Chapter 53 Cecily
Cecily
Beside me, Dom sleeps soundly, the white sheet twisted around his torso.
I can't shake the dread that pushes at my limbs, making them feel heavier than they are.
After two minutes attempting to convince myself this is a trick of my mind, I slip quietly from bed.
A T-shirt hangs from my duffel bag, wrinkled, and I pull it on.
The closest bottom is the skirt I wore last night, so I drag that on, too.
After I slide my feet into my sandals, I slip from the room.
The lobby is quiet. A young man sits behind the desk looking at his phone. He sets it down when he sees me.
I'm not sure where to go, or what I'm doing here. There was a force propelling me, and I responded. It is as simple as that, and just as confusing.
Behind me, the elevator dings. I turn to look, expecting Dom, but it's not him.
"Dad?"
My father, disheveled, silvery hair rumpled, wearing a V-neck white T-shirt and shorts. His expression mirrors the bewilderment I feel. "Is everything ok, Cecily?" He comes closer, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I cannot recall the last time my father touched me, or looked at me with concern the way he is right now. "Y-yeah," I stammer. "Why are you down here?"
He shakes his head, his hand returning to his side. "I'm not sure. I don't know what woke me, but I felt—"
"Panicked," I whisper.
"Yes."
"And you came down here."
He nods. "I had an overwhelming urge, but"—he glances around the deserted lobby—"I don't know why."
"I did, too."
The realization arrives simultaneously. "Grandma," I say, at the same time he says, "Mom."
Dad spins around to the elevator, but I reach out, stopping him. "She slept in the motor home last night."
"Why did she do that?" he asks, following me out the front door.
We're jogging around the building, heading for the guest parking lot in the back.
"She didn't want to sleep in a haunted hotel."
He makes a sound that could be a laugh in the right context, but in this moment, it's more like sharp worry.
The motor home is at the back of the parking lot, where it takes up multiple spaces. I arrive first, prepared to pound on the door and endure my grandma's teasing later. But just as I raise a hand, the door flies open.
Rainbow stands there, eyes wide, face stricken. Her phone is in her hand.
"Ophelia," she says, looking from me to my dad. "She's unresponsive."
I don't know how it happens, but suddenly I'm in my dad's arms. He's stroking my hair and I'm crying, and his chest moves with an odd breathing pattern. He's sobbing.
Rainbow speaks with emergency services while we stand there, the rays of early morning sun gripping our skin. Snow huddles in the corners of the parking lot, stubbornly hanging on.
An ambulance screams into the parking lot within minutes, and people jump out, rushing into the RV.
I want to go in with them, yell at Grandma to wake up. She'd open her eyes and look at everyone, demanding to know what all the fuss is about.
But, no. I'm here, facing an eventuality I pretended did not exist.
And my dad is holding me while I cry.