A Sky Full of Stars Read online

  These days, all I dream about is dying. Hey, who knows? Maybe that will be my greatest adventure of all.

  I’m tired, Benji. You have no idea how exhausted I am. These days I can’t even get out of bed because it feels like I should still be sleeping. I feel like I should be sleeping right now.

  I’ll be near the oceans, or maybe the mountains, but definitely somewhere where I can breathe easy for a little while. I haven’t breathed easy for a very long time.

  If people ask where I am, tell them anything you want. Everyone will find out the truth eventually. They’ll know what I’ve done.

  I knew the last time I saw you would be the last time I saw you, that’s why I hugged you for so long. You didn’t notice, but that’s alright. We were together.

  Ben, you are the best thing that ever happened to me, but please don’t come looking for me. It will only be a waste.

  You’ll be the last thing I think about, I promise.

  Love, and all that other stuff

  Your friend,

  Abby Jones

  Part One: Eric

  Dying seems less sad than having lived too little.

  – Gloria Steinem

  Chapter One

  It is a peculiar feeling knowing that you’re okay with dying. To feel like you’ve lived long enough.

  I would call it liberating. That’s the best word I can think of to describe it. Or cathartic. Yes, I like cathartic. Like nothing can hurt you because it will all end soon anyway. It’s just a matter of time. Or, in my case, a few hours.

  Somewhere outside of this room, a door slams loudly and it sounds like thunder.

  The walls around me shake. Tremble. Protest.

  Through the thin walls of the motel room, I hear a girl speaking fervently in Spanish, her voice carrying with her as she leaves. I catch only a few words of her rambling, like idiota and corazón and para siempre, which I think means ‘forever’.

  I sit up slowly, spine creaking, my collar bones stiff and heavy. I have been staring at the glowing red numbers of the electronic clock for hours, aimlessly waiting for time to pass. I am still fully clothed, on the bed, listening to the sounds of my breathing.

  It is 18:47. I had closed the heavy curtains in the room hours ago. Dim light seeps through, and streams of dust hang in the air, undisturbed. I lift myself from the bed, head and shoulders heavy with inertia. I could lie on this bed for hours more, but I want to see the sun set behind the building across the street, need to feel the warmth of it on my skin one last time.

  I walk over to the door slowly, my feet making no noise on the carpeted floor. I reach for the knob, but a quick rap on the door stops me. My hand hovers in mid-air. I wonder, for the briefest second, if Benjamin has found me after all. Of course, this is impossible. I push the thought aside, and pull open the door.

  The light from the early evening sun stings my eyes. Hadley, the night manager for the motel I’m staying at, steps back from the door when he sees me.

  “Good evening, Miss Jones.” He greets.

  I clear my throat, taking note of the way the dying sun is covering the parking lot behind him. Spectres of lights circle all around him. “Hello.”

  “So sorry to bother you.” He says, his blue eyes vivid and bright. “You left this at my desk when you asked me to mail your letter, and I thought you might like it back.” He holds out something to me. My passport. I look at it like it’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I blink at it a few times and, realizing that Hadley is still holding it out to me, I let go of the doorknob and take it from him.

  “Oh,” I say, my voice a soft whisper. I haven’t spoken to anyone for a few hours. “Thank you. I didn’t realize I’d misplaced it.”

  “One can never be too careful these days.” Hadley says, his accent falling heavy on my ears. I smile back at him faintly. “Also, we’ve had a complaint from next door that their pipes in the bathroom are giving off a funny smell. Do you mind if I take a quick look? I’ll only be a second.”

  I don’t know what he needs to do in the bathroom, but I acquiesce to be polite. “Of course. Come inside.”

  I step aside from the doorway and Hadley enters, bringing with him the scent of leather and candle wax. I stay near the door, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, giving him space to do his job.

