I suspect that walking on eggshells and watching out for emotional outbursts has taken its toll, and three days later I’m living thirty-one floors above downtown Detroit. I had to talk to Doc Barb first, and she said as long as I keep my appointments and check-ins, and with my parents living about twenty minutes away, I should be fine. I never imagined a few days ago that moving out would be so easy. My clothes are here, Magnus is hiding from me in one of the three bedrooms or the home gym upstairs. The kitchen is stocked with stuff like pastries, bumpy cake, and Vernors ginger ale.
That’s the good thing about having an assistant. Mimi arranged for everything and made the move easy. The bad thing is that she thinks Ro-Tel is the same as Del Monte, and she tells me a party store is where you buy booze. She says it’s like a convenience store but sells hard liquor and kegs of beer. I think it’s safe to say that outside Michigan, folks think a party store is somewhere you get crepe paper and balloons.
Life at the Westin Book Cadillac hotel is as different from Marfa as night and day. There are four penthouses on top, and three of them take up different corners of the building. From outside they look the same. The roofs resemble those Mayan temples where they used to kill people and throw them down the stairs—or something close to that. They’re lit up at night like Broadway and take some getting used to.
Inside, the penthouses are all different. Edie’s is ultramodern and the lights turn on as you walk around. Not surprisingly, most everything is light blue or white, with the exception of the neon bar down the hall. The ceiling is thirty-five feet high in some places, and two tall palm trees bookend the enormous windows. Any time of the day or night, the views of the city and river are just crazy.
For the first few days, I keep myself busy arranging the closet that is every bit as enormous and over-the-top as the one at Hawthorne. I fill Edie’s walk-in safe with jewelry and change the combination to my old birth date.
I investigate the whole two thousand five hundred square feet, and I know there are still things I haven’t discovered. I know Edie was supposed to be an art expert, but some of the paintings are horrible. I’m thinking about replacing them with painted skulls.
The night of my first cocktail party, when Claire will see if I pass or fail her etiquette classes, Mimi stops by to help me choose a dress. I suspect that maybe Claire has sent her to make sure I don’t embarrass the family in something socially unacceptable like the shiny rubber minidress and studded collar I found in Magnus’s bedroom closet. There’s a matching studded doggie collar and a little leather jacket, too. I’m not one to judge, but I wonder if this is a Halloween getup or fetish attire. I’d ask Magnus, but he’s not talking to me.
“That’s from Zac’s collection last year. You wore it to the Save the Whales event,” Mimi tells me when I try on a deep blue cashmere dress with long sleeves that fits me like I’m sewn into it.
“Did I only wear it once?”
She hands me something sleeveless with a sassy full skirt. “Everyone’s seen it.”
They’ve probably seen the sparkly Cinderella pumps I plan to wear, too, but I don’t care. I pick out dangly sapphires that shine in my hair and an elephant-shaped clutch covered in deep blue jewels that hangs from a gold chain.
Claire sends over three women to style my hair and do my makeup. Now I’m convinced she’s worried that I’ll show up in blue eye shadow and a Dolly Parton wig. When they finish, my makeup is subdued and fresh looking. I like it, but my hair is flat. After they leave, I add curl and bounce and a bit of volume on top, and before I stick my phone in my sparkly clutch, I hold my breath and call my momma. I hope I don’t get sent to voicemail, or that she recognizes my number and connects me with Publishers Clearing House. But it’s worse than voicemail or the prize patrol: Daddy answers and threatens to call the FBI.
Now I’m blocked.
“Welcome to UMC El Paso,” I tell the teenage boy standing next to an emergency room doctor and watching a tube get shoved down his own throat. His black hair is buzzed short on the sides while the top looks like a hedgehog. He’s wearing a long-sleeved Henley, jeans, and one tennis shoe, and if I had to guess, I’d say he was fifteen.
He turns toward me, as shocked and confused as all the other spirits when they first arrive. “Where am I?”
Like I didn’t just tell him. I glance at the clock and begin my five thirty squats. I’ve been working out since I got here, but I haven’t lost an inch. “UMC El Paso emergency room.” I put my feet shoulders’ width apart and blow out a breath as I slowly lower and begin the first five-by-five repetitions. One… two… three… hold… two… three… I suck in air and rise…. One… two… three… I’m not giving up. The weight has to start coming off at some point.
“Why am I here, ma’am?”
I take a deep breath and slowly lower myself again… two… two… three… hold… “You thought it’d be smart to hit a wasp’s nest like a piñata.” He returns his gaze to the red lumps covering his body. “Not too bright, Ace.”
“Am I dead?”
I let out my breath and rise. “Not yet.”
“Am I gonna die?”
“Questions of life or death do not fall within my purview. I’m just the apprentice concierge.” I pause my workout to point to his face, so swollen he looks like the Elephant Man. “But if I looked like that, I wouldn’t want to stick around.”
“Who are you?”
Three… two… three… “Marfa.” I still cringe every time I say her name. “Apprentice concierge.” I cringe every time I have to announce my job title, too. Not only have I never been anyone’s apprentice, but a concierge… horrifying… two… three.
“Are you a ghost?”
“No.” I put in a request with Raymundo to have signs placed around the trauma unit that answer the same questions the newbies always ask.
“It’s our duty to greet new arrivals and explain their circumstances,” he’d said. “We keep track of all incomin’ and outgoin’, calm fears and answer questions. Not post impersonal signs.”
… four… two… three… hold… “The rules are rules,” he’d added, not even bothering to mention my idea to Director Ingrid. A few needed changes would improve morale and working conditions around here. Mainly mine. I hate the “Don’t Mess with a Texas Girl” T-shirt and fat-girl jeans that I’m forced to wear 24/7… four… two… three…
“Poltergeist?”
… five… two… three… hold… “No.”