Chapter 6

Night-dark roads were hypnotic: the intermittent flashes of white and yellow paint reflecting the headlights that just couldn’t illuminate the bend far enough for comfort. Like the droning rhythm of a chant, the stripes blinked by. Neither woman spoke after the first half-hour of the trip—mesmerized instead by the repetitious flicker of the highway lines. Black silhouettes of pine tree tops on the far hills bit into the cloudless night sky, erasing stars as the vehicle moved through canyons, then releasing the lights again, like fireflies from a jar, as the car summitted a pass or began a descent.

The landscape was unspeakably dark: no lightposts, no town lights in the distance, not even a random porch light pierced the blackness around them. The only glowing items were reflective—highway signs and deer eyes. They saw plenty of both, though none of the deer chose for the fatalistic jump across the road.

At the first possible stop, only an hour into the journey, Shelley pulled over at a small gas station to use the bathroom—she explained that the four glasses of strawberry lemonade had made her more than a little squirmy for the past twenty minutes. Leilora took her time to get out of the car. She stretched some and then leaned against the car, folding her arms in the night’s chill. It hadn’t snowed much out this way, if at all, for which she was grateful.

When Shelley walked out of the gas station, her arms were full of treats. Leilora tried to scowl, but only laughed as she returned to her seat. “How do you expect to road-trip without goodies?” Shelley defended as she buckled her seat belt. Leilora only shook her head.

“What are you doing with Hershey bars? And are you going to eat all five of those Klondikes?” Leilora wondered as Shelley put the car into gear and pulled back onto the highway.

“Of course not; you’re going to help me. What’s an evening spent together without chocolate?” Shelley asked and Leilora laughed. “I’m serious, Lei. What is it?”

“I don’t know Shel…what is it?”

Shelley smiled. “Imaginary!”

Leilora let her head fall back against the headrest. “Right. I dream of the day when we’ll be mature enough to talk about important issues without chocolate and ice cream for stimulants.” It was Shelley’s turn to laugh.

“Ahh the critical Lei I love. Just eat your chocolate, will you?”

“It’s not midnight.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

“Just let me sleep a bit first, ehh? I don’t want you driving alone too late. And I don’t want to take over without getting some shut-eye first,” Leilora explained. Shelley agreed.

“Alright. You get your beauty sleep. I’ll wake you in two hours or when I drive off a cliff.”

“Gee thanks, Shel.”

“Anything for you, beautiful.”

Leilora pulled off her jacket and balled it up for use as a pillow against the window. Her thoughts drifted to Aunty Mary when she closed her eyes; again she listened as the old lady spoke of the tragedy at the funeral. Again she was the little girl, tear-stained cheeks red in grief, sitting silently next to her quiet mother, unwilling to utter a single word in lament for fear of the consequences.

*

“For my part, I had advised Valerie not to marry James. For my part, I had advised Valerie to divorce James; I now regret that advice; I now regret those decisions were made. Such love had sewn together a wonderful family that such horrible tears were forced by its separation. They raised two amazing girls, one of whom we mourn here today. The other, God willing, will live long and make better decisions than I or her mother have.

“We shudder at the loss of a fine father and a joyous daughter and we wish we could cherish those moments of happiness we experienced with them forever. We mourn James. We mourn Elizabeth. They have slipped through our lives like sand through a fisted hand. We must let them fall away from us and wonder at the tragedy of it.

“James was a fine man, as I hadn’t expected, and a phenomenal father. Elizabeth was a loveable girl with a sparkling personality and glittering smile. May they rest now, in peace of death, for eternity and beyond.”

Leilora watched as the wind tugged at Aunty Mary’s scarlet scarf. It flapped, tethered to its place as reluctantly as she was to her chair in the cathedral. She would have liked to have been pulled free by the current of despair and carried away to some deserted island where she could live out her days in grief. Both lights of her sky had been extinguished—only faint, flickering stars beckoned her to remain, but failed to warm her at all. She was cold and only more chilled by her aunt’s speech.

She had lied outright. All but her advice to her mother to split from her dad—she knew that was true. But the regret, the praises lavished on the dead, the sorrow, even the tear she flicked from the corner of her eye were all manufactured for the moment. She spoke to the small crowd as she did to her butler, to her chaperone, to the doctors, to her mother. All the same; all conveniently packaged for circumstance.

And so Leilora sat and empathized with a scarf while the priest said the final blessings over the two coffins. So she sat when they were lowered into the ground. So she sat while hugs and kisses and encouraging words fell upon her. So she sat until Aunty Mary patted her shoulder. Then she stood and ran—ran past the plastic chairs, crowds, and tombstones. She found the backseat of her mother’s car, locked the doors from the inside, and tried to remember her sister’s laugh and her father’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They were gone; the echoes had faded into the distance. Tears came again. Sniffling, heaving breaths shook her body. She was alone; not her mother, not her aunt had followed her.

In that moment of despair, she had wiped her nose with her sleeve and noticed the impossible: on the inside of her wrist, just below the cuff-line, was the faint outline of a tattoo. When she looked again, it had vanished. “Oh Daddy,” was all she could whisper before she collapsed and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

*

“Hey, Lei. Wake up.” Were the first words she heard. When she pushed through the fogginess of the unconscious and opened her eyes, she found Shelley leaning over her, waving a chocolate bar in front of her. “I have something for you…”

“Is it my turn to drive?” Leilora mumbled and stretched.

“Yeah. If you could make it to Price, that would be fantastic. In fact, I would probably love you forever,” Shelley yawned.

As Leilora changed to the driver’s seat, she shivered in the night air; it was freezing out. “You have the heater on, Shel?” she asked.

“Of course! I’m freezing.”

When she pulled onto the on-ramp to the interstate, Leilora felt the warm air blasting out of the vents with a hand and let it permeate her soul. She was almost tempted to roll down the window and open the sunroof. The mixture of bitter cold and soothing warm would be invigorating. But of course Shelley wouldn’t approve; she was trying to sleep. Instead she looked out at the moonless sky, at the miles of endless black barrens before her. Some would have rather driven this long stretch of the interstate at night, supposing it to be as boring as Kansas or Nebraska. Had she a choice, she would have driven at sunset or sunrise—the rocks flamed to life with color then.

Instead the blackness left her to ponder her own thoughts: a frightening prospect. She glanced at Shelley; her short and straight, red hair fell across her cheeks unchecked—her round face relaxed without a wrinkle. Her small, mouse-like nose was tucked into her coat collar and just a hint of a smile tinted the edges of her lips. Leilora wondered what she dreamt about, what doubts and fears gnawed at her subconscious while she slept there in the passenger seat.

Leilora turned her attention back to the hypnotic road and focused her mind on her task at hand: driving to Salt Lake City. But as she perfected her track on insignificant curves and kept her eyes scanning the sides of the road for any glint of reflective green eyes of deer, at a deeper level, she wondered about this trip. Here she was, no going back; not now, at least, not with Shelley in the car.

What would she do when she found her aunt’s address, when she entered the attic? What would she find? Anything at all? Somehow she doubted this venture would turn up any answer at all—like looking for a receipt for a purchase you made a month ago. But perhaps, as Shelley’s comment rang true, she was too critical; perhaps figuring this out would help her close all the doors of her family’s closet and begin anew.

She could at least inquire about her aunt—see if she really had faded from life, and, if that was so, to check about some sort of memorial or funeral service. As much as she had blamed, despised, or distanced herself from Aunty Mary, she was still family—and truly, the only she had left. Now that she thought about it, Aunty Mary had been much more of an influence on her life after her father and sister’s deaths than her mother had been. She had burned brighter and lived busier and grown thinner until, hollow at last, she had imploded. The stroke that came five years ago, had not been too much of a surprise to Leilora.

The memorial service was a quiet, short one, not well-attended; Leilora remembered sitting, alone again. She remembered receiving a few hugs, returning none. She remembered watching, waiting so that she could go back to her apartment and fix dinner. She remembered cursing Aunty Mary.

*

“Valerie,” the old, worn voice rang out among the small assembly, “was a strong woman; she endured when all else seemed overwhelming. She endured the tragic loss of husband and daughter in a single accident. She endured the hardships of a single mother. She endured long beyond any human capability to endure; she outlived her heart. Valerie was my niece, my friend, and my pride. May she finally enjoy the rest she rarely received in life.”

Leilora rubbed her forehead and listened. She wanted to speak her mind. She wanted to smack Aunty Mary and proclaim the truth about her mother, about her hidden addictions, about her lies, about her infidelities. She yearned to stand up at the microphone and erase any good memories about her mother from the minds of the audience. She longed to expose the corpse her mother was long before she took her final breath.

But she sat, instead. She waited, without a tear, for the time to pass. She looked at the grass, wondered how many feet had stood upon that blade there, how long that drop of dew would rest on it, if any ant had ever climbed upon it in search of food. And as the seconds stretched into minutes, Leilora abandoned the concept of family and decided on a better, more flexible system for relationships: roommates.

