31. Maren
MAREN
Monday morning at the lower spa wing is so quiet I can hear the hum of the small humidifier behind the desk.
The lobby smells like eucalyptus and the salt off the lower terrace, and the woman who runs the front desk hands me the binder and the tablet and a small cup of green tea in a paper cup, and she says, "Maren. We are glad you're here."
"Thank you."
"I will not, in fact, confuse them."
"Good."
She squeezes my arm. She does not, this morning, ask me a single question I did not, in fact, want her to ask. She goes back to the office. I sit down at the desk.
The desk is a smaller desk than the one in the upper lobby.
It has a small ceramic dish for breath mints — sugar-free, lavender — and a small bell I will, in approximately fifteen minutes, find I do not like the sound of, and a printed map of the lower spa wing taped under the lacquer, the corners worn from where the staff have, for years, slid their thumbs.
The chair is a plain office chair. The phone is on a five-button rotary.
I sit down. I roll the chair under the desk.
I press the small numbered button for available.
The first guest comes in at nine oh two.
A woman with a back complaint. I book her in for a deep-tissue at four.
The second guest is a couple from Vermont, here on a quiet anniversary, both in their sixties.
I book them in for the couples massage at noon.
The third is a young father with a baby in a sling, here for his wife who is, currently, in the hot pool, and the baby and I, over the course of a small careful negotiation, agree that he will sit on the rug behind the desk with the rubber blocks I have, in three minutes, gone to find, while his father takes the wife her water.
It is a job I can, currently, do.
It is, currently, the entire job.
My mother starts calling at ten.
The first call I let go. The second I let go. The third I let go. She begins, on the fourth, leaving voicemails. Maren. Sweetheart. Pick up. We are leaving at one. I would like to say goodbye in a manner that does not, currently, involve a — Maren. Just — pick up.
I write back in the small ten-thirty lull. Mom. I’m at work. I’ll be downstairs when you leave. You can come say goodbye in person. I won’t be able to step away from the desk.
She writes back instantly.
The lower SPA wing.
Yes, Mom.
Sweetheart, are you?—
Mom. I will see you at one.
She does not write back.
The eleven o’clock lull settles in. I finish my green tea.
I work through the intake forms from the morning.
A tiny woman in a robe drifts out of a massage that has clearly rearranged her entire nervous system, and I book her in for next month.
I hit the numbered button to mark myself available.
And I keep my phone facedown, untouched.
They come into the lobby at twelve forty-eight.
I see them before they see me. They are dressed for the airport — my father in his soft travel sweater, my mother in the white linen she travels in, Owen in a polo and slacks, Sienna in the small leather jacket that is,the only piece of clothing she has worn in two weeks that does not have a logo on it.
They have, in the foyer of the lower wing, the small disoriented pause of people who have walked into a building they did not, in fact, know existed.
I stand up at the desk. I do not, however, move from behind it.
"Maren."
"Mom."
"Sweetheart, the — the — this is where they have you?"
"Mom. Yes."
"This is not the upper — Maren, the upper lobby is — "
"Mom. This is the lower spa wing. I requested this transfer on Sunday. It was — Mom — it was confirmed within an hour. I will be working at this desk for the foreseeable future. I asked them to put me here. I am, currently, asking you not to comment on the — Mom, on the which lobby."
"All right. All right, sweetheart."
She is, by my mother's standards, holding it together. She has, in the last six days, lost a pound. Her rings are loose. Her eyes are the small bruised color they are when she has, in three nights, slept badly. She has not, in two weeks, looked this small in a foyer.
"Maren—"
"Mom."
"I am — I am sorry, sweetheart."
"Mom."
"I am — I am sorry I did not — I am sorry I made you feel — "
"Mom."
"Let me, Maren, let me just — let me just say this one thing. Will you. One thing, and then we will go."
"All right."
“For six days I’ve been combing back through the year.
