Why did I walk out in my nightie? Old, torn, sheer, though decency was ensured by the wrap I had the good sense of grabbing. This usually occurred in dreams—being inappropriately clothed in a public place. It had happened in reality as well, quite recently, in occasion of an emergency or two. Was today one such?

No. But when I had stepped out to the backyard—half-asleep, coffee in hand—the birds were too loud, too restless, and they must have unnerved me. They were doing a hell of a rumpus, drawing frantic figure eights around the bare branches of the maple trees.

Usually, I could find the cause of a bird commotion. A predator invading territory, a disturbed nest. This time neither applied. What, then? The odd airborne excitement fired my anxiety about the trees. They were looking bad, worse than usual. Was there something I could do? I should seek Miraya’s advice, I thought. But not on the phone (we never called one another). Just go.

 

The two maples had been attacked by a plague only a few weeks earlier. I had called the local forestry agency and found out that they were informed. The bug had already spread over a considerable area and a number of specimens had been treated. Soon mine were as well, but hopes of survival were slim, I understood. They’d die sooner than later.

So would I unless a medical miracle happened. I knew it, I did. But I had reached the stage where I wasn’t perpetually scared. A sense of unreality, a numbdisbelief coexisted with painful awareness and despair. I was thin, my body inconsistent. Putting clothes on myself wasn’t pleasant. Truly, it felt irrelevant. Meaningless. That is why I could be found in my nightie at uncanny hours, reluctant to change into anything else.

Let me rephrase. I could not be found, because no one came to visit. My isolation was chosen—this was a time of life (rather an ante-chamber of non-life) I wished to share with nobody. Besides nature. That’s why I had come back to the place where I was born and raised—a remote countryside in the blessed middle of nowhere.

A few other houses were scattered at a distance. Mainly vacation homes of town dwellers, they were empty. Was such scarcity of neighbors a risk in my present state? No. I could communicate with the world via phone and via internet. I could drive to the village in about half an hour, to the hospital (thrice a week) in an hour or so.

And there was Miraya. Her proximity made all the difference. A fifteen-minute walk and I’d be at her gate. A five-minute climb up a graveled alley and I’d reach the mansion. The slope, I must admit, had become demanding. I ran out of breath, my heart pounded in my chest. I slowed down and I took short breaks as if fascinated by a wildflower, a cloud or a passing butterfly.

I am quite sure my act didn’t fool Miraya. Recently, she had begun to meet me at mid-way where a bench was conveniently placed. She waited there. As I arrived we both sat for a while, then we resumed walking.

 

But this morning I made it to the house, then proceeded to the back where the orchards spread, occupying a miniature bowl hemmed by smooth, rounded hills. Oh my, Miraya’s backyard! I had loved it since when I was a child. It had always sent chills through my spine, of the pleasant kind.

Once you stepped in, everything else vanished. The yard was its own universe, island, secret garden. Don’t all kids like these natural havens? Why, though? What do we wish to be shielded from? Isn’t the outside world desirable, rich, full of promises? To me it was, yet I found the orchards magical. They made me ache with something I should call nostalgia for lack of a better word. An unnamable longing.

As you passed the mansion, you’d see a mass of green velvet or a sea of white and pink, according to the season. Such a lively carpet ended against a background of rocks brown and purple—a steep hill, like a theater curtain, hedged the property, concentrating the horizon in a cozy yet satisfying portion. Not too small. Not alarmingly wide.

If you turned around, you were struck by the same illusion, as another hill blocked the road cutting off everything but the mansion, which stuck out like a nipple topping the curvy slopes of a lonely breast. From the back, you’d notice how large it was, yet so built it did not look imposing.

Once, its jagged silhouette—dented with pointed roofs, small turrets, and gables—was the only manmade presence against the sky. Now other buildings appeared, distant yet disturbing: the profile of recently sprouted condominiums—still vacation houses, but on the cheap side; further back, a bit pale yet detectable—huge, distasteful, bunker-like—the hospital.

