PART 4: The Gates of Reconciliation
PART 4: The Gates of Reconciliation
Rain falls softly on old hotel doors.
By 9:30 p.m., the Greyhound had deposited me near the waterfront in downtown Seattle.
A cold, steady drizzle was falling over Puget Sound, slicking the cobblestone streets and reflecting the neon lights of the harbor.
I walked three blocks down to a dingy, red-brick motel with a flickering neon sign humming in the damp air.
The night clerk didn't look up from his crossword puzzle when I tossed forty dollars in crumpled bills onto the Formica counter.
"Room 12," he muttered, shoving a brass key across the grease-stained wood.
The room smelled of old carpet, bleach, and damp wool.
I stripped off my soot-stained work boots and faded jeans, standing under the lukewarm spray of a rusty showerhead for twenty minutes, trying to scrub away the lingering smell of jet fuel and adrenaline.
When I stepped out, I pulled on the only other clean set of clothes I owned: a pair of dark slacks and a simple navy blouse I had bought specifically for Emily’s wedding reception.
I caught my reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror.
At 58, the burn scars on my hands stood out starkly against the dark fabric, branching like white lightning across my knuckles.
My hair was threaded with gray, pulled back into a tight, severe bun.
I looked like a survivor.
Which, I suppose, was the only thing I had ever really been.
I looked at the cheap alarm clock glowing red on the nightstand: 10:15 p.m.
The wedding reception at the historic courtyard hotel overlooking Elliott Bay was scheduled to wrap up around midnight.
May you like
If I wanted to see my daughter—to see her smile, to see her married to a man who would hopefully treat her better than the world had treated me—I needed to move.
I grabbed my old leather duffel, zipped it shut, and stepped back out into the rainy Seattle night.