As the service drew on, Leilora formulated her rant which she would deliver to Shelley that evening when she returned. She would begin with her mom and work past all the hurts and wounds she had inflicted upon her, move to the liberty of college replacing the ties of family, and finish with a scathing critique of Aunty Mary. In fact, one old man—an usher—had to remind Leilora that when one so close to you dies, like a mother, you shouldn’t be smiling at her funeral service. With this aside, he almost convinced Leilora to speak her mind there and then, withholding nothing. But she screwed the lid on her musings tightly and feigned a contemplative grief—almost as well as had Aunty Mary.

When the service had finished, the coffin been laid to rest, and the small crowd scattered, Leilora drove back to her apartment—just a mile off-campus—which she found empty. Leilora flopped onto her bed, lying on her belly, and pulled out her phone. Nothing from Shelley. She had texted her roommate probably fifteen times throughout the service without reply. Leilora decided that she must have been working and instead picked up her journal. Two words in was all the further she could write; she never could write well unless she had talked with Shelley. Something about that girl freed her ideas, gave them wings, no matter how ugly they were.

So she stood and walked to the kitchen, a small corner of the apartment with a refrigerator, a sink, and a microwave oven. She found a store-bought lasagna and threw it in the microwave for dinner. Then Leilora pulled a cheap electric water-cooker from the cupboard, along with a mug and the hot chocolate mix. What a steaming cup of hot chocolate wouldn’t fix! Within minutes, she was sitting on their “couch,” a renovated love-seat from the mid 70’s—colored a tacky orange—and sipping at the mug. That was when she noticed a discoloration on her left-hand wrist and turned it towards the light. She wondered if she had leaned against a grease spot on a car or rested on an old, rusted fence or something. But as she looked, it gained texture.

It was mostly circular, but she began to determine a spiral-esque pattern to it on the inside. She rubbed at it with her right-hand thumb, but to no avail. Instead it grew darker and clearer. Leilora strode to the sink, poured some dishwashing soap on it and scrubbed. Nothing diminished from her mark. It resembled a tattoo, though she was confident she had never had one drawn there, not even in the worst of her moods (she wasn’t yet 21 and hadn’t been drunk in her life). The more she looked at the troubling mark, the more it felt familiar to her, as if she had seen this before. She stood beneath the strobe-light-like florescent lamp in her kitchen and wondered where she had seen this before. Two moments flashed before her eyes: the mark at her father’s funeral, the tattoo on Aunty Mary’s wrist while planting strawberries. Yes, it had to be the same. But how?

“Honey, I’m home! Jesus, it smells good in here; what you cookin’ Lei?” Shelley asked as she announced her arrival home. Leilora pulled the sleeve over her wrist and turned to greet Shelley with a smile.

“Lasagna, beautiful. Stoffer-style. How was your day?”

“Hell. What about yours?”

“Same.”

“Let’s watch a movie with dinner,” Shelley suggested.

“Sounds like a plan. Want some hot chocolate?”

“Always!” Shelley plopped herself on the couch and browsed their DVD collection. “So what made your day so bad?”

“My mother’s funeral…” Leilora began, while stirring the hot chocolate, but Shelley grabbed her face and dropped her jaw.

“Shit, Lei! I’m sorry! How’d it go?”

Leilora shrugged her shoulders. “Ehh, it was bad. I didn’t even cry. How crazy is that, huh? I go to my own mother’s funeral and I’m watching the clock, wondering when I can leave.”

“What the hell happened then? I thought you loved your Mom? I mean, doesn’t everyone? Fathers, shit, half of everyone has had poor one of those, but most everybody loves Mom. I thought you’d had a rough go at it at the hospital last week…but no bullshit, you didn’t even cry? No tears at all?”

Leilora nodded and chewed her cheek. “Yeah, I guess I just blame her for splitting up our family. I mean, I know it was her fault. She knew it. She had been having affairs. Lots. But she didn’t even apologize for it. Like we were just supposed to be okay with it, you know? I don’t know how Dad did it…I mean, he didn’t argue and yell and demand his right to keep us. He didn’t even take it to court. Not that he just laid down and died. But he was the one who really loved us, Shel. He was the one we wanted to go see, to stay with, to love. Not Mom. She was just…there. The law we obeyed. Tested every now and again, but largely obeyed. Then when they died, she just…kaput. Fizzled out. It took six years to happen, but I think she realized too late what was important in life and understood that she had lost that forever. It was only a matter of time, Shel. I knew that. Now that I think about it, I’m kinda glad she’s gone. One less voice to worry about, you know? Too many of those, already. Like Aunty Mary’s.”

“Aunty who?” Shelley interrupted.

“Aunty Mary, the old lady I stayed with the night my father and sister died.”

“Oh right, the one with the strawberries,” Shelley clarified.

“Yeah, her. Well she got up and went on about how wonderful and strong my mother was. She even said that she had endured beyond any ‘human capability to endure.’” It was lies, lies, and more lies. Almost as if she was whitewashing her tombstone. I wanted to stand up right there and tell them all off; tell them what a whore my mother was and expose Aunty Mary’s lies!”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know, Shel…I’m just not one to ruin face, you know? But damn you, Aunty Mary, and your lies! Why do you have to make everything seem okay and fine and good when it’s not! Why can’t you just stay in your old-folks home until you die! Why must you ruin everything!”

Shelley stared wide-eyed at her hot chocolate. “Yep,” she muttered, nodding her head. “You win. You had a much worse day than I did. I just stocked jeans all day.”

Chapter 5

Her hot chocolate had gone cold. Leilora shivered when she picked up the mug. Her memories were like the winter evening sky outside: dark, gray, consuming—the sun would set without a dying flare. The world would sleep soon as shadows would outnumber and overrun the fallen leaves and snowdrifts alike. The house had chilled considerably—Leilora checked the thermostat: 62 degrees Fahrenheit. She set it to hold at 65 for the night; she had changed her bedding to flannel sheets two days earlier—she would sleep well.

Leilora put her mug in the microwave for a quick reheat. And of course with all her recent voyages down memory lane, she couldn’t help but laugh at her father’s well-loved and slightly overused phrase: “Ahh, nuke for a minute or two in the microwave.” He had been such a steady man: firm in his beliefs, true to his word, and relentless in his love. And his life had stopped, just like that, without even a whimper at the finish. Where was the justice in that?

Was such a life meaningless? What if he hadn’t kept his promise to buy his daughters ice cream the day after he moved out? What if he had forgotten? What if he had cheated on her mother, as she did to him? Would the final result really be that different? So what if ice cream or not, lies or truth, one backstab or two? She couldn’t believe that actions carried much weight—because her father’s and sister’s deaths were inconsequential. No final, dying words of wisdom; no last goodbye kiss or squeeze of the hand. They had vanished like flies in a forest. And she hadn’t a chance of finding them again.

Leilora leaned her elbows on the countertop—rested her chin in the cup of her palms. Her cheeks were cold. The formations of the digital numbers on the microwave mutated in countdown fashion and she tapped her foot to the rhythm. Halfway through, her phone buzzed on the countertop. She crossed the room and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Hey Lei, it’s Shelley. You want to get some food or something?”

“Not really; why do you want to go out? The wet roads are going to freeze soon.”

“As if I’ve never driven in icy conditions—I’ll pick you up. Come on; it won’t be busy and I haven’t hung out with you in forever.”

“We went to Chili’s last weekend.”

“Besides that. What do you say?”

“Alright. I need to get out anyway.”

“Yes, you do. Which is why I called. Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s figure that out on the road.”

“That’s my girl. Always striving for economy.’

“Not really; if I were, I wouldn’t go out to eat with you so often.”

“I love you, Lei. So critical.”

“Would you stop generalizing, Shel?”

“If you’d swear at me, then maybe yes.”

“Just get over here.”

“Awww, come on. At least throw a ‘dammit Shel!’ in there.”

“Shelley!”

“Alright, Lei. I’m ‘OMW’.”

“Don’t use that internet speak when you’re on the phone with me…”

“JK; see you in a few, friend.”

“Bye Shelly,” Leilora finished, smiling, and hung up. Perhaps this was just what she needed: something to get her mind off the letter and its addicting influence. The real world of waitresses and tips and sweating glasses of ice water would be a refreshing change from this afternoon of nostalgic monotony, she told herself.

A couple minutes, two black coat sleeves, and a pair of boots later, Shelley’s lights shone through the window and Leilora stepped outside to go meet her. But then she found herself walking back inside, towards the table. There lay the letter; why couldn’t she just leave it alone! Perhaps Shelley could help her decide what to do about it, she thought, snatched it up, pocketed it, and hustled back outside. The chill of the air was palpable, though not overwhelming; she shivered and half-jogged to the waiting car. The shadowy form that was Shelley waved from inside. Leilora tried to open the door; it didn’t work. She peered in, pointed at the lock, and Shelley reached over to unlock her door.

