It was supposed to be a retreat. I was instructed via the invitation to pack one bag only. I went along because I was told that I had ‘won.’ Travel is sparse these days, so I thought a getaway would be good for me.
We all gathered at the lodge, a recreated mountain lodge. In the lobby were everyone’s name tags presented neatly on a table over a red tablecloth. All the greeters were so friendly, clear-skinned, blonde and smiley. I couldn’t figure out the marketing as I looked around the room at the other winners.
Every age was represented; children were with families; adults were present. There were people alone like me, people of all colors; there was not one specific demographic. We mingled a bit, and the friendly ‘advisors’ who seemed more like camp counselors ‘camp counselors’ rallied us together. It was like a Christian boot camp, but there was no God at this camp.
We ate dinner and had seating arrangements at big, round tables like there used to be at weddings. Our names were on placards, and the dinner was served to around 250 people.
Children ran and played. We were all a bit confused, but we had shown up. Everyone just needed a break, I suppose. Like you do when you accept that beach-front condo, two-hour rigamarole so you can have a weekend getaway. W
hen dinner was over, a band played outside in a beautiful moss rock and rose garden courtyard. The rooms of the Lodge surrounded the courtyard in a pine air mountain setting. The times of lodges and campground getaways had ended quite a few years ago, so this was almost like a Disneyland ride. Every detail was very succinct; the campfire smell, the checkered tablecloths. The whole ‘rustic’ feel. The trees looked real, the wooden carved railings, and even the crisp mountain air was breathable and clean.
We were told we could wander around and pick our rooms after dinner. It was very random. Some people ran like children immediately to the room they thought was best, as if they were calling dibs, rushing their children to grab their things and hurry. I was alone and didn’t really care; I was in no rush.
I enjoyed the music and the dinner and the evening air. People were friendly yet vague. Where we worked, where we were from, were the main topics of conversation. It all seemed pleasant enough. We were told what we were allowed to discuss. Conversation was to follow a murder-mystery type of banter, and we were to keep it light, stay happy, and not get too specific about anything, but just enjoy our night; all would be revealed in the morning. It was supposed to be a retreat.
It was all about the choosing of the rooms. It was seemingly harmless. I kept waiting for a spiel about time shares or a drinking-of-the-punch gathering or a sermon or inspirational bullshit. It was all very docile. They knew what they were administering, and how, with their welcoming smiles and perfect hair.
I am gutted now by the fact that at the last minute, I changed rooms. I didn’t really have a reason. I wish I had. It would be a thing I could blame, or hate. Or never think about again. Like a mildew smell, or ugly curtains. It was nothing; it was just a feeling.
When I asked to change rooms, it was cheerfully done, like the randomness of choosing them to begin with. There were no hard or fast rules to the room ‘reservations,’ as there were no reservations. At all. We were all invited, and we had placards at dinner, but the rooms were always up for grabs. I don’t know if anyone else changed rooms. There was no hullabaloo or big deal made of any of it. They just said ‘Certainly!’ Maybe that was the point to the one-bag thing. I’ll never know.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I found out how sorry I would be. During the night, selected doorways were marked with a red ‘X.’ Not a big red X, but just a small swipe of two lines. No drips. Just an X. When I left my room to go down and get breakfast, I hadn’t even noticed the Xs. It seems like this is a detail that would help. There is nothing pinpointing anything to me being able to have changed anything. It was such a small, meaningless decision. I just wanted to change rooms. Out of nowhere.
After I had changed rooms, I forgot all about it. Apparently, during the night another family had arrived and had taken my previous room. It wasn’t until later in the morning that we all figured out what the Xs were for. The mother of the family who had taken my old room came down to the breakfast buffet and began screaming at me. “It should have been you! It should have been you!” I didn’t know what she meant.
Some of us gathered, trying to see what she was talking about. She was screaming and crying, her husband came and got her. Everyone was staring at me. Some people dropped everything and ran to their doors. My door had nothing on it. My previous room had an ‘X’. I could see it from my room just the other side of the courtyard. She was still screaming, ‘THIS WAS HER ROOM!! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HER!’
Everyone who had an ‘X’ on their door was now going to die. One person in each room, or if there were only one, would become ill and die before the end of the week. We were told to now check out; the ‘Xs’ were explained in an email. People were scrambling and crying and carrying their sick children away, helping their partners to their cars. The little girl in my old room was going to die. I was going to live. Everyone agreed I shouldn’t have changed rooms. It was my fault.
I used to love the mountains.