With some effort, you could blot out those fringes, isolate the villa as a single hieroglyph tattooed into the blue. Such erasure would be easier at night, sure—the mansion would be a thick opaque mass, especially in moonlight, while the distant constructions would fade. At night one would assume years hadn’t gone by, not changed things so radically. At night, though, I wasn’t there.

True, the days had already shortened, but my visits never overstepped teatime, which—I guessed—should be left alone. They—Miraya and Carlos—were as private as I was. They didn’t need company. I breezed by. They liked it that way.

 

When I arrived, she was fully dressed. Well, it wasn’t that early, but did the hour count? Was she ever less than impeccable? She had put on a tunic of linen, thick and pale—a tint of discolored rope. Here and there sparse threads caught the light in a striking fashion, sparkling like metal wire or mother of pearl. My gaze was magnetized by those filaments, further glowing as she gestured towards a tall, thin tree I hadn’t noticed before. Clearly it was sick, like mine.

It was a maple tree—like those in my backyard—though the fact wasn’t evident, as no leaf was left on the branches. Way too early, in regard to the season. Something else appeared wrong—branches were scarce, their design less intricate than expected. “They have started falling,” said Miraya, and she wasn’t speaking of foliage. I noticed the slight crack in her voice.

Was she about to cry (or to fight tears) because of dead flora? I didn’t think so, but there was a strain in her throat I had not heard before. Was she unwell?  “A lot came down already,” she said, pushing twigs away with her toe. A few small sticks—she and Carlos must have had removed larger debris. They employed seasonal help around harvest time. Otherwise, they took care of all maintenance with great pride. Oh, they kept the place as clean as a jewel box. Truly, they had no other concern. The property was their baby.

 

Now she bent to pick up the fragments she had gathered with her foot. A bin, crate, an orderly pile was certainly waiting for them. As I watched, the color of the wood struck me—shiny, light, not unlike the threads parsing Miraya’s dress. But the twigs didn’t remind me of metal or pearl—rather polished bone.

“Look up,” she almost shouted. A bough was straight above us, severed from the trunk, yet held up by other branches entangling it. Stuck, suspended by a kind of cobweb, it looked haunting, unreal. I could see the cut section. Its core glowed with the same insane candor of the twigs scattered below—stark white like a tendon, like a string of neural substance, a marrow. “Is that color normal?” I asked, knowing it was not. But Miraya was so very knowledgeable about natural matters. “It’s the sickness,” she said, grabbing my arm in haste. “Move over! The branch might fall.”

As we gingerly strolled through the orchards, I realized the plague wasn’t threatening the fruit trees. Those bugs carefully choose their victims. Their targets. These orderly rows—quite packed, well organized—were safe. They would thrive, unaware of the maples’ misfortune. They would survive Miraya and Carlos. They would certainly outlive me.

Not sure if the thought of their longevity compared to my precariousness pleased me. Perhaps not, but I didn’t linger on such melancholy note. As I said, I had trespassed into a phase of intermittent denial. Or denial pure and simple, ruptured by black holes of revolt, smeared with a coat of vague, blurred hope.

 

But no, I didn’t brood over the orchards’ bright future compared to my very opaque one. I was busy planning my route, thinking I should walk home through the riverbed, still dry after the summer. It ran parallel to the road—a ravine carved below street level, made invisible by a thick hedge of blackberry bordering the asphalt lane.

I knew where to find the most manageable slopes, where the brambles allowed access. In my teens, I had perused that discrete back alley many, many times. Therefore I was familiar with its mood—eerie, lunar, a tad desolate yet pleasantly wild. Maybe I was nostalgic—I hadn’t teetered on that patchwork of rocks, gravel, mud and sticking out roots for a long time.

Yet my present and pressing reason for choosing the riverbed was my stupid nightgown. If I kept my kimono tied (a waist string was concealed under the satin lapel) nothing would be wrong with my appearance. Miraya hadn’t commented upon it, though she had never seen me so attired. The kimono was Mother’s. I had recently dug it out of a closet and then hung it by the front door, close to the umbrella rack, for no reason. Just a fancy—I had started following them with little restraint. You do that as soon as you’re weaned off immortality.

