September 2019
I didn't realize today was the eighteenth anniversary of my death until I caught a flash of the burning towers on CBC. As always, my heart skipped a beat when I thought about what would've happened if I'd gotten on my flight that day.
Like the final scene in Say Anything, maybe I'd have defeated my fear of crashing once the fasten seatbelt light went off. Maybe I'd have convinced myself that everything would be okay. But then the terrorists would have taken over. Could I have been brave like the passengers on United Flight 93? Could I have stood up, wrestled the terrorists to the ground, and reclaimed the plane? Someone on board might've known how to fly, and with my help, the flight could've landed safely, saving thousands of lives.
It was a lovely fairy tale, but I doubted it. If I'd been on the plane, I'd have spent my last moments picturing Jess's face, thinking of how I'd apologize for our argument when they finally released us, and planning our new life together in Los Angeles. Not knowing that death hovered, my goal would have been to sit quietly and hope no one noticed me.
Starting in 2002, I celebrated September 11 as my birthday. Quietly, without fanfare. I'd go to a bar, find a dark corner, order a drink, and contemplate my existence for a few hours.
This year was destined to be different. My morning started in chaos and had gone straight downhill. After a broken coffeemaker, a housekeeping plague, allegedly haunted rooms, and a headache the size of Quebec, if I made it out of the hotel before midnight, my birthday drink would be a triple shot. But first, a zillion crises at work demanded my attention.
The cell phone permanently attached to my hip rang. Again.
Make that a zillion and one crises. I pulled the phone from its holster. "This is Christa McCall."
"Christa, it's me." The head of my housekeeping staff. In her nervousness, the woman switched to her native French. "I don't know what to do. Three of our maids called in sick, and we've got forty guests scheduled for early check—in for the conference starting tomorrow. I called everyone, but no one's picking up."
Ugh. So much for relaxing with a cup of coffee any time soon. This day would never end.
"Did you try Happy Housecleaners?" Sometimes, a local company sent people out last minute to help in a pinch.
"Oui, but they're slammed, too. There's some kind of bug going around, and two hundred delegates are landing in Montreal today, planning to drive up here. Every timeshare in town is about to be occupied, and everyone needs to turn over their own rooms as fast as possible."
Of course they did.
"Well, I've cleaned toilets before. I can do it again." I sighed. Happy "birthday" to me… "I'll be there as soon as I convince Mrs. Radimsky that Room 213 isn't haunted. Meanwhile, call everyone else on the schedule to see who wants overtime. Give them an extra vacation day, too, if you have to. As soon as a guest checks out of a room, we need to be ready to flip it."
I hung up and returned to the front desk, where one of our regular customers loudly objected to the room she'd been placed in. The first time ever the woman showed up without a reservation, and naturally, conferences ate up all but one available room.
It never rains, but it pours. What a day.
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Radimsky, we're just slammed today. There's nothing—"
"Thirteen is bad luck. You will put me in another room! Any other room will do."
"I wish I could, but unfortunately, we don't have any other rooms right now. Everything is booked."
The sixty—year—old woman drew herself up to her full height of four—feet, eleven inches, narrowed her eyes, and glared up at me. All of a sudden, I felt five years old, being scolded for climbing the neighbor's tree to rescue the Frisbee my older brother Brad told me not to play with.
"You will find me another room, or I will find myself another hotel and casino to spend my money in. Are we clear?"
"Yes, ma'am, of course. Again, I'm sorry. Why don't you go over to the café and have anything you like, on me, while we work this out." I pulled the clerk aside. "Find any other guest who's arriving today, preferably someone we don't have a relationship with, and put them in room 213. Give Mrs. Radimsky their assigned room, and send up a fruit basket and a gift certificate to the spa. Make sure housekeeping knows to make the new room a priority."
By the time four o'clock rolled around, I wanted nothing more than a long, hot bath and a stiff drink. I considered not even going back into the office to pick up my purse, because someone might come up with another fire to put out. But in the end, only six people delayed my exit. Practically a record.
On the way out, I held the door open automatically for an approaching guest, a woman with long, sun—kissed blonde hair tapping on her phone instead of looking at the objects in her path. She dragged a suitcase behind her with the other hand, and I signaled a bell boy silently to offer assistance.
The woman nearly walked into me before she looked up from her phone. She was beautiful, but her blue eyes, full lips, and snub nose weren't the reason my heart stopped at the sight of her.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Excuse me."
The woman's eyes met mine with a startled expression, and her mouth formed a silent "O" shape. At the same time, I drew in a sharp breath. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, puddling in her thick, dark lashes. Lashes I personally knew to be fake, having seen her attach them a thousand times while lounging on our bed.
Fucking fuck.
I froze, both knowing and fearing what the woman would say next. Indecision seized me. I wanted to run, wanted to pause this moment forever until I escaped. Silently, I cursed myself for daring to wonder what the fates could do to make a bad day worse.
"Holy shit." The color drained from Jess's face. "Is that really you?"