“I didn’t know this car didn’t have automatic locks,” Leilora mentioned while climbing into the seat. Shelley grinned, shifting into reverse.

“You don’t know a lot of things. Like where we’re going to eat.”

“Well, where do you want to go?” Leilora asked while strapping herself in with the seatbelt. The buckle wouldn’t snap in place, though, and she flipped it and twirled it, trying to get a fit.

“Oh, uh…that broke last week. So just hang on to something,” Shelley advised.

“Thanks, Shel. I’ll just ponder my doom later,” Leilora said, grabbing with a single hand what her father had termed the “scream-and-hold bar” up to her right.

“Hey I have an idea: let’s drive to Vegas and get In-and-Out.”

“I can’t go to Vegas tonight; besides, we’re not in college anymore,” Leilora laughed. Shelley kept the straight face.

“Why not? Come one Lei, remember how long it’s been since we went last time? It’ll be a blast.”

“I don’t have the money, Shel. AND, it could snow again anytime soon.”

“Those are your best excuses? Money and weather? I don’t buy it; you know you want to,” Shelley teased, smiling now.

“Let’s just go to Benjamin’s and get some coffee, alright?” Leilora suggested.

“Preface that with ‘Dammit, Shel!’ and I’ll accept,” Shelley grinned and stopped at a red light. Leilora rolled her eyes and sighed. “Just one little ‘dammit’? Pleeeeease, Lei?”

“Are you going to get any food at Ben’s, or just coffee like me?” The light turned green; Shelley didn’t accelerate.

“I’m not going until you…” Shelley began, but a honk from behind her convinced her otherwise. Leilora laughed. “So are you?”

“Yes, of course. I haven’t eaten all day,” Shelley remarked and turned onto the highway towards town. Leilora made a face at her. “What?” Shelley defended herself, “I just get busy and forget.”

“How can you just ‘forget’?” Leilora questioned. They had discussed this before.

“Remember, I don’t have super metabolism like you; that’s the only way you could possibly eat so much and stay thinner than me.”

“I don’t see how you can function without eating; cars don’t run without gas, and girls don’t run without food,” Leilora pointed out.

“Unless you drive everywhere, like me,” Shelley smiled and pulled into the parking lot just outside the strip of stores in which Benjamin’s Café was located. Once they had pushed through the glass doors, a friendly face met theirs.

“You can sit anywhere, ladies; I’ll be right with you,” a bouncy young waitress told them. Shelley picked the booth by the window with the neon “Open” sign glowing above it. Two menus decorated the table; Shelley didn’t hesitate to open hers and begin browsing. Leilora watched the few lingering headlights streaming down the highway.

“How are you doing, Shel?” she asked after a minute’s pause. From behind the menu, Shelley replied, “Fine,” and, without looking up, she asked, “How have you been Lei?” Leilora rolled her eyes and fingered the menu.

“Somewhere between not-so-great and completely horrid.”

Shelley’s menu fell to the table. “What? Why?”

“It’s just been a busy week,” Leilora answered.

“Uh huh…busy. Busy never means completely horrid. Busy means ‘I’m tired but I’ll get a fantastic paycheck’; that never means completely horrid. What’s going on, girl?”

Leilora could never fault Shelley’s intentions—her method, always, but never her heart. It was solid gold. Behind her jokes and wisecracks, Leilora could rely on an honest interest from her. Shelley had been there in college for break-ups and failed tests and bad hair days—and it almost perpetually ended in chocolate. Whether it genuinely helped or made for a good excuse to indulge, they had eaten way too much chocolate late at night together. Memories came rushing into her mind; but Shelley’s stare turned them back.

“I just got this letter from my great Aunt Mary, today.”

“The one with the strawberries? That killed your father?” Shelley inquired.

“Yes, but she didn’t kill my father…”

“Uh-huh, right. That’s not what I remember you saying that night with the chocolate chip cookie dough,” Shelley prodded. Leilora put her menu down.

“It was mere coincidence that as she came into the room my father went into cardiac arrest. It would have happened if she were there or not,” Leilora affirmed.

“Is that why you were cursing her name and day of birth?”

“I was not cursing.”

“’Damn you Aunty Mary!’ counts, Lei. I can’t tell you how proud I was of you that night,” Shelley smiled; Leilora sighed and glanced at the transparent reflection of the booth opposite them in the window. “Anyway, she sent you a letter? An apology, I hope.”

“No, I don’t know what it was…”

“A will? She’s fairly rich, isn’t she?” Shelley’s eyes lit up. “Hey, she is your only family, isn’t she? Yeah?”

Leilora nodded with raised eyebrows. “Yeah, but it wasn’t a will. It was kinda weird. Mysterious, in a way.”

“How so?” Shelley wondered with growing interest.

A sly smile stretched across Leilora’s mouth. “Want to read it?”

“You have it with you?” Shelley asked. Then she dropped her shoulders in epiphany. “That’s why you said, ‘yes’ to going out; you wanted me to read this letter, didn’t you?” She accused, nodding her head. Leilora laughed.

“Yeah…I did.”

“Well, let’s have it then!” Shelley demanded. As Leilora reached into her pocket, the waitress came back.

“Can I take y’all’s orders now?” she asked.

“I don’t know this guy named ‘yall’” Shelley ventured, “But I’m ready to order.” The waitress’s smile didn’t lessen as she nodded and readied her pen—the joke escaping her entirely. “I’ll take a hamburger: tomato, lettuce, and ketchup only. With a baked potato for the side, please.”

“Okay. And to drink?”

Shelley smiled. “Strawberry lemonade.”

“And what about you, deary?” the waitress asked Leilora.

“I’ll just have a water, please.”

“Lemon with that?”

“No. Thanks,” Leilora replied.

The waitress nodded and said, “Well then, I’ll be right back with your drinks!”

When she had waltzed out of earshot, Shelley turned back to Leilora, something fierce glowing in her eyes. “Since when did Benny hire a Texan for a waitress. Completely missed my y’all joke! Are they all growing that stupid down there now?”

“Now, Shelley, be nice to the girl…”

“What, because she’s one of the millions invading and stupefying our great state? I say if they all love Texas as much as they say they do, they should stay there. There’s no place for their y’alls and ain’ts and fixin toos here. I’m sick of being a y’all. I haven’t ever been a y’all and don’t ever plan to be, neither.”

“Shelley…”

“I’m not finished, Lei. I say we close the borders of our state; if you weren’t born here, too bad; you can’t come in. You have any idea how much better life would be without them? And then take away the Californians, too! It would be utopia. Land would be cheap and beautiful, winter driving would be safe, the summers would be quiet and peaceful. Can you imagine Lei? Sheer perfection in life!”

“I think you’ve polished that speech too well,” Leilora commented while playing with a sugar packet.

“You know it’s true…well anyway, what about that letter?” Shelley prodded. “Do I get to read it like you want me to?”

Leilora fished it out of her pocket for the second time and stretched it out towards Shelley, holding it between two fingers. Shelley snatched it up and pulled the two pages from the envelope. Leilora flicked the sugar packet to the center of the table and instead fiddled with the salt shaker to pass the time while Shelley read.

When she finished, Shelley wrinkled her nose. Leilora laughed. “What was that about?” she asked her friend.

“What the hell is two steps and up from the mirror in the attic? And why is it so important to a dying old lady?” Shelley wondered.

“I don’t know,” Leilora admitted as the waitress sauntered up to them with their drinks.

“Here y’all are. I’ll get your food to you as soon as the chef gets it to me,” she smiled at Shelley and turned.

“Easy, Shel…” Leilora soothed. Shelley seemed to have ignored the entire occurrence and instead shifted the conversation back.

“That’s kinda creepy, you know? Your great Aunt asking you to visit her attic after all these years. Do you remember that short story…what was it called? It had a rose in the title. By Faulkner maybe?”

“A Rose for Emily?” Leilora suggested.

“Yeah, where she kills her husband with rat poison and leaves his body in the attic…sleeps with him in the coffin for like 50 years. What if you find that in her attic?” Shelley grimaced.

“Shelley, that was a story. This is real life. I just wonder what’s so important about this mirror in her attic…”

“It’s not the mirror, Lei, that’s important. It’s whatever is two steps from the mirror and above you,” Shelley clarified.

“Yeah, I guess. I just wondered why she mentioned the mirror. It’s the only thing I remember about her attic, besides boxes…and a dress. Did I ever tell you about the dress?” Leilora asked.

“No. Please continue.”

“It was during the same stay as the strawberries. After dinner, she took me up to the attic and showed me her wedding dress—and Indian wedding dress.”

“Like one with eagle feathers and grizzly-tooth beads and buffalo leather?” Shelley asked.

“Not Native American; Indian…like the sub-continent,” Leilora explained.

