The room was spinning and my eyes could not focus on one particular thing. What the hell happened to me last night? I'd decided to travel to New York City in search of God knows what and my first night; I can't even piece together the events. As my eyes finally begin to adjust, I study the room. I have never seen anything so beautiful. Gorgeous bay windows flood the room with morning sunshine. A luxurious cream carpet provides the bedding for vintage, country style drawers and dressers. I notice a vanity table sitting in the corner of this over-sized room. I leave what I now realise is the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in. I remove the soft pristine, white duvet and bounce off the memory foam mattress. I walk over to the vanity table, which has a plethora of perfumes and make up, clearly worth thousands. Where the hell am I? I wonder to myself. My anxiety levels are rising as I find myself conflicted. I can't stay here forever but at the same time, I'm scared of what I'll find. I am clearly in someone else's home. My drunken state has yet again failed to allow me any dignity and I have taken advantage of someone's hospitality. Maybe I should not automatically judge these people as Samaritans, they may have kidnapped me. I decide to venture out of my safety bubble before my imagination completely destroys me.
The smell of lilies hits me as I enter a grandiose hallway. I make my way down the beautiful winding staircase, attempting to calm my nerves with every step. I am in an open plan living area that appears too clean and white to be lived in. I am proven wrong when I hear voices coming from the far end of the room. I cautiously walk towards them and enter into the kitchen. Two young girls are sitting at the breakfast bar – they appear to be twins but it is hard to tell - all I can seen is matching long blonde hair. Suddenly, a woman appears with a stack of pancakes. I didn't notice her standing at the cooker. She sees me. I hold my breath.
"Ah, Sleeping Beauty has awoken!" she exclaims. She looks familiar; my memory must be coming back to me. I don't say anything. "Want some pancakes, I've just made them?" She's in her forties at the most and with her golden hair and high cheekbones, she's beautiful. By this point the twins are staring, awaiting my reply. They, in their teenage youth are also beautiful – you could picture the woman in her forties looking just like them in her day. I finally muster, "No thank you," not wanting to offend I add, "I don't feel so good".
"I'm not surprised, the amount you had to drink last night, you ought to be more careful."
Oh God.
"Forgive me for sounding rude but could you tell me how I ended up here?" I ask in my polite telephone voice.
"You passed out in my sons arms, he brought you back here. He didn't know what else to do – you had no keys, phone or I.D." She said in a soothing tone, "You're Jane Doe to us."
"I am so sorry." was all I could muster.
"Just out of curiosity honey, what is your name?"
"Sorry, I'm Kyla"
Thanking them would be a start, Kyla. My critical inner voice states sardonically.
"Thank you so much for looking after me…" my voice trails off as my social inadequacy kicks in.
"Don't worry about it honey, we didn't bring our son up to leave young girls at the city's mercy."
Words fail me. I smile. I linger in the kitchen not sure what to do with my self. I can feel the panic rising. Do I leave or sit down? Social convention is not my strong point. The woman saves me by telling me to have a seat. I sit at the breakfast bar with the twins – now that I can see their faces, they are definitely twins.
"I'm sorry, where are my manners? I'm Tracy and these are my daughters, Aquinnah and Schuyler."
Despite the fact that I am neither eating nor drinking, I choke. I knew I had recognised them. In my hung-over, disorientated state I didn't even realise why!
"Are you okay, honey?" Tracy asks.
"Tracy P-pollan?" I stutter. The twins laugh. I feel even more uncomfortable.
"Yes, according to my drivers license" she giggles, "I am surprised someone of your age knows who I am."
Oh my God, you are in Michael J. Fox and Tracy Pollan's kitchen. This cannot be happening. My inner voice seems to have lost its sarcasm.