  Hadley, whom I’d met one day earlier when I came to stay here, is almost sixty, with soft pale skin and large hands. He’s friendly and has a good sense of humour, and speaks with a strong southern accent that never registers well in my brain. It takes longer for me to comprehend what he’s saying when he’s speaking, but I get there eventually. Except for the taxi driver that brought me here from LAX, Hadley is the first person I met when I came to Los Angeles.

  He disappears into the small bathroom. From where I stand, I can hear him opening the taps, letting the water run for a few seconds. He shuts them off, and then stays in the bathroom for a few minutes longer, doing things I can’t decipher from all the sounds I am hearing. He emerges from the bathroom seemingly satisfied, a gloss of sweat on his upper lip.

  “Well,” he says, smiling at me. “Everything seems to be in order in there.”

  I try to smile back. “Good.” I don’t know what else to say.

  Hadley looks around the room. I can’t imagine what he must be seeing. Everything is in order, just as I had found it. The bed is still made, albeit a little ruffled. My suitcase is propped up against one of the walls, taking up very little space.

  “Is everything still to your liking, Miss Jones?” Hadley asks, looking at back at me with blue eyes that in this room look electric.

  I shuffle my feet, self-conscious. I think he is way too polite for the place where he is employed. The motel isn’t anything spectacular, but it suits me just fine. I don’t need spectacular.

  “Yes, thank you, Hadley.”

  “Will you be staying with us much longer? I’ve noted that your upfront payment is limited until tomorrow evening.”

  “Um...no. I don’t think so. I’ll be moving on.”

  He nods, like he’d known what my answer would be. I don’t think people stay at this motel any longer than they need to.

  “Well, if there is anything you need before then, you know where to find me. Thank you for your time, Miss Jones.”

  He moves toward the open door and nods a goodbye as he exits.

  “Actually, Hadley,” I say, moving toward him. He looks back at me in expectation. “Do you know of any cafes around here? I know it’s late, but I could really do with some good coffee.”

  Hadley smiles, and it lights up his entire face. Through the layers of a lifetime, I can see a once-handsome man. “As a matter of fact, I do. There’s one just down the street from here. My daughter likes to go there when she comes to visit. I can’t remember the name of the place, but it has really big windows and a flower wreath painted on the front door. You can’t miss it.”

  I thank him and say goodbye. I leave the door open, allowing the sun to reach into the room as far as it can. Next door, I hear Hadley knock and continue his inquiry into misbehaving plumbing.

  I peer out across the lot of the motel room, across the street to where the sun is starting to set behind an apartment building. The evening is quieting down, the last of the day’s traffic easing out into side streets and cul-de-sacs. Every now and then, a car pulls into the parking lot at the motel, its occupants seeking refuge for the night.

  Like every day since I arrived in California, it’s warm and beautiful. The streets are vibrant and enticing, with some sort of pull that beckons for you to come out and enjoy your life. But tonight it’s not for me. I step back into the motel room reluctantly. It seems suddenly stuffy and smells of damp clothes. I leave the door slightly ajar, hoping the air in the room will circulate.

  I sit back down on the bed. My shoulder blades are starting to get heavy, which usually happens at the end of long days. I know this feeling all too well. Even my eyelids feel weighty. Ex
haustion is pulsating in my collar bones.

  I have the sudden urge to lie down on the floor. I lower myself down and lie flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling. The carpet smells dusty and a little sour, the smell tickling the insides of my nose. My shoulders try to anchor themselves to the ground, trying to avoid that moment when I need to leave this room.

  My mind starts to race.

  I think about my parents. I think about Benjamin. I think about what would happen if I give up now, go back home, and try to live my life again.

  Nausea circles in my chest, making its way up to my throat. I close my eyes; try to swallow back the bitterness. I try to think of better things. Benjamin is the first thing that pops into my head. I remember the way he smells. The sound of his voice. I remember the feel of all the years I’ve spent with him.

