Nancy Andrews was a wreck at the desk of the Pink Ridge Inn. I had to step away from a conference call and you could hear our owner’s droll voice droning over the speakerphone back in my office. I started the spiel. How many nights? How many beds? Any pets? ID and form of payment? When she forked over her cards, I took note of her hands. They were tanned an artificial orange. A thin band of paler flesh on her left hand, despite the effort, betrayed that she had up until recently worn a ring. Her eyes were puffy and caked with splayed flecks of black makeup.
“Do you guys do weekly stays?” she asked.
“Sure” I said and rattled off our rates.
She had just had her hair done and was fidgeting with her bangs throughout the whole transaction. Though polite, she gave off the vibe of being, for lack of better phrasing, a “hot mess.” For a middle-aged woman it wasn’t attractive.
My manager, Jason, and I were both going through some personal issues. Tack onto that our perennial struggles with hiring staff for the season and you could feel the stress weighing down the air. Each morning we kept the office lights turned off because both of us were drinking hard the previous night. Most days Jason sat at his desk for a few hours clicking through his inbox before calling it a day. That was fine. The Pink Ridge Inn isn’t the most in-demand hotel in Indianapolis, so it’s nothing I can’t handle on my own.
The halls of the Pink Ridge Inn are almost magically empty. Your footsteps on the threadbare carpet creak from one end of the building to the other, echo around corners, tremor up the studs. Muted yellow paint dulls the warm lighting of the wall sconces, spaced just slightly too far apart for adequate lighting. You’ll never see anyone with luggage carts--as if the guests seep through the walls and out into the world. There is only evidence of passing bodies: trash bags bustling with buzzing flies, bundles of soiled sheets and terry, the occasional snuffed-out cigarette butt dropped on the staircase. Once they leave the front desk, most guests were never seen again. At least not by us.
I did room inspections. In that quiet doldrum between check-out time and 3:00 pm, it is my task to follow behind the work of my housekeepers and ensure that whatever issues they’ve left in their wake are addressed by the time the arrivals check in. Anytime after winter--the “in season” months--that averages about 50 to 60 rooms a day. Most inspections involve me doing one quick curlicue through the room, eyes peeled for obvious problems, and then rushing along to the next. Trust in your employees, right?
I was hurrying through Room 407 when a glimpse of Nancy Andrews’ disheveled face startled me. My body jolted, my shoulders seized up, and the muscles in my neck pulled taut. Nancy Andrews was staring out at me from the other side of the mirror hanging above the television. I crept closer, my head craning. She didn’t seem to notice me. How on Earth was I seeing this? Had someone cut a square out of the wall right into the adjacent room? Even so, she was down on the second floor. I tiptoed closer. Ms. Andrews’ eyes brimmed with tears that swirled with her mascara and left a pair of black trails down to the bell of her cheek. She was wiping her makeup off with a micellar wipe, leaving smudges of sick green and powdery peach smears. Her gaze did not flicker even as I stood directly before the mirror. I, myself, cast no reflection.
As if I was seeing a television monitor, Nancy Andrews went about her business unaware of my witnessing her every move. She fought back tears and bit her lip and massaged the bridge of her nose. She cleaned her face of foundation and eyeliner.
Once her cheeks were clear, something caught her gaze. She leaned in. Closer. My eyes widened. Had I been spotted? Her boney, over-tanned hands reached up. She dragged a fingertip down the cheek and with it came a loose strip of skin. Ms. Andrews leaned in more, her nose mere inches from the glass, examining the peculiar flap of flesh that curled off the curve of her cheek. She pinched her fingers down on it and gave it a pluck.
Off came a six inch strip of skin. Like duct tape it made a sickening sound of tearing sinews and tacky release. The underneath of it was glistening red with strands of pink and globules of gelatinous white. A red valley of blood cut down Ms. Andrews’ cheek, welled up, and drained over her jawline. Rather than scream, Ms. Andrews looked over the wound and smiled. She fanned her fingers over the opposite cheek. Her nails raked down and from under each tip crimped up curling petals of flesh. Red beads glistened underneath and I watched in disgust as she set to stripping her cheeks of skin.