“Ohh…sorry. Just say ‘Indian Dot, not Feather.’ Go ahead. I promise I won’t interrupt again.”

“It was Indian silk, beautifully embroidered. Anyway, she had me try it on; it was a little big, of course, but it was gorgeous nonetheless. Maroon and gold. I would take that over white any day. Such wonderful colors. But yeah, she had me try it on in front of the mirror. I felt ecstatic, looking at myself in that oval mirror. I could have danced until my legs gave out in that dress, the way it hugged my legs when I twirled,” Leilora seemed to finish and trailed off.

“Umm…so you tried on a dress. And that helps you with this mysterious letter how?” Shelley wondered, a touch of sarcasm tainting her voice.

“I don’t know; that’s my only memory of the mirror. I just wonder why she thought it was so important or why she thought I might remember it,” Leilora suggested.

“Beats me. But I do know one thing,” Shelley stated. Leilora raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“We’re road-tripping to Salt Lake!” she exclaimed with a seditious grin.

“No, Shel. No. I can’t.”

“Oh come on, Lei. Of course you can. And if you really can’t, always begin with a ‘Godammit Shel! before you say ‘No,’” Shelley laughed.

“I really can’t, Shel. I don’t have…”

“Yeah, yeah…I know. The money nor the time. But you missed a key part of that letter. God, Lei. I don’t know what you’d do without me!” Leilora looked at the ceiling. “Don’t you remember the part where she said “I’m dying!” Lei, this is huge. She’s rich; you’re the only family member left. That makes you rich. Which answers the money question and nullifies the time question. So what else can you do but drive out to Salt Lake, hire yourself a lawyer and acquire all her possessions, monetary and otherwise, and then solve this mystery.”

“Shelley, no. Don’t…”

“Lei, this crazy letter is driving you bonkers, I know it. So let’s have you relax a bit: we’ll take a trip to Salt Lake together. We can chat, we can listen to all sorts of music, stop in random biker bars, and, best of all, solve this little mystery of yours. And then you pay me accordingly.”

Leilora laughed and sat back in the booth. “Why do you want to go so bad?” she asked Shelley while staring at the plaster on the ceiling.

“I have a proposal due tomorrow,” she answered, smiling. Leilora snapped her eyes back on Shelley.

“You do not!”

“You’re right, I don’t. But if I did, I’d go all the same. So it doesn’t matter why I’m going. So let’s eat our dinner, fill up the tank at the Conoco at the edge of town, and blow this joint!”

“You mean, ‘eat your dinner.’”

“No, Lei. I hate potatoes; you know that. I ordered that for you; you hungry thang,” Shelley retorted. Leilora sighed.

“I really can’t go, Shel. I don’t have any clothes or toiletries or anything.”

“So we’ll stop at a fancy hotel that comes with them…or swing by your place really quick before we leave. Come on, Lei. This will be just like old times. It’ll be fun and you know it. Please Lei? I haven’t ever had a mystery like this to solve!”

The waitress sashayed around the corner with a plate of food held above her head on her upturned palm. “Here you go! Can I get y’all anything else?”

“Nope! Thanks!” Shelley pantomimed gratitude.

“Sure thing. Have a great meal!” she said and strode back to the kitchen. Shelley rolled her eyes and passed the baked potato to Leilora, who found her fork and poked at it; Benny sure could bake a good potato.

“Come on, Lei. Eat up. We gotta get on the road, girl.”

“Right,” Leilora said and scooped up a forkful. “Salt Lake is a long drive.”

Chapter 4

Leilora rubbed the paper between her forefingers and her thumbs, unsure of the meaning behind the letter. She thought about searching for the return address, finding a phone number and calling her great aunt. But in her letter, Aunt Mary had specifically stated not to worry about her. It had been so long since she had twirled in that old attic—wearing a foreign wedding dress. She had no other attachment to the old lady, save this letter, which both intrigued and repulsed her.

She would have to travel back, the wonderful nine-hour drive to find her great aunt’s house—she didn’t have the time, nor the money to make such a trip. The journey to Salt Lake City was always a long one, whether she was alone or had company, and she inevitably wound up on I-15 during rush hour. No, she could not act on this letter now, Leilora assured herself and set the letter on the tablecloth.

The window suddenly painted the world a shade darker as the clouds once again overran the sun and Leilora thought she saw another snowflake dash past the window. She waited, stared, holding her breath; but nothing else changed. She finally gave up and stood from the table. She could read a chapter or two of Jane Austen, make herself dinner, find a good movie she hadn’t seen in ages and get to bed early.

The pages of the book brought a comfort to her fingers. It was a familiar touch, a homely smell that reminded her of evenings curled up with Liz and her father—she holding one half of the book, Liz clutching the other, and her father reading to them. Leilora released a smile. They had been more than old enough to read the books alone, but something of tradition lingered. Instead of listening to Dr. Seuss’ rhymes or hearing the Cinderella story (or of Rindercella, for that matter), they were mesmerized by the cadences of William Butler Yeats’ poetry, astonished by the stories of Kate Chopin and William Faulkner; they took turn reading characters in Shakespeare and Johnson’s plays.

How she loved her father for his care in exposing them to great literature! She cherished those evenings above all, each with a cup of hot chocolate—a woolen blanket spread across them—how it itched at the beginning until she was lost in the story, pulling it over her shoulders, up to her chin, when listening to Jack London’s tales from the frozen north.

The questions with which she and her sister had plagued her father must have simultaneously pleased and irritated him. “Will you ever choose which daughter you like better like King Lear did?” she remembered Liz asking and waiting anxiously on her father’s reply. He had denied that he would ever, in fact, choose between us, for, he pointed out, it was death to do so. Leilora missed the harmony of their laughter together—forever gone, ravaged by the hand of time. Why had it to have been that bright morning at Aunty Mary’s when she found out?

*

“Wake up, Leil,” a voice called, halfway between dream and reality. Leilora was not quite sure which side it came from. But she blinked herself awake and found Aunty Mary’s eyes—without a hint of weariness to them—commanding her to rise.

“Mmmf,” Leilora yawned and rubbed her forehead with both palms. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Come with me,” Aunty Mary demanded and strode out the door. Leilora flopped the unfamiliar and still-stiff sheets back and followed the lady in the bright crimson outfit. She walked on her heels, attempting to avoid the chill of the floorboards on the sensitive middle-part of her feet. The hallway, for that very reason, turned out to be much longer than she remembered. When she did make it to rugs and carpets, she found her great aunt waiting, her left hand planted on her hip, a phone receiver in her other hand. Her eyes gave away nothing, layered, concealed, walled shut. The wrinkled hand offered the phone, and Leilora took it carefully, with two hands, as if taking a carton of eggs.

“Hello?”

“Yes, are you the daughter of James McKinney?” the masculine voice on the other line questioned.

“Yeah. Why? Who are you?” she wondered.

“I’m Dr. Strebal with Mercy Medical Hospital; your father has been in an accident and thought you should visit him here.” Leilora’s lungs solidified and refused to breathe. “He’s in critical condition, so I thought you might want to come to the hospital as soon as possible. Do you have any means of transportation?” he asked.

“I…uhm…yeah; I mean, I…I think so…” she attempted to reply and looked at her great aunt who nodded once. Her lips quivered; she was unsure of her voice. Something within her had collapsed; she felt herself sinking, shriveling into a small creature, frightened and shaking.

“Good. I’ll let you know exactly what happened when you arrive. Safe travels. Goodbye,” Dr. Strebal finished and hung up. Leilora lowered the phone from her ear, but could not release it—her fingers clenched the plastic as if it were a life-saving piece of the mast floating in a storm-whipped ocean. She felt the water pressing her chest, rising above her chin. She kicked and struggled to stay above the surface of despair, but felt herself doomed to drown.

When she finally first took a breath, it was the heaving, stuttered intake before the rush of tears. She sealed her lips, as if unwilling to release the flood of emotions within her. Aunty Mary stared at her with distant but sympathetic eyes.

“Come Leil, let’s get you to the hospital.”

*

Leilora dropped her book onto the coffee table, rose, and took two steps towards the kitchen. She didn’t know what she wanted—another cup of tea, another cookie, a cold glass of milk? The sun lingered in the afternoon sky; it looked like she felt: obscured by a thin, formless cloud of nostalgia. If only she could reach out and pull the webs off the sun, then perhaps she’d feel warmer.

Indeed, the light wasn’t helping keep her mind off of death. The sorrow of the clouds bathed the tile in a pale, lifeless grey. The fabric of the couch was painted in pathetic blues and long, sly shadows fell across the walls. Even the light from the lamp on the end table seemed dampened by the day. Leilora sighed and tapped her big toe on the tile behind her.

She walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, and closed it again. What was it she needed? She felt anxious somehow, as if waiting for people to show up to her party. She glanced back at the book; it lay defeated, unliving on the couch. A fly was hovering above it, as if it could smell rottenness in the air. Why didn’t she have any desires now? They were like the snowflakes that landed on the road, Leilora thought—they moment they touched down, they melted into oblivion.

The pantry seemed as bare as the scrub oak outside; nothing looked appetizing, but she decided a cup of hot chocolate would do and retrieved the can of Swiss Miss. The motions came automatically, and Leilora felt her mind drift back to the letter. What if she called? Perhaps she could find a number in one of her mother’s old boxes—in a daytimer or something. Or at least the name of the place. What if she googled the return address of the letter? That would be easiest, she decided. But as she found herself turning to head to her computer, Leilora grabbed onto a cabinet handle. Hold on a minute, girl, she told herself, you promised that you wouldn’t pursue this letter. Leave it be.

The kettle began to squeal again and called Leilora from her musings. She poured the boiling water over the powdered chocolate. She stirred it uneasily with a metal spoon. A thin coating of foam swirled above the deep brown of the chocolate. When she pulled the spoon out, Leilora fancied she could make out different images. First, the world, with its cream-colored continents and chocolate oceans—she blew on it just enough to keep it spinning, dabbing it just enough to create pockets in the foam. She split islands and dug out seas in her little world bounded by ceramics.

She kept stirring and blowing, imaging it a Jacuzzi or a smiley face—but with a weird, untrimmed mustache. The surface of the liquid, though the foam rapidly lost substance, was her canvas for the moment, and she was glad to be the painter. Had the drink cooled enough to taste—she picked up her spoon and ladled a bit from the mug. She puffed a few gusts of wind across a summer duckpond, rippling the surface—she had always hated that when watching water, when the wind would suddenly pick up and ruin a mirror-surfaced lake. That was one of her favorite things to do with Liz: they would go early in the morning (to avoid the winds) and sit at the edge of the lake by their house. The mist would drift above the lake—like steam rising from her mother’s coffee that she always left on the countertop unfinished—and they would relax there, sometimes chatting, sometimes silently observing.

Leilora cupped her hands around the mug—sipped at the surface, probing the temperature. The mild sting of the liquid on her lips suggested another minute of cooling. She resumed her blowing. A genii swirling from a lamp; long, rounded hands folded in prayer; a woman’s body folded around a sleeping child. All very like one of Van Gogh’s paintings. Then she saw a strange thing happen: once most of the foam had dissipated, the rest of the creamy islands drifted on their own accord to the rim of the mug. And she wondered why.

But then the fly found her cup and made a buzzing fuss around it until she managed to wave it away to a window, where it slipped in between the blinds—to be caught, to wait for death on a glass pane. Leilora scoffed at the insect and shut the blinds—sealing its fate. And, secretly, she was happy to have rid the world of one more pest.

And while she sipped her now perfectly warm beverage, her eyes inevitably found the other pest in the room—the letter. It seemed to watch her, lurking halfway inside the envelope, waiting to creep out and take her by surprise. Like a patiently stalking cat creeping, inching towards its prey, the letter stared at her. Why couldn’t she shake it from her mind? Leilora wondered. Perhaps her own curiosity amplified the mysterious nature of the message.

She wandered back to the table and pulled the note out again. Surely Aunty Mary wasn’t dead yet. She could call, couldn’t she? Find out what was wrong with her, see if she was on any funny medications? There had to be an explanation for the letter. But when had there ever been an explanation for Aunty Mary? The only time she had met the old lady was the day before her father and sister had died. What kind of terrible coincidence was that? Leilora had often wondered if it weren’t Aunty Mary’s very presence that frightened her father’s last breaths from his dying body in the ICU room. That moment had engrained itself within her.

*

Leilora meandered through the opened door to ICU 122 and listened to the steady beeping rhythm of heartbeats. The nurse had resumed her hurried walk to attend some other patient, to inform some other sobbing relative of tragedy. Small mechanical whirrs filled the room; the sterile odor of oxygen and plastics smelled of death. Her father lay on the bed, wires and tubes tangled around him—like the silk of a giant robotic spider.

“Daddy?” she whispered at the foot of his bed. How she wanted for him to see her, to tell her she’d be okay, he’d be okay, and that they would go home soon and bake more cookies—like Snickerdoodles. She moved to his side and snatched his hand. “Daddy?” she called, a little louder this time. He made no response, but she continued anyway, brushing the hair on the back of his hand. “I heard what happened; I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I…I wanted to stay with you and Liz.” Leilora studied the broken but peaceful body of her father with blurry eyes. She sniffed once and kept talking.

“Mom won’t be happy, you know. But I still love you Daddy. So don’t go…not now. Oh, Daddy, I shouldn’t have stayed with her; I should have asked to stay with you,” she finished. The silent pause that echoed after her words reminded Leilora only of her father’s critical condition.

“That’s ridiculous, Leil. You have been spared because you stayed with me.” Leilora felt Aunty Mary’s shadow fall across her shoulders and over her father’s bed. “If you had gone with your father, you would be dead already, just like your sister,” Aunty Mary attempted to soothe.

“Wait, Liz? Nobody said anything about her…” Leilora heaved, confusion reigning in her battered eyes.

“Yes, Leil, she was pronounced dead at the scene; we decided you needed to focus on your father while he was still alive.”

“But Liz. No.” Leilora’s breaths came quickly and heavily. “I…oh God, Liz. Daddy why?” Her fist tightened around his non-responsive hand. Then the beeps began to falter from their rhythm. “Oh no…no, Daddy? Daddy!” Bodies came from the hallway; a nurse pulled her from the bedside. Words, commands were issued; she heard nothing but the beeps, she looked for nothing but her father’s face. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Someone had hold of her arms from behind—she couldn’t get loose. The beeps slowed, echoing with every fear inside her.

When the gaps in the pulse stopped, when the prolonged note began to issue from the monitor, Leilora fell to her knees. Everything blurred and spun and fell around her. She saw a single object in the room—she focused all of her attention on it, clinging to this one part of reality where all else seemed to fade to nothing: a small, red light, glowing steadily beyond all motion of change. It gleamed in the blur of events, appearing cross-like in her tears. She watched for minutes, hours, centuries; grappled herself to that red star—let it carry the weight of her soul for as long as she knelt.

Chapter 3

The last batch of the cookies, as always, brought with it a feeling of finality. The house was warm now—the oven’s door cracked open to cool—and Leilora had rolled up her sleeves. Nearly nine-dozen cookies rested on the racks, though she had eaten nearly a dozen. Liz had always been right about her and freshly-baked cookies, as much as she hated to admit it. Now all that awaited her was the clean up. She knew that if she made herself a cup of English Breakfast Tea and ate several more cookies before diving back into Jane Austen, the kitchen would not get back to order that weekend. So she sighed, filled the bowl with water, and began scrubbing. With each stroke, Leilora felt further away from herself. She became again the teenage girl outside her great aunt Mary’s house, but instead of a scrub brush, she gripped a small garden spade.

*

“I used to love gardening, Leil, you know that?” Aunty Mary was saying while she turned the soil, digging, chopping, softening it for the strawberry plants. Leilora did not answer, but repositioned her knees and kept working. “But my back won’t stand for bending over that much any more, and my knees won’t bend right after I kneel…dig that hole a little deeper will you dear?” Leilora paused and caught her breath before plunging the dagger a little further into the earth. Why did she have to stay with “Aunty Mary?” Liz got to go to Dad’s place for the weekend while Mom went away. Why couldn’t she stay with Dad, too? she wondered. “But when I heard you were coming over, I thought to myself, dear me, Mary, if I couldn’t plant some strawberries with that fine young back and strong arms, I should be ashamed. And tomorrow, we can pick a few and have Lila make us some shortcake. Wouldn’t that be grand, I told myself?”

Leilora eased the plant from its pot, fingers carefully holding the soil around the roots. It was so like she felt: exposed, separated from everything she knew. She comforted the plant with a thought: “I will care for you right now, even if no one else will. I will make you a good home in this strange soil.”

“Careful dear! Now don’t forget the pellets. Yes, good only one. Now the water.” Leilora patted the soil around the plant and found the hose with her left hand. “Not too much now, dear. Just enough to moisten it. There, that should be good. Only fifteen left, now.” Aunty Mary’s voice was much louder and harsher than one would ever think could come from such a frail-looking frame. Leilora found herself obediently following all of the lady’s orders, but felt the pity of the giant willows and the embrace of the sun warm her soul.

Of course, because she was the oldest child, she was the logical choice to have stay with Aunty Mary. Of course, Liz would have made such a fuss of it that neither Aunty Mary nor Mom would have wanted to keep her there. But why couldn’t she stay with Dad along with Liz? “Leil, would you dig that hole a little further away? It needs room to spread, you know.” It had only been an hour, and already Leilora was frustrated that Aunty Mary had latched on to calling her “Leil.” How was she supposed to tell the old woman that people called her “Lei” for short? She couldn’t know, and so she decided to dig. Dig her frustrations out and let them escape in the air. “Leil, did you know that I traveled to India when I was your age?”

