I walked into the bathroom.
The old pink sink was still there. Cleaned and polished.
And the bathtub. The original. Pink porcelain. Chipped in one corner.
On the edge of the tub, folded neatly, there was a stack of fresh white towels.
“First guests,” Elmer said from the doorway.
I turned around.
“You and Mark,” he said. “If you want it. No charge. Never any charge. Not for you.”
“Elmer, we can’t—”
“You were the last people who walked into this room while she was still alive,” he said. “You and Gabby. You sat on the floor with her. You didn’t run.” He looked at me. “Jean would want you to have it. I know she would.”
We stayed in Room 18 that night.
Ezoic
After the cake. After Gabby blew out thirty-two candles and Elmer cried and Mark held his hand. After the truckers and the church kids and half the town came by to eat chocolate cake in the parking lot and sing happy birthday to a nurse who was born in a bathtub.
