Hannah had composed a letter that I said I would pass along to Lily. I tore the envelope and convinced myself that I was reading to ascertain that she wasn’t trying to abscond with her again, but I was reading it as a cipher for myself. Would my brilliant, dead mother have loved or resented me? Would I have loved her?

I slipped it under Lily’s door after reading these words:

“Did you know, my dearest daughter, that in sanatoriums and prisons there are classes in designing your ideal house? We request catalogs, tiles, and swatches from area stores. I’ve been at leisure to ruminate on it, and the house I would build for you would be a phenomenon of staircases and country stars, great fires burning in a stone hearth. It will be sprawling, but not so sprawling that if you shout, there’s a danger of not receiving an answer. Nooks and crannies are scattered around for when dinner is served but you’re not ready yet. An attic holds trunks with crystal globes of your memories. You’ll be able to list all the plants that spike like cuneiform in the garden. Perhaps it’s along the coast of the sea—or no, in the mountains—or its own island, or poised above a city like Siena or Buenos Aires or Istanbul. You can’t reach the house unless it’s by boat or dirigible. The forecast reflects your mood—rainy when you want it to rain, sunny when you want sun, in the midst of a blizzard when you want to feel your sanctuary is a sanctuary. Within brisk walk or bicycle, there will be a quaint grocery store and anything you seek—a salon, an arcade, a haunted orchard—and a Benjamin who adores you. There’s more, but what I hope you see is that we would be happy.”

the promised hostel

Carl is a bipolar orthopedic podiatrist, and he’s fussy at the nipple. He’s been on a nursing strike for the past several days, and Maddy is worried that she’s doing something wrong. She massages a breast, priming the milk for him. After a few false starts, he’s able to latch. “Gently, Carl,” she coos. “This isn’t a race.” Seung Hun rolls in wearing fuzzy slippers and some kind of kimono. He is multitalented. He’s got a trust fund back in Sydney in addition to being an asshole. He goes to town on Maddy’s unoccupied breast and finishes in under a minute, not too tough to satisfy. There are eight of us. Every morning, the buffet table is abundant with cheese, butter, olives, eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, jam, honey, yogurt, and fresh coffee and tea, but the men prefer Maddy. It is a hostel in the biblical promised land, the promised hostel, but not for me. I am in love with her. And I am the only one not allowed to drink from her breasts.

I follow Maddy to her room after breakfast. We all have our own rooms after complaining long enough about Carl waking us up by jumping on the bed during his manic episodes. It’s the off-season, and the staff wants to ensure our happiness. Maddy swears she hasn’t been fucking any of the expat backpackers, but I don’t believe her.