“No,” was Leilora’s simple reply. Aunty Mary turned a bucket over and gingerly sat on it.

“Yes, I went to India with my father. A magnificent country, magnificent people, indeed.” Aunty Mary cupped her hands, resting her arms on her elbows. “The first Indian I met was a boy my age. He was working for the man my father was visiting—a gopher, my father called him. He would go-fer things; an extra pipe for my father, a certain book in the library, cricket bats, an old photo somewhere upstairs. Anything my father’s friend needed, he would go retrieve. But he had the cutest eyes. Dark, Leil, like finest German chocolate. And devoted, too. It must have been that he came from a Muslim family. He would say his prayers at all the appointed times. I’ve often wondered what happened if his employer ever needed him to fetch something while he was praying to Allah; I’d like to think he had earned the respect to finish his prayers first…” Aunty Mary said and rested her chin in her hands.

Leilora had stopped digging and was watching the old woman intently—her eyes stared beyond the horizon, her mouth smiled slightly. Leilora looked back at the strawberry plant and pulled it from its plastic pot. She thought about the little Indian boy—probably long dead—as she packed the dirt around the plant. Questions did the same to her mind—surrounding her, nourishing her. Had her great aunt fallen in love with this boy? Had she married him? There was so much about her aunt that she didn’t know, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Her face seemed so much different than when she had met her at the car, as if the afternoon breeze had swept the cares from her soul.

When Aunty Mary absently ran her fingers through her gleaming white hair in memory, Leilora noticed a small tattoo on the inside of her left forearm. Curious, she mumbled, “Um, Aunty? Where did you get that?” For a moment, only the hiss of the breeze in the poplars spoke.

“Aunty?” Leilora tried again. Tired eyes reemerged from dream, and Aunty Mary took a trembling breath. “Where did you get that?”

“Get what, dear?” came her confused response.

“On your wrist,” Leilora pointed without blinking. Aunty Mary glanced to the strawberries before answering.

“In India. Now why don’t you finish planting those poor strawberries before they dry out?”

*

The glimmer of the snow in the sudden sunlight caught Leilora off guard. She set the final dish in the washer and gazed out the window. She locked her elbows and leaned the palms of her hands onto the rounded counter-top edge. When had it stopped snowing? she wondered. She admired the prismatic relationship of snow and sun—each flake seemed to glint another set of colors. The sparkles seemed to sweep in waves across the surface, and, if she looked close enough—at least at powdery snow—she could find a rainbow in each flake.

Leilora sighed at the turn of events—no more snowfall, no more baking, no more distractions from the letter. She walked back to the table and sat in the chair at its foot; the envelope slumbered lightly, as if at any moment it would wake again and trouble her with its thoughts. Why did it come today, she pondered, of all days? The snow must have brought it; had it come on a bright summer evening, after an exhausting day’s work, she would have discarded it altogether in a fit of fury. But on a beautiful winter morning—snow twirling around autumnal trees still clinging to color—she had at least been in the mood to read it. Her aunt, however much she despised her (putting it lightly), was still family: the last she had left, when she thought about it.

The letter seemed to awaken, to beckon her a little closer. Her fingers picked it up with the tenderness of a new mother, with the curiosity of a child. She spun it, as if looking for a clue to tell her what to do with it—aside from burning it. The two lined pages seemed a puzzle to her; Aunty had, herself, spelled out a sort of mystery. Leilora let her fingers lead her eyes to the curious lines:

…I ask that you look in the attic, where I showed you my wedding dress, remember, Lei? I can just barely. Take two steps towards the window from where the mirror used to be and look up.

Take whatever you find there to old Uncle Max on Dawson Place; he’ll be able to tell you what to do with it next.

Leilora let out another long slow sigh, filled with an eclectic mix of preoccupations, worries, and fears—and rightly shivered at the end of it. She rubbed the weariness off her forehead with the palm of her hand—closed and opened her eyes. Then she bid herself remember why the mirror in the attic had been important.

*

The day had gone on much too long, and Aunty Mary was a trying individual, Leilora decided as she finished sipping the final spoonful of her soup. The cornbread didn’t help the ending of her day nor her soup. It was too dry and not nearly as sweet as her father’s. But she swallowed it anyway and asked to be excused from the table, as per her mother’s instructions. She felt sluggish, and her blinks had consistently grown longer. But Aunty Mary held up a finger and pushed her bowl aside.

“I have something you must see first. Come with me, Leil.” Standing, she seemed younger, stronger—a greater purpose had been infused into her face. The wrinkles weren’t so deep anymore; her hands didn’t quite shake as much. She was definitely related to her mother, Leilora concluded—she had finally seen a glimmer of who this woman had been before her body had began to wither, and she couldn’t find it in her to openly defy this lady.

Leilora followed Aunty Mary through the parlor, up a grand set of stairs, through the study, past shelves and shelves of dusty books, through a room clad in white sheets and past a locked door, until the old woman began ascending and old iron-wrought spiral staircase. Leilora found the touch of the iron cold and smooth—she passed the palm of her hand along the railing as she spun herself upwards. The steepness of the stairs, however, took their toll on Aunty Mary’s determination. Each rest between each step lasted a little bit longer than the previous did. But when she pulled the keys from her coat pocket and unlocked the hatch door above her, a smile of pride and accomplishment spread across her lips.

“Where does this go?” Leilora managed to ask.

Aunty Mary, with a grunt and a heave, pushed the door open—the clap on the floor above startled Leilora. “The attic,” she replied without turning and disappeared through the entrance into blackness.

Leilora stared at the hole above her which had swallowed Aunty Mary. She thought for a moment that if she backed down the stairs quietly, if she could remember her way back downstairs, she could find her things and leave. She wasn’t too far away from her own house; she could find their neighbor, Mr. Burt, and use his phone to call her father. Couldn’t she do it? She teetered on the edge of a stair, rocking forward, backward, indecision prolonging the balancing act.

Then the light blinked on. “There, that’s better. Come on up, Leil, dear. It must be somewhere around here.” Leilora lifted her feet and plunged up the stairs. The musky smell of the air hit her first—the bitter bite of mothballs and the dulled odor of dust and cardboard. She stopped breathing for as long as she could. The attic was massive; she had envisioned a tight room packed with boxes and dressers. The expansive space surely stretched above the whole house and was sparsely populated; among the items she took not of were racks of old clothing, ladders, chairs, several trunks, large cardboard boxes, an oval-shaped full-length mirror, and a gigantic pile of shoe boxes in one of the corners to her left.

Aunty Mary stood close to the mirror, frowning at an old mahogany chest. “Leil, let me use that strong young back of yours to open this chest. I think it’s unlocked now; just heave open that lid, will you?” Leilora found the wooden lid heavier and the hinges rustier than she had expected—but with a groan, the chest was opened and Leilora couldn’t help but gasp for breath. She awaited a question from Aunty Mary, but found the lady seating herself in an old rocking chair near the chest.

“I don’t know why I haven’t come up here more often,” she gasped, swaying gently in the chair. The ancient wooden flooring took over the conversation, squeaking with every rock. Leilora took two steps to the chest and knelt. The smell of mothballs was nearly overpowering, but she held herself there, her hands grasping the edge of the chest as if she would fall through the floorboards if she let go.

As Leilora peered into the chest, her great aunt addressed someone else, “Oh Jeffrey…it’s been so long.” She had lost her commanding tone—her voice drooped a little, quivering slightly at the edges, and Leilora knew something about the dress in the chest meant significantly to Aunty Mary. “Would you look at that, Leil,” the elderly woman sighed, “It’s real Indian silk; a Ghagra Choli. I wore it on my wedding day.” She paused and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Look at the embroidery—golden Zardosi, if I recall correctly.” Leilora passed her hand over the intricately woven fabric.

“But it’s red. Aren’t you supposed to wear a white gown for you wedding?” she asked the tired, shimmering eyes.

“In India, many things were different. When I wore this maroon Choli for the first time, I…I felt as if I were a rainbow incarnate. I can still remember the look on his face when first he saw me—my soul soared above the Himalayas in that moment.” She reached down and fingered the ethnic dress. “Funny how simple cloth can change a life, isn’t it,” she said, attempting a weak half smile. Leilora stretched a section of the silk across her lap. The intricate gold and crimson patterns glistened, even in the weak light of a single incandescent bulb—Leilora could only imagine with what radiance it must have shown in the Indian sunlight.

Leilora couldn’t remove her hand from the dress, it glowed beneath her touch, dazzled her fingers—and for that moment, she wished the old woman would stay with her here for hours and tell her stories of faraway India. Aunty Mary watched with careful, but sensitive eyes, her lips pulled into a smile of peace and sorrow—Leilora looked up and saw the young girl again in a weary body.

