Back to Bainbridge

A few minutes later, Mom pulled into the parking lot of the motel by the freeway. I studied the license plate of the car in front of us and said the letters and numbers in my head. K39 2CJ. It was a thing I did.

A little bird with a puffy orange chest sat perched on a trash can at the edge of the parking lot. It cocked its head and peered straight at me. Can a bird have a facial expression? This one came across as very judgy. Like it had never seen a raggedy-ass family with all their crap loaded into their minivan before. Like it could tell I was reciting a dumb license plate in my head, and it wasn’t a bit impressed.

In the motel lobby, two guys in matching jumpsuits were changing the sign on the wall from Comfort Inn to Quality Inn & Suites. The lady at the front desk had clumpy mascara and a badge pinned to her blouse that said, ‘My Name is Cookie.’

“I apologize for the construction, ma’am,” she said robotically when Mom approached the desk. Her face stretched into a waxy smile. “We’re in transition at the moment.”

“So are we, Cookie,” Mom chuckled. She opened her purse.