I take a deep breath, and as I near the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. My dark hair is matted to my head, and my clothes hang heavily on me. I look like Raggedy Anne’s cousin. I look like hell.
“He’s going to think I’m a fucking crack head,” I say, as I run my fingers through my wet, tangled hair. “Look at me.”
Ike laughs and his bright smile warms my heart. “No, he won’t. This town has a lot of good people, Charlotte. The Mercers being some of the best. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I huff as I push the door open and enter. An older gentleman, with thick, gray brows and kind eyes, greets me with a concerned look.
“You look a mess, child. Are you okay?” he asks as he rounds the counter and approaches me.
“Yes, sir. My SUV broke down about two miles back, and I had to walk in the rain.”
“My lord, you’ll be lucky if you don’t catch your death.” He shakes his head, sincere concern etched across his face. “I can get your SUV looked at in the morning. There’s a motel about four miles down we can get you checked in to for the night. I’ll drive you there myself.” He quickly sets about putting his jacket on and hanging a Be Back in 10 sign on the door just before ushering me out and locking up.
“That is so kind of you,” I mumble through my shock. Who the hell offers a complete stranger—one that looks like they’re on drugs—a ride in the middle of the night? Mr. Mercer simply smiles and nods as we walk to the side of the building.
I’m surprised when he leads me to a Ford Highboy and opens the passenger door for me. What a sweet old man, I think to myself. Once he gets in and starts the truck, he cranks the heat up and I couldn’t be more grateful. As we drive, Ike is to my left, sitting between us, although, of course, Mr. Mercer can’t see him. “Okie from Muskogee” by Merle Haggard plays softly on the radio, and I cringe at how fitting it is.
“I’m Bill Mercer, by the way.” He nods his head at me. It occurs to me he thinks I’ve just gotten in his vehicle and don’t know his name. I should’ve introduced myself, but Ike had already told me his name. I’m so tired, I’m not thinking straight.
“Charlotte,” I respond. “But most people call me Char.”
“Where are you from, Char?”
“Born and raised in Oklahoma.”
“Hey . . . you’re an Okie,” he says as his face lights up with another smile. “The song,” he points out.
I smile. “I was just thinking that.”
“You’re a long way from home,” he adds and shoots me a concerned look.
“You’re telling me,” I agree.
We reach the Warm Springs Motel and Mr. Mercer ushers me inside the office with a neon sign lit above flashing: VACANCY.
“Hey, Bill. How are ya?” a large and robust woman with fire engine red hair and lots of purple eye shadow asks as she stands from her recliner in front of a flat screen television.
“Ginger, this is Charlotte, but she likes to be called Char.”
“Well hello, Char,” Ginger greets and offers me a friendly smile amidst her chubby cheeks. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”
I shrug and give her a shy smile. “You could say that.”
“Nothing a hot shower won’t fix,” Ike jibes, but I ignore him. It took me years of practice to learn to ignore the dead and not respond to them in front of other people. Even a glance in their direction can make other people think I’m odd.
“Well, a room is forty dollars a night, but you’ll have cable, and the hot water is great.”
Forty dollars? That’s cheap as hell. I drop my bags to the floor and begin opening my backpack, the thought of a hot shower and a warm bed making me quiver, when I realize I left my money in the glove box of my truck. Shit! My face flames red as I stand and pick my bags up. “I’m so sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Mercer, but I left my money in my truck. I’ll just go back to it and crash there tonight.” Humiliation surges through me as I glance at Ike who closes his eyes, realizing how embarrassed I am.
“Nonsense, child.” Mr. Mercer waves at me. “I’ll pay. You can pay me back some other time when you get your money.”
“I can’t accept that, sir.” I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want handouts.
“Why not?” Ike asks, with his arms extended. “You’re freezing and need rest!” Again, I ignore him, which is hard when his body language and tone are so animated.
“Sweetheart, you need rest. If you run off tomorrow and don’t pay me, forty dollars won’t end my life. At least I’ll know you had a safe night’s rest. It would put my mind at ease.” Mr. Mercer stares down at me softly as he hands Ginger the cash. I hate the pity in his eyes. I probably look like a homeless drifter—which I guess, technically, I am.
“Then here,” I say, as I unhook my necklace with the silver cross. I haven’t taken it off in years. “Take this and hold onto it so you know I’ll return. That’s one of my most prized possessions, and I would never leave it behind. But please don’t sell it. I’ll have your money tomorrow.”
Mr. Mercer takes the cross in his hand, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “You have my word.” With that, he heads to the door and before he exits, he says, “Good night, Char.”