“I was young when I wore this: only nineteen. It might be a little big for you, but would you like to try it on?” Aunty Mary asked. A flame leapt up in Leilora’s eyes. She nodded.

“Okay, stand up. Put the top piece on over your shirt, first,” Aunty Mary instructed. Leilora obeyed, slipping into the fabric. She wondered what it would feel like pressed against her skin—soft and smooth and light. “Now lift up your arms so I can wrap this around your waist.” The old woman’s hands were shaky, but she worked with precision and speed. “Good, now for the sash. Hold out your hands.” The cloth felt like feathers on her bare wrist—soothing and warm. Aunty Mary spun the cloth behind her and finished wrapping her other forearm. “Good!” Aunty Mary finished and stepped back to admire the girl. The bottom of the outfit fell to the floor and the top was too large, as Leilora figured it must have been meant to expose the midriff. She sashayed about a bit, admiring the cloth.

“Why don’t you go over to the mirror over there?” the great aunt encouraged. Leilora carefully lifted the skirt and walked over to the oval mirror. Yes, the outfit was a little too large, but gorgeous, she decided.

“You wore this in India?” Leilora asked while examining the transparent sash.

“I did.”

“Did you marry that boy?”

“Which one?”

“The Gopher,” Leilora replied and Aunty Mary laughed.

“No dear, I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you like him?” Leilora pressed.

“It’s late; you’d better get to bed. Let’s take that off now,” Aunty Mary answered firmly. Leilora thought to argue, but the old eyes demanded obedience—just as with the strawberries. She shrugged off the sash and pulled the top over her head. While she shook her hair out and pulled it back into place, Aunty Mary undid the skirt and whisked it away to the chest—she folded each piece quickly, expertly, and laid them inside. Before Leilora could say anything she dropped the lid into place and locked it with her key. Leilora watched the wooden floorboards vibrate with each footstep she took closer to the hatch back into the world of business trips and unfamiliar bedsheets.

She was shown to her room and left there for the night. Leilora plopped onto the edge of the bed. She brushed her arms lightly; they still felt warm from the Indian silk. More questions crept into her mind about Aunty Mary: why had she become so reserved in the attic? What was wrong with asking about that boy? He wasn’t Jeffrey then; who was? And why did she lock the chest with the outfit? So many questions; her aunt was such an enigma.

Leilora sighed her frustrations, changed for bed, brushed her teeth and slipped in between cold, foreign sheets and wondered if she would sleep at all. Then she remembered the touch of the silk, those featherlike fingers, warm against her skin. There it was again, soft and light on her wrists. And to that she fell asleep.

Chapter 2

Morning came with a heaving breath, with dim, shadowed light echoing into the room from the window. Leilora yawned and wiggled further into the blankets—burrowing from the chill of the air in her room. A moment later, when the memory of newly fallen snow found her conscious thought, she sprung from bed and gazed out the window, anxious to see the transformation.

There, before her, the world slept, buried in what, she guessed, sixteen, eighteen inches? And the snow was still falling. Her heart was racing, but she exhaled slowly, combating the invigorating chill. For a moment she stood apart from the world, but never more connected to it. This was peace, happiness, joy; this space of time was what dreams were made of. She closed her eyes; she thought of nothing. She lived, enthralled with existence.

Then she jumped back into bed, and curled up beneath the covers. Staring at the tree outside her window—the boughs laden with snow, yet still trimmed with golden leaves. She pulled the comforter up to her chin and turned to her back, gazing at the white plaster of the ceiling, asking it the natural questions any soul might ask on a snowy day. What shall I do today? Hmmm? I suppose I’ll make breakfast, she answered herself sincerely. Then I’ll shower. Perhaps I’ll read a book—but what book? It’s cold enough for Joyce or Lawrence; I have time enough for George Eliot or Tolstoy. But I think a day like this forces a person to read a single author: Jane Austen. Yes, she decided, she would eat, shower, and pick up Pride and Prejudice for the fifteenth time in her life and read as long as it snowed.

And she did so, as a bird sets its mind to cracking a nut, though she lost herself briefly in the shower to the influence of the steam and the heat and the massage of the water on her skin. When she had dried and clothed herself, seated herself on the couch across from the most expansive window in the house, she saw the mailwoman drive up.

It had been several days since she had checked her mail and so Leilora threw on a jacket and waded through the snow to her mailbox. It wasn’t as cold as she had suspected outside, yet she still shivered while she pried open the lid. Newspaper, several letters—bills perhaps, and a postcard were the extent of the contents. She high-stepped back to the door, kicked off her boots and shut the door. She flung the mail to the table and hung up her coat, carefully dusting the snow from it before putting it in the closet. The newspaper was yesterday’s weekly issue; she pushed it aside as she sat to examine the others: a bill from the electric company, of course. Two letters from charities seeking holiday donors she threw immediately into the trash. The postcard was from her dentist, wishing her a happy Thanksgiving—it made her smile, at least, before she pitched it. The last envelope had her name hand-written on the front in shaky cursive—though the return address (without a name) and her own were printed in a quick, accurate hand.

She opened the envelope as she always did: with a pencil. Inside was a letter penned in the same brisk handwriting as the addresses:

My dearest Lei,

How have you been, love? I have missed your warm smile and silly sentiments; my place is much colder without your visits—no matter how many candles I tell them to light.

I’ll bet your wondering why I’m writing to you. Well, I seem to have misplaced your phone number, and God knows I can’t call anyone else in our family. I do fear a letter to be too slow, however. The good doctor says I’ll soon be rid of those plastic smells I hate about his office. And you know I did, do. I’ll be leaving soon; not to return until Judgment Day.

I’m dying Leilora, my precious girl. The good doctor says a week at most. I feel tired is all—tired of the monotony, of those horrid plastic odors. I’ll be glad to go when the time comes, girl.

Oh now I know you’ll get so worked up about this; you’ll become so sentimental and call immediately and inquire of my health. But sweetie, you don’t need to worry about me; you need to worry about yourself.

I must focus, Pradi tells me. Oh she’s wonderful, Lei. She takes such very good care of me. And such wonderful eyes! I told her to write an exclamation point, too. And that, too, of course, as if I were writing it with my own hand.

Lei, you are the prize jewel in the crown of my life; I know we didn’t meet often enough—your parents never took kindly to my habits around you. But I do miss you, my girl. I wish I could see you now, all grown up.

I have a favor to ask of you, I do hope you’ll oblige an old dying woman her final request. Ha! You must do it now. Heh. I’ll still ask politely; I am a lady after all…

If you would kindly journey to my old estate—that old brick place on Prince Street. You remember. Where we planted strawberries that summer. You were what? Seven, eight years old? No matter. I ask that you look in the attic, where I showed you my wedding dress, remember, Lei? I can just barely. Take two steps towards the window from where the mirror used to be and look up.

Take whatever you find there to old Uncle Max on Dawson Place; he’ll be able to tell you what to do with it next. And believe me, he’s still alive. It’d take two tornados and a flood to kill him.

Please. Do this Lei. For an old lady who regrets so much.

Well, they want me to nap now; they say I’ve used too much strength. See you on the other side then.

Farewell, my precious Leilora.

Aunty Mary

P.S. You have found a good man, haven’t you?

Leilora held the letter several seconds longer than her fingers wanted to. The surge and sweep of memories like waves climbed further up her beach of thought. Candles and strawberries and that musty old attic were among the things she had managed to forget—the mirror, though, she could never block out. At last the letter slipped from her grasp and both pages spread over the flower-filled tablecloth. Her hands found her face, folded as if in prayer, as she pressed her lips together, squeezed her eyes shut to control the flood of memories.

*

“Why hello love! Come give Aunty Mary a kiss,” the lady with bright, curly white hair implored. The girl, aged fourteen, looked to her mother with caution. Something about the sparkle of the deep red lipstick she wore, or the gleaming, squinting eyes, or the silly smile plastered on her face seemed faulty to her.

“Go on, honey; your great aunt Mary hasn’t seen you since you were born. You’ll have a splendid time with her,” the mother encouraged hastily. Leilora inched forward towards the great old woman and kissed the wrinkly cheek lightly. The two embraced and then she found herself held and arms length, being inspected.

“Oh my God! How you’ve grown! You’re much cuter in real life than in the pictures your mother didn’t send me! Beautiful child,” the elder woman exclaimed, “why don’t you come in and we’ll have some ice cream together?”

Leilora searched past the old lady’s glittering red dress towards the massive brick house in the distance and stepped back. “I don’t want to, Mom,” she muttered.

“Honey, I’ll only be gone a few days. Aunty Mary will take fine care of you,” she assured her daughter with a threatening side glance at the old woman.

“I bought some strawberries we can plant in the garden out back, too…” Aunty Mary goaded. “You like strawberries, dear?”

