illuminated by the early dawn sunlight, just beyond the foyer where she had spent so many hours of her life. The pots and pans were suspended over the narrow gas range from a rack now caked in hardened grease. The pantry adjacent to the range was stocked with a healthy quantity of dried and canned staples. Arata wondered if she had left any milk in her refrigerator and contemplated checking, but then decided that it didn’t matter.

Arata pictured her children’s bedroom and the bedroom she had shared with her husband, the closets storing decades’ worth of clothing. In the foyer itself, a family portrait sat atop a candlestand table, welcoming visitors as they entered the home. Arata checked her watch and closed the door behind her, leaving it unlocked as she left.

The virgin spring air was cool, a remnant of the long winter. Arata made her way slowly to the bus station on the other side of town, both to enjoy the fresh air and because the slight hitch in her gait forced her. It was early yet, so the shops were still shuttered. She smiled politely at the handful of proprietors getting ready for the day’s business.

“Good morning Mrs. Sato. Going on a trip?” Mr. Yoshida asked.

What was this?

Arata shared the bus into the city with just one other passenger, a young woman dressed in traditional Japanese garb. She regarded the young woman’s beauty and wondered why she was dressed so formally before turning to her own translucent reflection in the clouded glass. Vanity had once been her greatest weakness. Even now, having been humbled by the passage of time, she took quiet pride in her girlish appearance which so often fooled those who attempted to guess her age. Only her hands, with its deep folds and dark blemishes, gave any indication of a life long-lived.

Arata took the sleeve of her thin cotton sweater into her fist and wiped away the condensation on the bus window, leaving a trail of water droplets in her wake. For a brief moment, she could see the world outside with a level of clarity possible only in contrast, but the early morning air quickly shrouded the glass pane with a new layer of fog.

Her right arm was propped against her seat, her left rested atop her suitcase just lightly enough to ensure it was there. The bus was at an incline as it climbed the unpaved mountain roads, still soft and moist from newly melted snow, the trees a continuous blur of green. She wasn’t running away. No, that would imply a shirking of authority or obligation – but there was none of that left, her children and her husband having passed. Doubt was all that was left. This was something different. She wondered if her motivation was even relevant anymore.

There was a past and a future, maybe. But there was no present.

As the bus entered the city proper, the mountain clouds that had clung stubbornly to the bus and the dreamlike miasma that had encapsulated the vehicle, dissipated. The unruly ride of the rural roads gave way to a dull hum of paved highways. Arata wasn’t sure if she had fallen asleep during the bus ride, but when she opened her eyes the world had changed. She turned her body towards the bus’s panoramic windows with a childlike enthusiasm as she saw the urban landscape come into view. Her heart beat headily.

As Arata stepped off the bus, the urban din immediately flooded her head, but the discordance played like a wonderful orchestra to her. The grey of the city was a curious novelty – even the green of the trees were darkened by the shadow of the imposing skyscrapers. Perhaps here she could disappear. Perhaps here, her solitude would be a blessing. This was the present now.




Written By: James Mo
Photo By: Becky Lee