Page 9 of Even After This
I offer a smile of solidarity and shrug.
When I go to the dentist and the assistant tells me to go to my happy place, my mind takes me to the Broadmoor Spa. Panic attack in a packed elevator? Broadmoor Spa. Talking to my sister about her latest bra-purchasing adventures? Broadmoor Spa.
The irony is not lost on me that I’m having to make great effort to be happy in my happy place because of some insensitive clientsinmy happy place.
My partner-in-annoyance glances around the room. “I hope my appointment’s soon.”
I want to say “Me too,” but I’m holding the line on the whole quiet room thing.
The woman next to me doesn’t take the hint. “I’m getting a body wrap, and afterwards going downstairs for a pedicure. Do you know, when I checked in, this nice girl told me about a cancellation and asked if I also wanted a Tuscan fig sugar scrub? Can you imagine the self-control required not to eat the treatment?” She shudders. “No one needs that kind of stress while trying to relax.”
Covering my mouth, I stifle a giggle.
“Are you getting your hair done?” She nods her head in the direction of my makeshift bun.
The messy pile of hair gives the appearance that I fought a fierce battle with a beehive. Remnants of last night’s makeup only confirm my loss in the war.
“No.” My hand reaches in vain to smooth down some of the destruction. “I went to the salon yesterday.”
“Okay, honey.” She pats my hand twice and turns back to her book. “Whatever you say.”
As the slight patronizing tone in her response lingers, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to tell her I don’t believe people should dress up to visit the spa. But a staff member arrives and whisksher away before I can dive into my diatribe on proper relaxation practices.
I snuggle deep into my chair and curl my arms around my body. The Broadmoor Spa is well known for its impeccable services, but for me, the decor buries me into a relaxing state. The varying striped chairs, pillows, and fresh flower arrangements all coordinate different hues of blue, yellow, and brown throughout the Mountain View Room. Even the provided cornflower-blue robes add an element of harmony.
When I’m here, I can only think of peace. The room won’t allow for anything else.
Except when the group of women behind me lets out another roar of laughter. Then my peace flies right out the grand windows.
Who do these people think they are? Don’t they understand the rules? I’m all for fun on vacation, but pick a room without a polite sign directing everyone to honor the quiet atmosphere.
The remnants of my water-with-cucumber drink need to be thrown away, and on the way to the trash can, I notice a few of the ladies are looking at me and whispering. I’m having a paranoid moment, I’m sure. I flash them what I hope looks like a genuine smile.
I’ve tried in vain to block out the chatter. Should I say something?
Deciding I don’t want to be that person, I exit the room and head down the carpeted hall to find my second-string happy place.
An unfortunate pop sounds with each step of my resort-administered flip-flops. Never one to criticize the serene ambiance, I worry I’m betraying Spencer and Julie Penrose, creators of this oasis, as I question the choice of these shoes.
But then a woman approaches, and I’m dumbfounded to find her identical spa shoes don’t make any noise. It must be me. I offer a silent apology to the Penroses and continue down the hall, this time making great efforts to mute my flip-flops.
My mind wanders to last night’s dinner at the Penrose Room, and a feeling of unease hits me. I stop.
Oh no. I recognize two of the women in the quiet room. I think theyweretalking about me. They watched me dance with Harlan Holcombe. I should go back and tell them dancing with movie stars never happens to a person like me. Moreover, I’m not even sure it occurred. Altitude sickness does weird things to people. The chances are quite high I dreamed about Hollywood last night.
But why does it feel like giddy butterflies have landed in my stomach? This must be another symptom of altitude sickness. I make a mental note to ask the concierge for pamphlets on the topic.
As I plod forward and take a left into the women’s-only section, I locate the entrance to the Fireplace Room and come to a complete halt. The reality of meeting Harlan Holcombe is in full view. But instead of it being a dream, it has become a nightmare.
Sitting in a chair next to the glowing fireplace, stiff, upright, and looking like she needs a massage more than the rest of us, is Penelope. Last night’s gatekeeper to the Penrose Room, also known as Harlan Holcombe’s assistant.
Every cell in my body wants to stride right back out the door. But the space is so small, leaving is impossible to do without looking impolite.
I decide to put on my big-girl panties and stay in the room with the tiger.
In a ridiculous turn of events, this makes me want to go to my happy place.
Penelope glances up. At the sight of me, her blank expression remains unchanged, but her hands clutch the newspaper she’s reading, causing a soft crinkling sound.
