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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Katarina Bivald

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Sourcebooks

  Title type by Brittany Vibbert/Sourcebooks and Connie Gabbert

  Cover image © Alan Dingman

  Ribbon illustration by Connie Gabbert

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  Originally published as En dag ska jag lämna allt det här, © Katarina Bivald, 2018. Translated from Swedish by Alice Menzies.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published as En dag ska jag lämna allt det här in 2018 in Sweden by Bokförlaget Forum.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bivald, Katarina, author. | Menzies, Alice, translator.

  Title: Check in at the Pine Away Motel : a novel / Katarina Bivald ; translated from Swedish by Alice Menzies.

  Other titles: Dag ska jag lämna allt det här. English

  Description: Naperville, IL : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019009897 | (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

  Classification: LCC PT9877.12 .I93 D3413 2019 | DDC 839.7/38--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009897

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Alis volat propriis. (She flies with her own wings.)

  —Oregon state motto

  “You can check out any time you like,

  but you can never leave.”

  —The Eagles, “Hotel California,” 1977

  Prologue

  “Here Is Henny’s Sand”

  My funeral begins in an hour.

  I’m pretty sure I’m going to miss it. Right now I’m sitting on the motel rooftop, looking down on an almost-empty parking lot.

  I imagine myself floating through the air, higher and higher, as if I’ve finally gotten the hang of flying. So high that everyone is nothing but tiny black dots, making their way to the Pine Creek United Methodist Church. Dad is probably already there, waiting patiently inside, an especially black dot on my own internal map. Cheryl will be with him, no doubt, like the supportive Christian neighbor that she is. I try to be angry with the two of them, but I don’t seem to have the energy anymore.

  Before long, they’ll be joined by friends and former classmates, vague acquaintances, teachers I once had, Dad’s neighbors.

  A confident guess at who will attend a funeral in Pine Creek: everyone.

  They’ll try to sing along to old-fashioned hymns, and they’ll listen to the pastor’s empty eulogy. Dad will be sitting at the front, brave and desperately proper.

  And then I’ll be cremated. A rather bold and surprising choice from Dad. I approve, but I’m apprehensive as well. On the one hand, I’d rather burst into flames than be shoved underground. I’ve always been a little bit afraid of the dark. But on the other hand, I worry that this—what’s left of me, my soul or consciousness or whatever you want to call it—will disappear when my body does.

  I don’t think you can go on being a ghost forever. No matter how much you want to. There’d be more of us around if you could, that’s for sure. Maybe most people never even get the chance to stick around and see how their loved ones are doing. Maybe I should be grateful for the opportunity.

  I’m talking about smoke and picturing myself engulfed in a wall of flames, but that’s not how it works. The body—my body—will be heated through calcination. Everything organic, roughly 97 percent of me, will first turn to liquid and then become hot gas. They’ll add oxygen so that the body can burn entirely without flames.

  All that will be left of me is ash. Surely no soul can survive it?

  Ash is actually a pretty misleading word. It’s not like a fine ash automatically appears afterward, ready to be stored in an urn or buried under a headstone or sprinkled somewhere, whatever Dad plans to do with it. You need a special processor to grind the remains into a kind of fine-grained sand.

  But I don’t think that has quite the same ring to it. For the relatives, I mean. “Here is Henny’s sand.”

  The whole process takes around two hours. I wish I knew exactly when everything was going to happen, so that I could pr
epare myself. It would be awful to disappear midthought. Or be thinking something completely meaningless when it happened—I wonder what time it is—and then nothing.

  No, I want my very last thought to be grand and beautiful and important. A final message, even if I’m the only one who hears it.

  Below me, the motel is closed for the first time since a snowstorm left us without power for three days in 2003. The reception area is dark, the computers switched off. The restaurant is eerily empty, all the chairs upside down on the tables. The rooms are locked. Only two cars are there: Camila’s and MacKenzie’s.

  On the other side of the parking lot, the Pine Creek Motel sign glows faintly in the daylight.

  Vacanci s. The e has stopped working.