  I imagine him getting my letter. I picture him coming in from the post box, tearing open the envelope, his brow drawing closer and closer together as he reads my words. He’ll be furious, I know. He’ll begin a rampage. I don’t want to think about it anymore.

  I hoist myself up from the floor, my head a bit dizzy. An hour has passed without me noticing. The sun has basically set, leaving only a thin line at the end of the horizon, which I can only partly see. My stomach does a somersault.

  Warily, I make sure everything in the room is the way I want it to be found. I straighten the blankets on the bed. Stick the chair under the small table. There really isn’t much to do. I take a breath to steel myself. I gather all my things – my suitcase full of clothes, my passport, a map of Los Angeles I had not used – and stack them on a chair by the table, engineering it so that it will be the first thing to be seen when someone walks into the room. I had paid for one more night at the motel, so by tomorrow evening when they realized that I had not yet checked out and given back the key, they’ll come knocking on the door to find only this.

  They’ll discover my things, abandoned with no one to take ownership, and eventually when they cannot find me, decide what to do with all I had left behind. I shiver to think of what Hadley will make of the situation, if he’d forever wonder what happened to the girl in room 4B and why she left behind all of her things. Would he even remember me?

  I can’t dwell on it. I have bigger things on my mind. I take one last look at the room, then step outside and then lock the door behind me.

  I am ready.

  *

  I had arrived in Los Angeles on a slightly overcast Monday morning. I had one suitcase of clothes and other essentials, and most importantly, a heavy heart. I was exhausted, having been on an airplane for almost an entire day, with a layover in Dubai that didn’t really do anything for my anxiety. I hadn’t done much research before I left, so I left it up to the taxi driver – a Pakistani who insisted on playing Whitney Houston the entire drive – to choose a motel on my behalf. He didn’t find my request all that strange. It had taken him a moment to understand my accent, but we got it figured out eventually.

  That is how I ended up at a small motel in Southern California, a place I had chosen to die in. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but I didn’t need much. I didn’t plan on being in the area for very long, so my small living quarters would do just fine. It was a one-bedroom with a door that opened up to the street, a small table to eat at, a bathroom with a light over the mirror that caused heavy shadows to cling to the underside of my eyes, and a red carpet stained with things I didn’t want to think about.

  I didn’t mind any of it. My world was changing with every exhale. I was so intent on the plan I had, I didn’t notice much that first day, except for the fact that even on the other side of the world, the ocean still smelled the same.

  By the time I arrived at my room, my suitcase hanging from my hand like another limb, all I wanted was to be closed off from the world and be by myself. I spent my first night in Los Angeles locked inside a dingy motel room, sprawled fully clothed across the bed, sleeping so soundly that if the world ended, I would have been none the wiser. And even if I’d woken, I wouldn’t have cared one single bit.

  *

  I find the coffee shop easily enough. Luckily, it’s still open and there are still a few people lounging around, drinking from white cups, ending off their evenings with friends and caffeine. The lights from inside the shop have a pull that I can’t ignore. As I watch from outside, the dark streets filled with strangers, the coffee shop seems homey and inviting, to the point where I want to curl myself up on one of the chairs and go to sleep. I haven’t even walked in yet, but I don’t want to leave.

  I push through the glass doors and get hit with the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee. Inside the belly of the shop it’s warm, like I thought it would be, and the street noise softens to a distant murmur when the door closes behind me. The overhead lights are low and gentle. Soft voices from the coffee drinkers. A couple sits at a table near the window, fingertips entwined, the girl giggling.

  I recognize Penny and Sparrow playing through the speakers overhead, and I sigh. A friend had introduced them to me a few months ago, and even though I had been reluctant to get attached to anything at the time, I’d fallen hopelessly in love with their music. The Literal Heart, one of my favourite tracks, is just finishing off, and I want to hear more. I’d made plans to be elsewhere tonight, but it can wait. I need to be here for a little while.

