Like Nevada, the roads in California seemed to stretch to infinity. The longer Sara drove, the more it seemed that every fast food restaurant was only a piece of litter that could be picked up, eliminated by some unseen hand, until all that would be left was road and sky. The sun glared down until every road sign glinted like an emerald. And she drove on. Feeling strangely numb, Sara concentrated on the warmth of the steering wheel beneath her fingers and the practiced optimism of the radio weatherman. Looks like sun in California, he was saying with a cheery Midwestern accent. Sun in California. Her memories of California were filled with sun; sun through open windows, sun on white sea foam, sun on dewy glasses of red Kool-aid. Sun streaming through hospital windows. Sara turned up the volume on the radio and shook the memories of sun out of her head. Within the hour, she arrived in Tamales Bay.
She rented a hotel room by the sea, one with coral-colored walls and bits of sand in the carpet. The only sounds were the waves that advanced, then sunk back, and then called for her again. Sara turned on the TV and, as Oprah conjectured in the background, flipped on the light in the bathroom. It was one of those flickering bathroom lights, and its dull light made her face glimmer like a dying star. Her paleness made her draw back slightly, and she wondered if maybe she was getting sick. But no—it had to be the light. Sara ran a hand through her hair. Was it always this lank? She laid one hand on the cold tile of the sink, feeling slightly unreal. Oprah's voice seemed to fade, and even the waves began to disappear, until all she could hear was a slight ringing in her ears. And then voices. Sara sighed and turned off the bathroom light, making her way back into the bedroom. She had forgotten how thin hotel walls were. Her neighbors, whoever they were, sounded anxious.
"….dehydrated," said one, a female voice.
The other one sounded like he was in agreement.
"…too long in the sun."
Sara smiled, and wondered if they were talking about their child. Not enough Coppertone and too much soda on the beach always made for an unhappy kid. Why was it that seasonal beachgoers never seemed to learn? She stretched out on top of the bedspread—she had processed too many hotel rooms to touch the sheets—and closed her eyes, listening for the conversation from next door. Their murmurs were strangely comforting, like waking up to the scent of Grissom's coffee. Only one wall away from normal life. Like the ocean waves, the voices faded in and out until Sara fell asleep.