Not the last two weeks—the whole year. I’ve sat with every dinner, every phone call, and I’ve had to face the version of myself in them, the one I can barely stand to recognize.
I’m not asking you to forgive her. I’m only telling you that I’ve looked at all of it again, and that standing here, about to leave for the airport, I can finally see her clearly.
And I don’t want to be that woman again. Not for one more hour of my life.”
I look at her.
I look at her over the small ceramic dish of sugar-free lavender mints.
"Mom."
"Mm."
"Thank you."
"Maren."
"That is — that is what I have. Today. Thank you. I — I will, in some hour of the next year, have the next thing. I do not, today, have it."
He rubs a hand over his face. “All right. I came here, sweetheart, to ask you to fix it—the florist, the house, the whole Marlowe mess. I walked into this foyer ready to hand you the pieces and ask you to make them whole.” His voice softens.
“But I’m not doing that. Not tonight. Whatever gets fixed, you’ll decide.
What it is, when it is—that’s yours.” He meets her eyes.
“And for once, I’m going to take a page from your father.
I’m going to let you tell me where you are. ”
"Mom."
"I love you, Maren."
"I love you, Mom."
She stays where she is. No crossing to the desk, no hug over the counter, nothing that would force me into a scene with a guest floating in the hot pool behind me.
Instead she offers a small, deliberate nod, the kind a person gives when they’ve had two weeks to sit with their mistake, and then she steps away.
Sienna does not, by contrast, step back.
Sienna steps forward. Sienna walks to the desk.
Sienna leans on the counter with both elbows on the small lacquered map and looks at me.
Sienna's mouth is in the small pinched shape it has been in since Sunday morning.
Sienna is, currently, twenty-four, and she has, currently, never had to apologize to me for anything in our shared life.
"Mar."
"Sienna."
"I — I deleted the post."
"What."
"The — the post. From Tuesday last week.
With the — with the engagement caption. With the — the photo of the terrace.
I — I had the photo as a draft. I had not — I had not actually published it, Mar, I — I had told Pia, but I had — I had only drafted it.
I — I have, since Sunday — I have not, in fact, posted it.
I — I am telling you because I — I want you to know I did not, in any other person's eyes, in fact, post it.
I have — I have deleted it. As of this morning.
From the draft folder. So that I cannot — Mar — I cannot, in any month of next year, post it by accident. "
"Sienna."
"And — and I want to say — Mar — I want to say I — I — I — I am — sorry."
"Sienna."
"I am, Mar, I am — "
"Sienna."
"What."
"Thank you."
"Mar."
"That is — that is what I have."
"All right, Mar."
She steps back. She steps back, like our mother. She is, I notice, in tears. She is in tears and she does not, this time, lift her phone.
Owen comes last. Owen is in his polo. He’s the only person in the foyer who has been on the right side of every conversation this week. He crosses to the desk. He doesn’t lean on it. He looks at me.
"Mar."
"Owen."
"You are good."
"What."
"You are good. At this job. I watched you with the baby.
The man in the sling. I — I watched you with the baby for ten minutes from the door of the foyer.
You — you have a hand on your job, Mar. You have — frankly, you have, in this lobby, in the last twenty-six minutes, been the only person on a payroll. You are good at what you do."
"Owen."
“I’ll be back in town next month, and I’d like to take you to dinner. Not a family thing—just the two of us. Maybe Livian, if that feels right. I’ll send you the details.”
"Owen."
"Mar."
"Thank you."
"Mm."
"Owen, thank you."
He does not hug me. He does the small two-finger touch on the counter, between us, that he has, since we were children, used as the family version of a handshake.
He turns. He walks back to my mother. He puts his hand on her elbow.
The four of them, in their small reconfigured family, walk back out of the foyer.
I sit down.
I press the small numbered button for available.
The mint, like everything else this morning, is the small clean menthol of a building I have no intention of walking out of.
The small bell on the counter dings. A guest has come up to the desk.
"Hi, ma'am. Welcome to the lower spa wing. How can I help."