A bit worn—a color of rust touched with peach and pink—the Japanese robe was decent. Only I knew about the yellowing gown below it, sheer, and no underwear. Still, that bothered me now that the sun was up, now that I was lucid, present, awake.

 

What ran through the ravine during the appropriate seasons—never deeper than a couple of feet—was a modest creek, yet quite beautiful when at its fullest. The peak of the flow coincided with the awakening of vegetation in spring—buds and buttons, then small tender leaves. In my green years, I liked to come at such times, following the water’s edge or wading on rocks. I had fallen more than once to no harm—just mud-soiled clothes, a few scratches.

Did I love the creek the same way I did Miraya’s orchards, clasped in their mystery canyon? Not quite. True, both places had a quality of seclusion (they were sanctuaries of sorts) and yet they were different. The orchards had a peculiar stillness, as if under a charm. If you’d linger in them for too long, you’d be trapped like Ulysses in Circe’s world. You would never find your way home. Well, unless the orchards were home—a different story.

On the contrary, the stream was free—a way to freedom, I mean. As you neared it, you sensed it in the wind playing among vegetation, in the water sliding along—slow but foxy, full of stubborn resolve. Yes, the riverbed was a way of escape, at least a possibility.

 

There is where I met Carlos. The first time was by chance. Later it was on purpose, I guess. We knew that we would meet (or at least I did) though we never openly planned it, never specified when. But we met almost daily, for a while.

I spotted him from the back—his head slightly bent forward, intent. His hair, already graying, was tied in a dangling ponytail. I think the ponytail caught my attention—it was trendy at the time but not here, not in the village. I got curious. Then I saw the cane.

He heard me approach, but he didn’t budge. I knew he knew I was there. His back stiffened and gave him away. But he took his time, as if stating his lack of concern before calmly, deliberately looking over his shoulder. He gave me a long, quiet stare. Then he turned the other way, resumed looking down—the tip of his cane digging cautiously among bushes and grass.

“What are you looking for?” I exclaimed without introductions. “Eggs,” he said.  Formalities could be postponed. “Not here,” he muttered, his eyes scanning around with a piercing gaze. He started walking upstream—slowly, because no proper trail was there. And he constantly stopped, digging, hunting some more.

I saw his funny leg. Kind of floppy, it trickled away when its turn came (after the good one had advanced and anchored itself). It unfolded from the hip, dripping a bit askew—until, finally, his shoe reached the ground.

I don’t know why I followed him—it seemed the best thing to do, sort of unavoidable. “Whose eggs?” I said after a while. He replied without turning, slightly annoyed. Herons. Egrets. Cormorants (two of them, huge and black, flew by). These birds nest at ground level, sometimes. What did he want eggs for? I wondered but didn’t ask.

In the following weeks, he taught me about the winged creatures thriving by the water, or those visiting just as seasonal guests. I was still at an age when such topics could mesmerize me. I’m not sure I ever surpassed that phase. As I said, we met daily. Spring was ripe. Our thing lasted until summer.

As he had come back from war, he had looked for a job. He was hired by Miraya’s folks, as a gardener. He was not from the village—not sure why he had landed here—and he had no place of his own therefore he slept on the premises, in his own tiny quarters. Little more than a toolshed with a separate outhouse. Fine. He was the type of man who could have lived in a cabin. Maybe he had. And he had just been at war—anything would feel comfortable.  His employers were satisfied. He was skilled, good, reliable.

 

Carlos was good to me, despite what might have been thought or said. In fact, he was the best—which I’ll never tell him. There’s no risk for such conversation to occur.

Nothing would have happened, I think, if we had not gone into the workshop—had we kept to our strolls, solitary as they were. Nature was so enthralling to him, he wouldn’t have noticed me the same way. The season would have past. I would have resumed school.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe something was already on his mind when we sat on rocks, waiting for a silhouette flapping by—his cane briskly pointed at the clouds. Hiding behind a bush, breath suspended, spying an egret perched on its nest. Maybe I’m fooling myself.