  I sit down at one of the empty tables near the back of the cafe, with a clear view of the front door. I watch as cars go by, their headlights reflecting off the glass and chandelier hanging from the ceiling, light bouncing everywhere. Someone laughs somewhere. A spoon clatters off a table nearby.

  Another song starts to play, one by an artist I don’t recognise. I sit back in the chair and breathe.

  A waitress comes over and introduces herself. She has a pretty heart-shaped face and cherry-red lips that make me stare at her mouth for too long. I tell her what I want, reading off the chalkboard at the coffee station. She brings my order quickly, and then leaves me alone to be by myself. The cup of tea is hot and has lots of honey in it. I inhale the steam, holding the warm mug in my hands.

  I sit by myself for a while, drinking the sweet tea sip by sip, watching as the people I’ve shared the cafe with get up and leave. The music keeps changing. Every song a lullaby. Thirty minutes pass. I order a coffee, brought to me by the same waitress as before. She says something to me that I don’t catch, but I nod anyway, wanting her to leave me with the coffee that smells so good I want to chew it.

  By the time I finish my second cup, I am the only customer left in the cafe. The barista is still behind the coffee bar, wiping down the counter, whistling along with the current song. I don’t see the waitress anywhere. She must have already gone, leaving without my tip.

  I feel self-conscious and awkward. I fiddle with my cup at the table. I think I should leave, walk out into the night and find a place to die. Most likely, I won’t see morning. The stars, which I know are blinking on the other side of this ceiling, are waiting for me.

  My heart jumps into my throat, restricting my breathing. My palms heat up. I think I might panic, throw up, make a scene. I try to control my body. I bunch my fingers into tight fists. Still my breath. I feel the room shrink its walls to comfort me. All of Los Angeles has suddenly turned into a small coffee shop, trying to keep me safe.

  I get up from the table and walk toward the bathroom. The barista looks up at me, expecting me to say something. I pass without a word and push through the door.

  The bathroom is clean and gleaming like no one has used it throughout the day. I shut the door and lean against it, eyes closed. Sliding slowly down to the floor, I wonder how long it will take before my bones break under the weight of all my malcontent. I make myself as small as possible, take up the least space that I can. I want to make this space my home, to never leave, to have no one ever find me. I want one final moment, to imagine the possibilities.

  Everything stops for a while.

  Then outside, a soft
knock on the door, a gentle rap of the knuckles. I lift my head, listening.

  “Are you okay in there?”

  The American curve of the syllables traverses my brain. The barista. I turn my ear to the door, wanting to hear more of his voice. I wait a few heartbeats, then reply, “What if I told you no?”

  A thousand seconds pass. Then, “I’m coming in.”

  I imagine him reaching for the doorknob. I lift myself away from the door just as he opens it, cool air rushing in around me. I feel pathetic sitting on the floor. I try to look up at him, but he is a skyscraper.

  He kneels down in front of me, his apron bunching around his knees. He’s only a few years older than me, twenty-three, maybe. His eyes are dark, all the light behind him. “Are you sick?” He looks worried. What am I going to tell him? Am I sick? Maybe.

  I shake my head, lowering my face to hide from his eyes. “No.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  I lift my head at this. “No.” I say, slightly indignant.

  I may imagine this, but I think I see him smile softly. “Then why, pray tell, are you sitting on a bathroom floor, worrying me to death?”

  I shrug, having lost all my ability to communicate.

  “Wonderful.” He stands, towers over me. “Come on. Let’s get you off the floor.” He holds out his hand to me. It feels like he is giving me a way out. It feels like grace.

  I grab a hold of him. His fingers wrap around my hand. He pulls. I rise, and stand. I match his stare. Neither of us speaks for a while. His brown eyes go light, sparkling the same as the chandelier.

  “Sit down at the counter, will you? You’re making me nervous.”

  I sit down on the stool, elbows up on the counter. The barista doesn’t say anything, but walks to the front door and locks it. He flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ and heads back toward me.