She remembers the room because she spent enough time there. You were 16 months old at the time, and your parents were supposedly taking a trip to the Grand Canyon. But after they pulled into this Super 8 in Flagstaff, your mom took you to the pool, and your dad said he was going to take a nap. When your mom came back to the room, your Dad was gone.
“Lived here for three weeks,” she says. “Just you and me, taking turns crying.”
The room was on his credit card so she just stayed there with you, waiting, hoping that he’d change his mind. You examine the space. It’s a white box with a window and a desk and a closet. It’s definitely been updated in the last 20 years, but not with much.
“What made you finally check out?"
"The manager told me our room was reserved for a convention. He offered to move us, but I took it as a sign that we should move on. What are you looking for?”
You’re not sure. You’re peeking into the closet, lifting drawers to see what’s been written underneath, pulling at the edge of the carpet. You want a clue.
“Guess I just wanted to check one last time to see if he left us any note.”
“One last time?” your mom will ask.
Open the curtain to show her the tractor.
“Bought this Super 8,” tell your mom. “Gonna keep it in operation, every room except this one. I’m wrecking this room and leaving the space flat. I’m wiping all evidence of him being my father off the face of the earth.”
Your Mom will say, “But even if you destroy the room won’t he still be out there somewhere living his life?”
Say, “Not for long.”
Your Mom will make out the Lincoln Towncar in the parking lot, and the man gagged in the backseat. He’ll be watching the tractor as it starts its engine and moves toward your room.
“We’d better go, Mom,” tell her.
She’ll grab your face in her hands, overjoyed to have instilled in you such a strong family bond that you’ll murder those who try to violate it.
Happy Say Goodbye To The Super 8 Day!