I had remarked—even when we walked in nature—how intense his focus could be sometimes. How he wanted whatever he wanted a little too much. Though his want wasn’t greed, and that made him different from anyone else I have met. By then I didn’t know.

He had a hunger for beauty, but he wouldn’t eat it, only contemplate. Not religiously. Ecstatically. He only wanted to look at the eggs, for instance. Well, he wanted to find them. Because it was hard? Perhaps. Because they were hiding and he relished spying on them incognito, without causing harm, just…

 

I have been sidetracked. The workshop was in the mansion, to which he had keys. Besides his botanical duties, he performed whatever his employers wished, in agreement with the genteel habit of taking all hired folks for multitasking entities. He had keys, and he was allowed in, yet certainly not in Miraya’s workshop (more precisely her studio) where he had dared to peruse the easel, having propped himself on a stool that allowed him to quasi-stand with no cane. He was very skilled, anyway, at steadying his body, freeing his hands to do whatever he wished.

I don’t know if the small canvases and the oil tubes were his. Where could he have bought them? No store sold that kind of supplies in the village. Had he carried them in the army backpack he came with? Had he had the nerve of stealing Miraya’s things?  Truly?

Of course, she wasn’t there and neither of us had met her. I had heard about her. My parents had known her. But she had married and gone to live abroad with her spouse (a baron of something) just before I was born. I hadn’t even seen pictures of her until I entered the mansion with Carlos. As I crossed the dim hallway, as I tiptoed on carpets through curtained rooms, somber corridors, my eyes fell on a few framed photographs. No doubt, they portrayed the daughter-of-the-house. Was she pretty? I didn’t pay attention. I don’t know if Carlos did. He must have.

From the orchards, if I look at the house clamped upon on the hill, so distractedly huge, I can spot Miraya’s suite. I can point at the uncurtained window of her studio, with the naked glass pane I used to stare across during poses. Posing wasn’t hard. I can make the large balcony of her bedroom, empty now—not sure where she and Carlos sleep. Anyway, that all lasted so briefly.

 

I remember the scar on his pubis bone—huge, cross-shaped, ropey and bulging. I used to brush it with the tip of my fingers. I don’t think it especially pleased him, but he never stopped me. Once, he said he was ten percent of a man. I was old enough to understand. I asked which percent I was, but I didn’t specify ofwhat. He took his time, as usual, then he said (I can still hear it): “You are a hundred and ten percent of a girl.” He didn’t say woman, and I didn’t catch the nuance.

Afterwards, I used to pat the pillows, pull the coverlet tight, smooth wrinkles away. Was I sure no one would check underneath? Or did I believe sweat and spills didn’t leave marks on the sheets? Did I minimize such marks by wishful thinking, making them so pale they would vanish, blend in? I was fooled—reassured—blurred—comforted—by the fact nothing major took place. It could not.

Bland erections, as if his penis recalled something that should happen, but what? Enough for my entertainment and instruction. After all, I was at the discovery stage. No ejaculation. Kaputt, he said. Gone. No orgasm as he was concerned. I got bits and pieces, small tokens. Good enough for a sheer beginner. Yet, believe it or not, I lost my virginity to his little finger, a millimeter at a time, with just a tinge of pain, and no blood.

 

The cook caught us on a Sunday afternoon. She should have been on leave, but she had slept in instead—in her quarters, which alas belonged to the mansion. She had a tiny cell on the floor where Miraya’s suite was—a huge apartment, its four separate chambers nested into each other like Russian dolls. A nice parlor led to a cozy library, which led to the atelier, which led to the bedroom with its adjacent bathroom. Hidden, truly remote, the bedroom. No one had slept there for more than a decade. Like the orchards, like the riverbed it was a separate planet, quiet cocooned and soft. Sweet dreams, darling.

I am sure the cook is the one who saw us, although we didn’t see her. But we heard the rustle behind the door, then steps rushing away. We got up, unsure of what would happen next. Nothing, not right away. I had time to fix the bed as usual. We had barely ruffled it—we were calm, careful, slow. We got dressed, I went home. Of course, the cook spied on us.