  Beneath that is a patchwork of strange little signs made from cheap metal, in all imaginable sizes, colors, and styles:

  Vacant rooms!

  Cabins!

  Forest views!

  Microwaves in every room!

  Air-conditioning!

  Now with color TV!

  Restaurant!

  Bar!

  Pool!

  Open

  Vote No on Measure 9!

  Oregon—Proud home of anti-gay ballot measures since 1992!

  MacKenzie added the last two.

  Chapter 1

  Caucasian Female, 33 Years Old

  My very last thought alive: Michael’s body.

  I was thinking Michael’s body, Michael’s body, Michael’s body, as if repeating a miracle I still didn’t quite believe in.

  Every detail on the road was familiar to me, and yet they all felt magically new, as though I was seeing them for the first time. The asphalt, which looked even more worn-out in the afternoon sunshine, the gravel at the sides of the road, the sweet scent of pines. I was smiling. I know that. I had been smiling the entire weekend.

  The next thing I remember is standing there on the road, feeling slightly bewildered, looking at a strange heap some twenty feet away.

  At first, all I feel is a vague sense of curiosity. I don’t realize it’s a body, and the idea that it could be human doesn’t even cross my mind.

  It’s only as I get closer that I can make out a right leg, unmistakably human, bent at an unnatural angle. While that initial shock is still sinking in, I recognize my good jeans and what’s left of my favorite blouse.

  The bright-red polka dots are clear enough, but I’ll never be able to get the rest of it white again.

  I don’t recognize my hair. The pale-brown strands are mixed with gravel and engine oil and what I guess must be blood. My left arm is sticking straight out from the body, and my right arm is…missing.

  Instinctively, I look down at my own right side, but my arm is still there.

  Up ahead, a truck is straddling both lanes of the road. A man in his forties is leaning against the right-hand side of the hood. His eyes are fixed on the ground, and it looks like his knees are about to give way beneath him.

  He takes two unsteady steps toward the edge of the road, where he bends down over the ferns. I look away when he starts throwing up.

  Somehow he manages to make it back to the truck without falling apart. He’s slim, his shirt a little too big for him, and his hands are shaking as he pulls out his phone and calls the police. Accident. Pine Creek. Near the motel. Just after the exit. One…injured.

  We’re alone here among the pines. He rocks back and forth as he mumbles to himself, and I can’t think of a single thing I can do to help. I try patting him on the shoulder, awkwardly and apologetically, but it doesn’t make much difference.

  Then I hear what he is saying.

  It’s like some kind of mantra. Over and over again.

  “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead.”

  * * *

  Just fifteen minutes ago, I was head-over-heels happy.

  I’m thinking about that as though happiness should be some kind of shield against being mowed down by a truck. And I’m thinking about how quiet everything is around us, as if nothing bad could ever happen on this old road.

  This is a nightmare; that’s all it is. Any minute now, I’ll wake up in the Redwood Cabin and be fascinated by how such a familiar room can look so different when you’re lying on your back in it.

  Before I open my eyes, I’ll reach out to check if Michael’s body is still there beside me. Then I’ll smile when it is.

  Providing everything with Michael even happened, of course. If all this is just a dream, then maybe Michael was, too.

  Maybe I’ll wake up in my own bed, alone again, and get back to cleaning motel rooms as usual.

  The truck driver stops mumbling to himself, but that just makes things worse. He stops rocking, too. Instead, he starts shaking.

  When Sheriff Ed Carmichael arrives, I run toward him, relieved. I want to grab hold of his arm, harder than I’ve ever grabbed anything before, and force him to walk faster, do something.

  Sheriff Ed will know what needs to be done, I think.

  He’s the third generation of Carmichaels to be sheriff here. When he started at the sheriff’s office, both his grandpa and father were still alive. He’d dealt with that the way he dealt with everything else in his line of work: stoically, with valiant patience and calm competence.

  I didn’t think anything could shock him, but I was wrong.

  “Jesus,” he says. “That’s Henny Broek.”

  He calls for an ambulance first, then the state troopers, who promise to send “a couple of cars” as soon as they can.

