Page 20 of The Dream Hotel

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

CR Number: M-7493002

Facility: Madison

Date: October 21

Flags: Law Enforcement

Status: Released after review

Dear Sara,

It’s been a long time since we’ve been in touch, but I wanted to write you as soon as I heard that you’re in preventive detention. I was in Los Angeles yesterday to pick up a vintage Ford Bronco that the seller refused to ship through regular channels, and I took the opportunity to visit Uncle Omar. I almost didn’t go, because I couldn’t remember the address, but I knew that your house was a few blocks from the old movie theater in Pasadena, so I managed to situate myself without my phone. The neighborhood looks so different than when we were growing up, especially with the noncombustible roofs and metal cladding that they have on buildings these days. Your house hasn’t changed much, though.

I parked the Bronco and walked up the brick pathway, feeling like I was taking a trip back in time. I remember we used to play on the street while Mom smoked cigarettes with Aunt Faiza on the porch. The same vine was creeping up the fence. The same front door creaked as it opened. Your father looked much the same, too, except for his gray hair and the Exo-Legs he has to use on account of the stroke. I didn’t even know he’d had a stroke, it’s been that long since I saw him last. But he’s very good at navigating that contraption, and unlike my mom he still has ALL his marbles.

We sat on the checkered sofa in his living room, drinking mint tea and talking about the old days. He showed me pictures of our moms when they were in high school, and a portrait of all of us kids from a trip to Mirror Lake when Sa?d was still alive. I remember you were mad at Sa?d because he’d broken your front tooth, so when we went fishing your dad paired you with me. Remember the huge rainbow trout we caught? But it wasn’t until I asked about your news that he told me what happened to you at LAX. I’ve always hated that airport, you know, it’s so disorganized and poorly run.

Sara, I’m going to be honest with you. Your dad thinks this whole thing happened because you’re a difficult woman, just like your mom. He said that the way she used to talk to TSA agents rubbed off on you, and you must’ve said or done something during your interview that made them detain you. He hasn’t had the experience with law enforcement that I have, so I guess I can see why he might think that way. But still. I told him that an arrest doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Look at me, I told him. A customer had me arrested for forging his signature on a deal, but six months later his son admitted he’d signed the papers. Who paid for the mess in the end? It wasn’t the police, I’ll tell you that. I’m still trying to get my record expunged.

But I didn’t want to argue with Uncle Omar too much, because he seemed so frail. He kept telling me stories about the past, sometimes reaching behind him for one of the framed pictures on the console. I got a scan of the picture of us at Mirror Lake, since I don’t have it, and another one of my mom when she was pregnant with me. Being in your house made me feel, I don’t know, like I missed out. I wish we hadn’t moved to Florida when I was ten. It would’ve been nice to keep all the friends I had, grow up surrounded by family, have those barbecues like we used to have, with games and music and dancing. I never really understood why we moved across the country, or why we didn’t stay in touch afterwards.

By the time I walked out of your dad’s house, I was feeling a bit nostalgic so I decided to take a little walk around the neighborhood. Then Mel called me. I’d rescheduled one of my weekends with the kids to travel to L.A., but she was still mad about the change and wanted to yell at me some more. This was a work trip, and anyway she agreed to the change! Now she was up in arms about it. I was so angry I could’ve exploded. The couples therapist we were seeing before the divorce said that I had to learn to manage my anger. Wouldn’t you know, she suggested walking. Something about serotonin levels. Or was it dopamine? I don’t remember. Boy, did I walk. I walked for an hour straight, trying to keep my rage in check, until it started getting dark and I had to turn around.

Anyway, I’m driving back to Florida now. With any luck, I might even be able to get there by Sunday morning and get one full day with my girls. I’m writing to you from a motel room about a hundred miles from the New Mexico border. The landscape here is not at all what I expected. It’s a little greener, I guess because of the higher elevation, though the town doesn’t attract much tourism anymore. Three of the resort hotels serve as climate shelters, and the others have closed down for good.

I have to catch some sleep before the next leg of the trip, but I did want to write you and offer my help. Is there anything I can do? Maybe add some cash to your commissary account? Or get in touch with someone for you? I know from experience that having some outside help or even a bit of encouragement can make a huge difference. So think on it and let me know.

Yours,

Zachariah

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