 

And I got the thrashing of my life after my escapade (rather my trespassing, my intrusion) was reported to my parents. Carlos wasn’t fired, not sure why. Those were still times when, in such instances, fault was asymmetrically assigned. I had done all that I shouldn’t have, since when did I follow a stranger at the creek instead of running away. Of course, my folks knew nothing of our strolls, never learned about them. They were just informed of the last episode, devoid of details. They must have thought refraining from digging was best.

Luckily, on the evening of the revelation, my period came in flood fashion. I was bent over with cramps and yet jubilating, as my parents’ most horrific concern was dismissed. My ears rang after four or five blows to my temples, duly delivered by Father, nearly unscrewed my head from my neck. I lay in bed, pain sieging me from above and below.

But I felt relieved because my not being pregnant was proved. I hoped I wouldn’t be killed or maimed then, perhaps not hit anymore. Yet I was sure severe punishment, interdictions, all sorts of disastrous consequences would still ensue.

Besides such apprehension and physical pain, I had no feelings. Just a cool, impassive awareness of irrevocability. As if I were a boat, at the creek, and the ropes anchoring me to the shore had been briskly cut. No one was on board, and I wasn’t a good boat either. I leaked, badly. I had no sense of directions. Boats don’t.

 

I lay still, listening to the drone in my ears—a chorus of crickets, almost a lullaby—when Dad entered the room. I didn’t expect him, and I didn’t dare meet his eyes. I could sense his embarrassment. Mine, believe me, was worse. Later I thought he might have felt guilty, maybe scared. He might have feared he had hit me too hard, although righteously. He handed me a sealed envelope. It contained a few bills. I did not understand, just wanted to sleep.

I woke up now and then because of my profuse bleeding. I was sore all over and numb at the same time, if that makes sense. Strange thoughts crossed my mind kind of lazily. I couldn’t formulate thorough plans. Dad had given me money. A gift? Maybe a kind of pardon? How foolish! I even thought I’d go to town in the morning and buy something.

Paradoxically, exhaustion made me restless and edgy. I slept poorly and I woke up early. I took the envelope and I rode my bike to the village. The air was crisp. I wandered on the main street like a zombie, my mind an empty shell. I didn’t truly look at the windows. The rail station was only a few lights away. I took a train.

No, I didn’t miss Carlos. Never thought of him much. I had not been in love. Romance had never happened. Nothing tender or passionate was said that could have sparkled ambiguity. Little was said in general—tell the truth. Of course, he gave me an avian education, then in bed he also taught me things, perhaps more than I needed for a start—and less, certainly less. Let’s say he taught me ‘other’ things. Our affair was at least eccentric.

He was good to me in many ways, yet I wasn’t grateful. I forgot him with care and determination. Even now, when I am around him—so much later and in such a different fashion—I am forgetting him still.

 

Shortly after I left on a northbound train, Miraya returned. She and her baron-husband had split. Not divorced—they had gotten a papal something, one of those tricks allowing wealthy Catholics to get rid of unwanted spouses and remain immaculate. She came home to her parents. Did she restart living in her former quarters? I truly don’t know. I was gone.

But I kept in touch with my family. Sure, my folks sent whatever I needed as long as I needed it. They supported me through boarding school, then through college. Oh-so-slowly, I understood Dad’s money was meant for the very purpose it served. My folks wanted me out of sight, that’s all. Still, in summer I visited, briefly, and I saw Miraya around. I liked her in person more than in photographs.

She and Carlos started living together after her parents died. Without marrying, and villagers gossiped. A tale went around—Miraya must have fed it to the priest, who zealously fed it to the community. The buzz was, because they hadn’t married (maybe Carlos already was, and he couldn’t get a divorce) they did not sleep together. Who would care? Lots of people did. She must have felt compelled to justify her behavior, keep her reputation intact. Then, truth has many facets just as lies do. She had sewn fragments of truth into her lie, as I happened to know. Only scraps though, Miraya.