  Sheriff Ed turns to the truck driver. He asks some routine questions about the man’s name, driver’s license, and registration, and then moves on to what happened.

  “I…I didn’t see her. She just stepped out into the road, and I tried to brake, but…”

  The truck driver starts rocking again, and shaking. The sheriff fetches a blanket from the trunk of his patrol car, wraps it around the man’s shoulders, and guides him over to the back seat.

  “The state troopers will be here soon,” he says. “They’re going to take you down to the station. They’ll need to take some samples. Breath, urine, blood. Do you understand? They have to do all that.”

  Sheriff Ed studies the truck driver as he talks. Maybe he’s looking for signs of intoxication. Maybe his work as a sheriff has made him suspicious.

  But I’m pretty sure it happened just like the driver said. I was thinking about Michael. I was happy, my body high on adrenaline and exhausted from too little sleep, and suddenly I was lying in the middle of the road.

  “Henny Broek,” the sheriff says with a shake of his head. “She was always such a good girl.”

  * * *

  The ambulance is the first to arrive. At the sheriff’s request, paramedics give the truck driver a quick, uninterested once-over, and then they move on to me. Not that there seems to be much they can do. They cover my body and lift it into the ambulance. The state troopers arrive just as they are leaving.

  Their sirens sound muted even when they’re right next to us, and I blink at the revolving, psychedelic blue lights. Fragments of conversation: “What a waste.” “Do you think he was drunk?” The state troopers are strong and tough, and they all look incredibly young.

  The commanding officer walks over to Sheriff Ed while the two others set up a detour with a flashing sign reading Lane Closed. A car passes, slowing down so the driver can take in as much as possible, and I feel embarrassed by all the fuss. I never meant to cause this much trouble, I think.

  “Sir,” says the commanding officer. As their sirens fall silent, I can hear the sound of the yellow-and-black plastic tape flapping in the wind.

  “Did you know the deceased, sir?”

  The deceased.

  “Henny Broek,” the sheriff replies automatically. “Caucasia
n female, thirty-three years old. Works at Pine Creek Motel and Cabins.” He nods down the road toward the motel.

  “Worked, sir.”

  “Huh? Yeah, right. She was in charge of the motel, along with MacKenzie Jones. They both live there. The motel has three cabins nearby, so I’m guessing she was on her way to or from one of them. From, I’d say, given the direction the truck was traveling. The driver’s name is Paul Jackson. Resident of Pine Creek. Says she ran into the road without looking. He tried to brake, didn’t make it.”

  The deceased, the deceased, the deceased. I fight the urge to laugh.

  “MacKenzie and Henny manage the motel, but they don’t own it. The owner doesn’t live in town anymore. For a cheap motel, it’s a pretty good place. Not much trouble. They have to kick out difficult guests from time to time, but that’s all. Nothing unusual.”

  The state trooper doesn’t come out and say he doesn’t care about the motel, but I can tell he’s thinking it.

  “And next of kin, sir?”

  “Just her father. Lives at 17 Water Street. Her mom’s been dead a long time.”

  “Maybe just as well,” the trooper says, and Sheriff Ed pulls a face.

  So this is what it’s like to be dead, I think. Shouldn’t there be…I don’t know, more to it? Should I really be able to stand here on the road beneath the trees, smelling the same old, dusty asphalt, pine needles, and ferns?

  Not that the trees care about what happened to me. They were here long before I came along, and they’ll be here a long time after me. What I did during my short life doesn’t matter to them. Not how it ended, either.

  “You want me to inform her father?” Sheriff Ed asks.

  “That might be best, sir,” the trooper replies, sounding relieved. “Better if it comes from someone he knows.”

  “Sometimes I really hate my job,” Sheriff Ed says, sighing wearily.

  Chapter 2

  “She Didn’t Feel Any Pain”

  Jesus is watching over us in Dad’s living room.

  I rode over here with the sheriff. When he started walking toward his car, I just climbed in and sat behind him in the back seat. It was only once I was sitting there that I realized I’d walked straight through the locked door.