The Last Days of California: A Novel by Mary Miller

was being renovated: TVs had been wheeled outside; bed frames and mattresses leaned against the walls; carpets rolled and stacked. Our room, however, didn’t look like it had been renovated since the place had been built, a very long time ago.
    We set our luggage down and our father went to get ice, first thing, like he always did. I went to the bathroom, which was handicapped—bars everywhere and a sticky mat in the tub so you wouldn’t slip and bust your head, which made me not want to take a shower after all. I propped an elbow on a bar and listened to Elise complain. Only drug addicts wore black t-shirts, she said, and boys who ate foot-long sandwiches and read manga in the lunchroom. Girls like Elise didn’t even sit in the lunchroom—they sat in the little waterless ditch in the courtyard, their legs stretched out so they could get a suntan. They passed around bags of grapes and baby carrots because they found eating in public humiliating, and if they had to do it, they would eat only foods that were clean and neat.
    I opened the door and scooted past them, peeled the spread off the bed closest to the bathroom. It was smooth and silky on top but pilled underneath. I peeled back the top sheet and looked for the short black hairs that were often woven into the thread. I didn’t see any so I got in and pulled the sheet up to my chin. It smelled clean, like bleach, and I thought of a show I’d seen about pests people couldn’t get rid of. The family with bedbugs had closed them up in a suitcase and carried them home from a motel just like this one. The bugs were hardy and adapted to survive, moving up and down the stairs on the children’s stuffed animals.
    I listened to the sounds of renovation—things falling and being ripped out—while Elise and my mother droned on in the background. My mother spoke in the slow, controlled voice she’d been using a lot lately, a voice that begged us not to give her a hard time.
    I got out of bed, opened the door, and stepped outside. The motel was two-story and horseshoe-shaped, the lot nearly full. I didn’t see my father. A worker stepped out of the room next to ours; he was small and covered in a fine white dust.
    “What are you doing?” I asked.
    “Putting in carpet,” he said.
    I nodded and we shared a moment.
    “Do you want new carpet in your room?” he asked.
    I tried to think of something to say. Did he think we lived here? “Not today,” I said, and he went back into the room he’d come out of. I closed the door and got back in bed. I wasn’t gathering enough information. I tried to think of what else I could have asked him but couldn’t come up with anything. I’d have had to start at the beginning. What was his name? Where was he born? Did he have a wife? Kids? But all of these things seemed meaningless.
    “Fine,” Elise said. “I’ll wear King Jesus tomorrow if you wash it. I’ll wear it for the rest of my life if you want.”
    “Jess, get me the detergent out of my carry-on,” my mother said. “Come on, take ’em off.”
    We took off our shirts and threw them at her. Then we put on the Old Navy tank tops we liked to sleep in, fast, before our father returned. They were Christmas-themed—mine was red with white snowflakes and hers was white with red candy canes. For some reason, we only thought to buy them at Christmas.
    “I wish you’d just let me stay home,” Elise said. “We’re working on a new routine and I’m going to be behind.” She sat at my feet and fell between my legs. I kicked and scooted over and she came clambering up the bed and stuck her face in mine.
    “We’re not going back,” I said, as dramatically as possible.
    She put her finger up my nostril.
    “Stop molesting me,” I said, throwing the covers over my head.
    I didn’t want to go to heaven if Elise wasn’t going to be there. I’d have to take my chances on earth. We’d make our way home and find Cole, or he’d find us, and then we’d locate the key to