Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (13 page)

~Fourteen~
 

After shepherding the entire family back up to the room following what will forever be known as “Mommy’s Wardrobe Malfunction”, I have decided that it’s time for a nap. As in, we
all
need a nap. I’ve spent the better part of an hour helping children remove sand from cracks and crevices where no sand should ever reside (how does one get sand up their nose exactly????), and everyone—except for me—has showered and is relaxing on the beds. Or open up sofa thingie.

Now I am in the bathroom, debating about whether to shower at this moment or to wait until after my nap. Staring at myself in the mirror, I decide to just throw on a make shift cover up; a ratty tee shirt and sweat pants. I’m too exhausted (wind-blown, beaten up by the surf, embarrassed to death) to deal with the act of showering right now. As I pull off my bathing suit, a pile of sand is loosened from the crotch panel and plunks to the ground at my feet.
Is that a seashell?

The gritty sand is sticking to my entire body. As I try to push it off with my hands, it scratches my skin, causing me to wince. Fortunately, I remember a trick Beth taught me. Yes, occasionally she
does
have handy tips that she finds on Pinterest and whatnot. I grab the baby powder that is sitting amongst the other fifty two million items on the small counter surrounding the sink. Honestly, it’s only big enough for two toothbrushes and a bar of soap. Who are these hotel folks kidding?

I dust my body with the baby powder and voila! The sand sweeps off of my body effortlessly. I splash water on my red and blotchy face, because, of course I forgot to put on sunblock and the skin underneath my eyes is very red and angry. Twisting my hair up in a messy bun, I decide that I am definitely ready for a nap.

Exiting the bathroom, I glance around the room to discover that everyone is asleep. Except for Allie. She is feverishly texting on her cell. Probably sending out a tweet about how embarrassing her mother is or something.

“No roaming,” I chastise, while I close the blinds, bathing the room in darkness. I half expect Allie to protest to the darkness, but the glow of her phone screen causes her to be oblivious to the reduced light in the room.

Roger is on our bed, propped up on a pillow, hands folded on his chest, snoring away. In the middle of the bed.
How is it possible to sleep so much in a five hour time frame? This is his third nap!

Resisting the urge to put a pillow over his face, I shove him with my hip, resulting in him moving a quarter of an inch. Sighing, I flop down on the bed and curl up on my side. I’m only going to close my eyes for a couple minutes anyway…

When I open my eyes, the whole room is a buzz of activity; squeaking bed springs, doors opening, laughing, drawers slamming, banging fists,  cursing, and of course, crying. I bolt upward and blink my eyes several times before I can actually see. My eyes are goopy and feel like they have their own sand castles inside of them.

Allie is the one slamming the drawers. She is also the one cursing. Something about Lexie keeping her f’ing hands off of her stuff. She is also throwing things in the air. A lacy demi bra—that is not mine—lands on my head.

Colt is the one crying and banging his fists. He is in front of the bathroom door. It sounds like Lexie is the one on the other side of the door, cackling like a madwoman. And obviously, Evan bouncing is the source of the bed springs squeaking, as he happily hops from bed to bed, completely jolting me awake. I probably could have saved thousands of dollars on this vacation if I just took him to a bounce place or something. It would have been less stressful and aggravating, that’s for sure.

“What is going on here?” I ask as I sit up. It’s been like the same loop of a movie playing over and over and over again in this hotel room. Cue the circus music and the organ grinder’s monkey.

Colt and Allie start talking at once. Every other word seems to be “Lexie”. She has apparently wrecked a little havoc on her siblings—while I took my four minute cat nap—by stealing her sister’s tank top and beating her brother to the bathroom. (Dear Lord
why
are there not multiple bathrooms in hotel rooms? What sadist designed them? A bachelor without kids, I bet.)

“Where is your father?” I ask, suddenly aware of Roger’s absence.
Damn it! I lost track of him! I shouldn’t have closed my eyes!

“He just left,” Allie tells me, shaking the lacy black number toward the door. I am hoping it is not hers.
Crap! What if that’s Victoria’s? Gives a whole new meaning to Victoria’s Secret, doesn’t it?

“He said he’d be back in time for dinner.”

“Back for
dinner?”
I gasp for air. “What do you mean
back for dinner?
How long is he going to be gone?” Translation:
How long is he going to be with that...slut?

Allie gives me a weird look. “Relax, Mom. He said to meet him for dinner at 6:00.”

I glance at the clock, expecting it to be 3:00 in the afternoon. Instead I am shocked to discover that it is 5:00.
I was asleep for that long?

