Page 2 of Don't Tell

“Good morning to you, too, Roger. We’ll be on our way as soon as you share the schedule.” Carmen points at the clipboard in his hands. “Unless you want to hog it for whatever reason.”

I smile to myself. Carmen never lets Roger get away with anything. Sometimes I wish I were more like her — that I knewhow to defend myself. But I doubt she had to deal with a selfish mother. I doubt she had her self-esteem beaten down and lost her confidence as a result.

Roger huffs. He points a tiny finger at me. “Jenkins. You have the Sonoma suite. It needs a deep clean. Make sure you’re done by 10:00 a.m.”

"Yes, Roger."

"Six-twelve has called twice about his breakfast already."

"Yes, Roger."

“And for me?” I hear Carmen ask.

Roger huffs again. “You have seven-fourteen and then seven-fifteen. Both need to be deep-cleaned.”

“Gotcha.”

Across the lobby, Frank Delaney is at the concierge desk with a stack of overnight notes and the same posture he has every morning — hands flat on the wood, shoulders square, gray hair combed straight back. He looks up. He nods. It is the warmest greeting I will get today.

"Jenkins." Roger again, louder than he needs to be. "Are we listening?"

"Sonoma Suite, six-twelve, eight-fourteen."

He smiles like he has won a bet.

I take the sheet. Down the corridor, I stop at the supply closet and load the cart — bleach, microfiber, fresh linens stacked in their tissue, two bottles of the lavender spray the management thinks the guests can smell. I slip my sketchbook into the bottom of the cart, under the spare cleaning rags, wedged against the side rail so it won't slide.

My phone buzzes for a third time in the elevator to the Sonoma suite. Finally alone, I pull it out of my pocket. I tap the screen, and instantly my fingers freeze as I see the numerous calls and missed calls from that one familiar number — my mother.

I had it saved once. I deleted it after my college funds went missing, but I know it’s her number. I don’t always hear from her, but when I do, it’s never anything good.

The messages stare up at me. I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Delete them, probably. But against my better judgment, I click on one of the messages and read.

Unknown Number

I know you have the money, Suzanne. Don’t you dare ignore your mother.

My hands jerk as I shut my phone. I slip the device into my pocket. She’s not getting a single dime from me. The last time I gave her money, I thought she was dying. She came to me with a sob story and told me she had a lump in her breast and needed money for some tests.

I scraped all my earnings for that month, including tips, and handed them to her. Only to find out she spent it on a trip to Mexico with her boyfriend. But what do I expect from her anyway? That mom will love me after all these years? Fool. She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t even like you. You’re a means to an end to her. That’s all you are.

It doesn’t take me long to finish cleaning the Sonoma suite. There was vomit on the grand piano, but honestly, I’ve seen a lot worse. You see a lot of things when you work at a hotel. Men cheating on their wives under the guise of a business meeting. Wives cheating on their husbands with the pool boy or just coming here to hide the mountain of shoes they bought.

I think of myself as a secret keeper. I see things, but I never speak about them. It’s what I’m paid to do.

I stop in front of six-twelve and knock. The door opens to reveal a man who’s red in the face. He’s wearing a robe, and helooks less than pleased to see me. I don't blame him. I can only imagine what I look like after cleaning vomit.

"You're late."

"I apologize, sir."

He folds his arms. "My breakfast is cold and disgusting. How will you fix it?"

"I'll have a fresh order sent up immediately."

"My wife is very upset."

"I'm so sorry, sir."