And why should I care? Isn’t it bizarre how things had danced around? How she and I had alternated roles? How I had been the girl in her bed and then, when I vanished, she had resumed a place that now was kind-of-mine? But I never told her. I am sure Carlos did not. Did she hear rumors? My removal was meant to minimize them. I think it succeeded.

 

We had become acquainted, then friends, after my folks left the village for good, moving into town. That is when I started to come back for long periods of time. Then longer. I enjoy peacefulness and solitude.  Always did, even before I fell ill.

I befriended her first because of the weaving—which is what occupies her besides the cares of the property. As soon as I heard about them, I was curious to see the big looms. They were shipped from wherever she had lived with her former husband. Here they couldn’t be found. Oh, I was curious. I showed up at the mansion without introductions. The ice was easily broken.

Three giant pieces, the looms, wide like master beds—some new cloth always stretched across them. She makes mostly blankets. I am enchanted by the complex patterns she weaves as the fabric imperceptibly grows. Now that I think about it, she must have made the dress she was wearing, today—the pale tunic with a shiny glare. Must have woven the cloth, then sewn it in shape.

She has given up painting. She likes the loom better. Carlos paints, but not in her studio. It all has worked out. He portrays her, as I can see by the canvases hanging around the house. She is fully dressed in the paintings, very nicely so.

I appreciate her being exquisite. I mean perfect but simultaneously grounded. It’s a pleasure to behold, and quite rare. You don’t fake it. It’s the kind of trait that takes time in order to ripe—generations. I admire her poise, calmness, and self-control, though I’m not sure her qualities motivate my fondness of her. The fact is, being her friend, I belong—to the property, to the orchards, the mansion. Since the two of us are close I have resumed my place. In a way, it all worked out.

 

Borrowing the riverbed towards home wasn’t the smartest choice. If I had told her, Miraya would have discouraged me. I said nothing. The roughness of the terrain didn’t bother me. Climbing down the slope was a joke and so was climbing up. But there was no shade and I got short of breath. I fatigued.

The scar on my head is also cross-shaped, ropey and bulging. But, the doctor said, as long as I have hair nobody will see it. I have hair. It has thinned, yet not too much. I think of the maple trees in my backyard—those poor naked branches—the falling… Should I cut them down to the stump? Oh my, the removal of spoil—all this saddens me beyond reason.

There is no ultimate prognosis. Not yet. A few things might still happen. I have passed the stage of perpetual anguish about myself. But I’d like the trees to be spared. I know it is irrational.

 

The birds yapping and fluttering sure upset me this morning. Like an omen, not necessarily bad. Undecipherable, which was bad enough. I meant to ask Miraya about the birds’ panic, and then I forgot. (It is happening. I tend to forget current trivia. It’s the medication, I know).

The white tinge of the sick wood was lurid. Repulsive. It caught all of my attention and the birds were forgotten, I guess. When I made it home, they were there but calm, normal. I still wonder what the commotion was for. Did a nest fall? I would have certainly seen it.

In late afternoon, when I dragged myself to the back, (I like sitting there with a book and a forbidden drink, watch the sunset) my eye was attracted by a minute, fragile luminescence not too far. Low. Ground level.

I’m annoyed to confess I was smashed with tiredness from my morning walk. The way back, especially, had squeezed out my residual juices. I had collapsed into the lawn chair, espousing its shape, cozily cradling in. My hands were occupied by a glass and a paperback. I felt lazy, yet I couldn’t resist—I had to extricate myself and go check what the faint glare was.

A few fragments of shell peered through the grass, crumbled yet unmistakable. Eggs had fallen, were broken. Maybe they had collapsed together with branches. Oh, my! What did the birds think of this catastrophe? Had they noticed the spraying of chemicals just a few weeks before? The obnoxious smell? Then the abrupt loss of foliage, sad, unseasonable nudity.

Birds are far from stupid. I’m sure they flew away when the trees were treated. Must have. But then—look—they came back. Something tells me they’ll be around for a while. Maybe until the end. Around the maples, I mean.

 

 

Toti O’Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has most recently appeared in Grief Dialogues, Reunion, Maryland Literary Review, and Sum.