“Where did he go?” I ask Allie. She’s returned to studying her cell phone with the intensity of a microbiologist discovering a new species. Her fingers are feverishly gliding over the keypad, her eyes burning with some girl drama.
Oh my dear child, you have no idea what drama is.
I rip the phone out of her hands.

“Hey! That was important!”

“I doubt that highly,” I retort, glancing at the screen and catching a few phrases like
OMG
and
TBH
and several selfies of Allie in a bikini.
Yeah, really important.
Making a mental note to check her Instagram account when I get the chance, I ask again, “Where did you father actually
go
?”

Allie shrugs, stretching her fingers toward me and wiggling them. “He didn’t say. Give me back my phone.”

The phone is buzzing violently in my hand and dinging every three seconds. It is the most annoying sound in the world. Well, aside from Victoria’s voice. Yeah, I only met her once, but I totally hate her voice. The urge to be a total bitch washes over me.

I shake my head at Allie and stick her phone in my pocket. “No. I'm keeping it. I don’t want you attracting unwanted attention from boys by posting pictures of your scantily clad body all over the Internet.”

Allie rolls her eyes. "Come on, Mom. Everyone does it. It’s
fine
.”

“Oh no it’s not, Little Miss Naive. You have no clue what kind of people are out there in the world.”

“
Puleeeease
,” she retorts with a toss of her hair. “Old Man Walter held a knife to my throat, remember?”

Yes, of course I remember. How could I ever forget? It’s one of the many reasons I want to protect my kids at all costs. I
know
what evil lurks in the corners. Even the corners of seemingly safe neighborhoods. Even, apparently, in the recesses of our own home. My throat constricts and my chest swells at the thought of Roger with that...
girl
. I need to find him and catch him in the act. That way he will know he can’t hurt me. I am stronger than his betrayal. My mind is made up.

“Stay here. Don’t leave this room under any circumstances,” I firmly tell my daughter.

“What if the hotel is on fire?” my sarcastic child asks.

In no mood for her nonsense, I reply, “Allie. I’m not playing games. And watch your sister and
both
of your brothers. I’ll be back before dinner.” I pivot on my heel toward the door when Allie grabs my hand.

“But you have my phone! What am I supposed to do?” She actually looks terrified at the prospect of having to spend an hour with her siblings and no cell phone.

I wave my hand in the air. “I don’t know. Play a board game or something.”

I pull the door open and as it closes behind me, I can hear her wail, “But there are no games to play!”

Maybe for you dear daughter, maybe for you. Mommy’s got a little game of cat and mouse to play.

~Fifteen~
 

I skulk around the resort for less than five minutes before I find Roger. I guess he wasn’t counting on me waking up so soon or something, because he is right out front of the hotel where the driveway curves in toward the door for the valet and shuttle service. For some reason, he has a ratty baseball cap on his head and a pair of jeans, which seems completely out of place in the Caribbean heat. It is also out of character for Roger—it looks as if he is trying to hide. He’s standing next to a bush, and appears to be talking to someone, but I can’t see who because Roger is blocking my view.

I can only see part of his face, but he is chatting animatedly and gesticulating wildly, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, and a big grin on his face. I don’t think I have ever seen my husband so damn...
excited
in all my life. Oh, except for the day they installed the fifty-five inch TV in the lounge. That day was legendary. He let us get our take-out
delivered
, he was so damn happy.

I can’t figure out what’s got him so excited this time, until he steps to the side and I see who he is talking to.
Victoria.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, my teeth are clenched, and I feel my blood rushing to my face. I can hear my heart thumping loudly in my ears, the migraine from the morning returning in record time.
Is he really that stupid to be carrying out the affair in broad daylight?

As I’m watching, she leans forward, gently touching his arm while throwing her head back and laughing.

Did he say something funny? I can’t imagine that he said anything funny since he is rarely even slightly amusing. She must be working it. God, I hope she doesn’t think he’s got money or something just because he’s a principal. She’ll be in for a shock.

Sure, my husband makes a decent living, even better than decent by most standards, but people tend to forget, we have four kids. Two who need braces, one who is going to college in less than two years, and all four that grow at an alarming rate, necessitating frequent trips to the store for clothes and shoes. Oh, and a kid who eats like he has a tapeworm, and costs me over $200 in the grocery store each week.

I resist the urge to stomp over to the pair of lovebirds and smash their heads together. I remind myself to keep my cool, bide my time. Then I remember that I should be recording this interaction on my cell phone, and I dig it out of my pocket. When I pull it out, I discover that I don’t have my phone, but Allie’s instead. I must have left mine back in the room. Hers is much more complex than the one I am used to. I swipe the screen and enter what I assume to be her password, but I am foiled.

Damn it! When did she change the password? Two weeks ago
“Nathan”
was the password.
Then in a fit of brilliance I remember she dumped Nathan right before the trip.
And
I heard her babbling to her friend Kaitlyn about someone named Xavier. I quickly type in the word and voila, the screen is opened.

While keeping an eye on the couple not fifty feet away, I fumble with the phone, trying to record. I end up taking a series of pictures instead.

“Crap,” I mutter through gritted teeth. Glancing up, I see Victoria sidle up closer to my husband and wrap her arms around him for a hug.
Stupid hussy!
I suck my teeth, trying my hardest not to fling a rock at her head. Then, as they pull away, Roger hands her the bouquet that he has clutched in his hand. Squinting, I can see that they are yellow and pink roses, my favorite.

What scum! Not only does he give another woman flowers, he gives her his wife’s favorite flowers?
I quickly snap another couple of pictures, anxious to throw those on the table at our divorce hearing. No judge alive would let Roger get away with that one.

Roger and Victoria start walking toward the hotel. But not the lobby where I am standing in front of. They are going around the back entrance to the building. And moving quickly.

“Damn it.” I throw myself over the low stone wall that I have been hiding behind and land on the pavement below with a thud. I quickly crouch to the ground, half expecting Roger and Victoria to turn toward the noise, but they are too busy chatting it up.
Probably talking about what they’re going to do in the hotel,
I muse angrily, glancing at the phone. It is 5:21, plenty of time for Roger to satisfy his lady friend and still make it on time for dinner with his family.
How convenient.

As I duck into the alley between two of the resort’s buildings, I feel a sense of melancholy.
How long has this been going on? Are there other times when Roger comes home for dinner that he’s been with her? I know she lives here, but for how long? Did she just move here?
And then the most horrifying thought of all,
What if there’s been other women?

I feel incredibly stupid and duped as I follow behind them at a safe distance. I keep to the sides of the building so that I can duck behind the dumpster if they should happen to turn around. They reach the back of the building, and Victoria swipes a key card in the door. With a clacking noise, the door pops open and she holds it open for Roger, who steps inside.
Damn it!
I need to run to reach the door before it slams shut. Otherwise I’ve chased them this far for nothing.

Sucking wind and trying not to land loud enough to create the sound of footsteps, I dash to the door, just as a sliver is still cracked. Not enough time to grab the handle and pull, I react quickly (and stupidly) by shoving my hand in the door to prevent it from closing all the way. Instead, it closes on my hand.

Biting my tongue so I don’t scream in pain, I pull on the door handle with my free hand and release my now throbbing, damaged appendage. Propping the door open with my foot, I stare at my mangled hand. I think I have crushed the bones in all four fingers—they are very squished looking. My nails are pulsing right off their beds and already turning purple. I can’t bend any of the fingers and they are rapidly swelling to resemble tiny little sausages. The only salvageable digit seems to be my thumb, which did not join its fellow fingers in the melee. I’ll probably have to go to the hospital and get it X-rayed. After I find out where Roger and his buddy are headed to, of course.

I peek in the doorway and find that it leads to a long hallway that ends at a vestibule—you can only turn to the left or right. And I don’t see Roger or the Super Tramp. Therefore, I have no clue whether they’ve gone left or right. If I hadn’t stopped to look down at the damage after closing my hand in the door, I might have seen which way they went. Now I’m going to have work by the process of elimination.

“Damn you, hand,” I mutter, shaking my head as if my hand had any control over my stupidity. I putter down the dim hallway, glancing at the dark paneled walls. It’s creepy, almost like a haunted house—there are only a few recessed lights along the ceiling of the hallway. On the walls, I can make out a few framed pictures—I squint to discover that they are aerial photos of the hotel when it was being built. At least, I think it’s the hotel. I’ve never seen it from the overhead view, of course. Now, had I been thinking clearly (but, due to the intensity of my pain, alas, I was not), I would have studied the pictures to learn the layout of the hotel and grounds, just in case I needed that information in the future to track down my wayward husband.

Instead, I find myself staring down at the plush carpet, praying for some clue as to where they went. When I reach the end of the hallway, God decides that he’s had enough fun at my expense today and has pity on me. I can make out the faint outline of shoe prints in the well light area where the hallway divides. And the shoe prints definitely indicate that two sets of feet moved toward the left. Excited at my rudimentary detective skills, I practically skip through the doorway on the left.

Until, of course, I bump head first into a member of the wait staff. He is about six foot, seven inches tall, four-hundred and fifty-seven pounds of pure muscle. His formidable arms are crossed over his equally intimidating chest as he glowers at me from somewhere around the ceiling.

“Can I help you with something?” His booming voice nearly reverberates on the walls. I swear I see one of the picture frames shaking. I feel a little trickle down my leg.
Oh no! Not twice in one day!

“Um, no I don’t think so. I was just trying to find my husband.” I stare up and offer him what I hope is a charming smile. I also bat my eyelashes ever so slightly, giving him the appearance of a damsel in distress. By his unwavering expression, I am pretty certain that I have not succeeded in charming him at all. In fact, I have probably angered him even further. From this angle I can see his nostrils are unusually large and appear to be flaring like a bull’s
I wonder if I should slip him a twenty? Is a twenty even a sufficient amount of money to pay off a barbarian so he won’t crush your skull with his bare hands?

“Well he’s not here,” Mr. Bull Nostrils tells me. “This area is reserved for hotel staff only.” He points a sausage-like finger at the sign near his left shoulder. It reads in very plain English,
Employees Only
.

I crane my neck to try to see around his wide girth, but all I can make out is a kitchen. Actually I don’t
see
the kitchen. I just hear kitchen sounds like refrigerator doors opening, and pots and pans clanging.

“But he came in this way,” I insist. “I saw him!”

“I don’t think so. I think your imagination is running wild.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Perhaps too many Mai Tais on the beach.”

“He did! I saw him!” I repeat, my voice raising several octaves. Isn’t it enough I’m following my husband on a secret rendezvous with his very young and very blonde lover? I have to be humiliated by some guy who could squish me like a bug? “And besides! I don’t drink Mai Tais!”
I will not cry, I will not cry.

“You saw your husband come in here?” Mr. Bull Nostrils asks, eyebrow still cocked.

“Well, um, not exactly,” I stammer, pointing down at the floor. “You see, I followed his tracks—”

The man cuts me off with an unexpected high-pitched laugh. In fact, the laugh consumes him, causing him to chuckle so hard that he needs to clutch his sides and gasp for air. I stare at him in disbelief while he tries to pull himself together. It takes him a few seconds of waving his hands and taking deep breaths—along with an annoyed glower from me—to be able to say, “What are you, Perry Mason or something?”  

“No!” I yell defensively.
Although, I did have a few run-ins with bad guys over the last few years. I even shot a gun. And damn it, I was proud of figuring out which way he went based on the footprints! How dare he mock me!

“Well, I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re going to have to find your way out,” he tells me while spinning me around to face the long corridor with the door at the end. With a slight shove, I am on my way back down the hallway.

I can’t figure out how there was no sign of Roger or Victoria.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they didn’t go left. Maybe they actually went right and I was just mixed up!

I whirl around to explain that to Mr. Bull Nostril, but he is still standing like a statue, with a disgruntled look on his face. I’m pretty sure that crossing him right now would be a giant mistake, considering nobody knows where I am and wouldn’t be aware of my whereabouts until I washed up on shore with a broken neck.

I wave timidly and continue down the dark and bleak hallway toward the door with the red neon sign that reads
exit
over the top. Pushing on the metal bar in the middle, I find myself back in the alleyway with sunlight flooding my eyes. More specifically, it’s the setting sun that’s flooding my eyes. Which means it must be getting close to the time that the family is supposed to meet for dinner.

I start heading back in the direction I originally came from, past the dumpster, toward the front of the hotel, when I realize,
I can’t go back and eat dinner like nothing has happened!

I lean against the wall of the hotel, wishing oddly enough that I smoked again. Maybe I could figure out what to do next if I had some nicotine or tar clogging my brain. I
should
go back to the room and put on a nice sundress and head to dinner. My stomach chooses that very moment to grumble loudly, agreeing with me. But my heart isn’t so easy to convince.

How can I go and sit through dinner with a fake smile and pretend nothing is going on? But I can’t say anything to Roger without proof either! Well, I do have the blurry pictures on Allie’s phone as proof, but all it shows is Roger talking to Victoria outside the hotel. He will explain it away somehow in a manner that will make total sense. To everyone else but me. And everyone will look at me and say,
“Oh, Amy! You're so paranoid!”

My inner musings are interrupted by the murmuring of voices to my left, further down the alley past the door I just came out of. I can’t see anything because the ginormous dumpster blocks my view. Stepping on a milk crate next to the dumpster, I push my body up so that my head can peek over the top. About a hundred feet away I see my friend, Mr. Bull Nostrils, arms crossed over his body. He is impossible to miss because his white uniform practically glows in the now darkened alleyway. The person he is speaking with, however, is difficult to make out with his back turned to me. He is much shorter, wearing dark jeans and a lighter shirt. Squinting, I can see the outline of a baseball cap on his head.