*

Leilora gathered the letter together and stuffed it back in the envelope, hoping that it would help propel the gathering memories back into their own container—wherever that was. She shivered. What did she need? Something, anything to reign in her wandering mind. She could bake something. Scones? No, she had no sour cream. What else, she wondered. She ticked off the impossibilities: brownies, poppy-seed cake, banana bread, blueberry muffins. What else, she asked the floor, tapping it impatiently with her slippered foot. She browsed her pantry, mentally scanning recipes for an ingredient match. Chocolate chips, brilliant! she mouthed when her eye landed on the half-full bag. Shortening she had, as well as sugar, and flour. She piled them in her arms and searched the rest of her mental recipe: vanilla, eggs, baking soda, baking powder, salt. Yes, they were all there, she assured herself. Then a prick in the back of her mind: brown sugar. She remembered being low the day before when she had made oatmeal for breakfast. She rushed to the cupboard and found less than a quarter bag. Just enough, she sighed.

This bowl isn’t big enough, she told herself. Each time she made her father’s recipe, she swore she would buy a bigger bowl. She put the sugar and salt first, creaming it with the shortening, adding the eggs and vanilla next, and adding the flour, baking soda and powder to the mix last. As she began to spoon the dough onto the baking sheet, she realized something was missing: the chocolate chips. How could she forget! she chided herself. Half a bag was a little lacking for this monstrous recipe, but it was better than nothing.

The work of baking cookies was tedious. One couldn’t simply make the dough or batter, pour it into the pan and wait for it to cook. There was the alternating cookie sheets—the baking time for one sheet was just enough time to unload the previous to the cooling racks, let it cool, and reload it. And with this, her father’s monstrous recipe, she knew she’d not get back to Jane Austen for several more hours. So she turned on some jazzy music and decided to make a morning of it.

Somewhere between setting the timer for the second batch and unloading the first, she thought of her sister. How many times had they helped their father make cookies during their childhood! While she always waited for the finished product to take and eat, her sister, Liz, always went for the dough straight away.

*

“Liz, you’ve eaten like thirteen cookies worth of dough!” Leilora whined, half in petition to her father to stop the apparent travesty. Liz just smiled.

“That’s why Dad makes so much!” she countered. “So that you can eat thirteen cookies after they’re baked and I can eat thirteen before they are.”

“I have not eaten fifteen cookies, Liz.”

“Not yet, you haven’t,” she laughed. “But you eat one cookie for every year of your age.”

“Girls, come on. I need someone to put these on the cooling rack,” their father announced.

“That’s Lei’s job!” Liz proclaimed. “I scoop out the dough. She needs to be over there to eat all the finished cookies.”

“Liz, I don’t…argh. Will you stop eating the dough?”

“Don’t worry about it Lei,” her father soothed. “There’s plenty for everyone,” he paused. “Including me!” With that he reached one hand around Leilora and grabbed a freshly baked cookie and stretched his other hand around Liz and snatched a ball of dough. The two girls were caught squealing in the crook of his elbows and he simultaneously embraced them and ate his treasures. When he finally released them and licked his fingers, the room was awash with laughter.

“What’s going on in here?” a voice echoed from the front door. The girls went back to their jobs, leaving their father to address the woman striding towards them.

“Hello, Valerie,” he offered. She ignored him.

“Girls, come on. Time to go.”

“Aww, but Mom!” Liz complained, “We haven’t finished all the cookies yet!”

“We have an appointment at the theatre with Mr. DeMann at 6:30. We cannot be late. And you girls still have to shower up and get into your dresses. Come on, say goodbye and let’s go.”

“Daddy do we have to?” Liz asked, hoping for any sort of rescue.

“Do as your mother says. I can finish the cookies by myself and send them in a package later, okay?” Leilora slid the last cookie off her sheet and onto the rack and walked from the kitchen without looking at her mother. Liz, however, hadn’t finished fighting.

“I don’t want to go,” she pouted. “I want to stay with Dad.”

“Elizabeth you will put on your shoes and your jacket and get in the car this instant!” her mother affirmed with a fiery gaze.

Liz looked at her father, eyes begging for salvation. He smiled wearily at her and bent down to her level. “Look Liz, we had a great time this afternoon. Hold on to that.” Then leaning in closer, he whispered, “And when you’re at the opera, remember to look for all the old ladies who messed up their make-up. That will cheer you up. Now I’ll see you next weekend right?” Liz nodded and sniffed, blinking the tears from her eyes. She hugged her father and scampered off to find her coat.

“Did you really have to interrupt us so coldly?” he asked the impatiently waiting woman.

“I’m busy, James; I don’t have time for games.”

“Look, Val, I know what the courts said. I won’t undermine your authority here. But think about the girls next you spoil their fun.”

“I don’t need your advice, James; you’re lucky you get to see them at all. Girls! Come on, we’re going to be late!”

Leilora scampered from the back room first. “Bye Daddy!” she exclaimed and hugged him enthusiastically. Liz was right behind her, but lacking the same energy in her embrace.

“Bye, Dad,” she mumbled and strode out the door. Leilora followed her, calling shotgun. Their father watched with far away eyes as they raced to the door, arguing over whose right it was to ride up front.

“Have a good evening, Val.”

“You too, James,” she replied and pulled the door shut behind her.

*

Leilora found herself stirring the dough furiously; she was panting and her forearms ached from the strain. She strode to the window, staring at the snow and pressing her temples with her fingertips. Minutes, hours, years passed while the flakes filled the air, blew through the window, surrounded her in an impenetrable wall of ice. Colder, colder, she felt herself freezing in place—a snow-woman without coal eyes or a carrot-stick nose. She felt herself breathing more slowly, as if it were an unnecessary burden. The snow piled upon her, covering her clothes with patches of white powder. She stared at a single flake which alighted on the palm of her hand; the complexity of the single gave strength to the immensity of the flakes changing her organic cells to crystallized ice.

Chapter 1

“I thought I wanted a life of rainbows; one filled with bright yellow feathers in crimson hats, blue-furred overcoats, green silken tops, and tall, black boots.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I wish I could find the stars. If my life could be as those flickering gems speckling the heavy night sky, I suppose I might cry.”

“But you haven’t”

“I haven’t a life like that. A cloud has come between myself and the stars, dreary in its oppressive weight. It doesn’t rain, nor snow, but lingers, chilling my soul as a mid-day frost alights on the brilliant blades of a dandelion.”

“You’re like a dandelion?”

“Yes, I suppose my life is a bit like a dandelion. I want to shine, to reflect the purest rays of the sun. And when I have given all my yellowness back to the world, I shall crystallize and be scattered to the four corners of the earth. I shall twist my way into the lives of many—and become a seed in their hearts, a potential of boundless glory.”

“And of those who dislike dandelions in their yards—to carry the metaphor—in their lives?”

“Who has not been pleased as a child by the yellow flower? It is only when we are taught that it does not belong with tulips and roses and daffodils, that we think it petty, a nuisance, a threat to our ordered way of life.”

“You conceive of yourself as a threat?”

“If someone supposes me a threat, who am I to argue with their ignorance. I do not actively provoke; you know this much. I enjoy the stars too much, as the dandelions enjoy the sun—the brightest star I know.”

“But do you enjoy the sun?”

“It makes me a monotheist, I know that much.”

“How so?”

“It rises so dutifully; it gives the presence of color to all indiscriminately. And everyone goes about his or her day as if the sun will surely keep its promise. I am reminded of God.”

“You believe in one God then?”

“I suppose you could say that; at least, that’s why I thought I wanted a life of rainbows. To be a prismatic reflection of the divine. To shed something of beauty on the world.”

“But you don’t want that anymore.”

“No, I’d rather be something substantive, an active subject rather than passive object; to reach and stretch and yearn for the life of the divine. Wouldn’t you?”

“I dare say I would.”

“Me too. I think it would be fantastic to live in God’s light. Which is why I like the stars, but find it impossible to live a life of the stars. No, I want a life like that of a dandelion.”

“But you said you’ve been frosted?”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I was a very lively or healthy dandelion. No, the weather has been much too horrid for that. I’m drooping. A fact, indeed. But winter must come every year. Dying isn’t so bad you know, not if you’ve spread your seeds.”

“Do you expect to die soon?”

“I expect to die tomorrow. Even in the next hour, the next minute. Why should I expect to live any longer than I have. No, doctor, I have put out my seeds, I have been very much annihilated, and when the snow comes, the rest of what has become of me will be frozen and crushed. And it was cold today. I suppose the first snowstorm will come soon.”

“If you are prepared to die, then, do you have any regrets?”

“Yes, I suppose I do. I always wanted a cute, red hat.”

*

Leilora pulled the door shut behind her and tip-toed down the hallway, half-smiling with anxious eyes. She peered around the corner for a moment, straightened, and stepped out into the lobby with perfect posture. She tried to keep her lips sealed from a smile and to keep from glancing to the elderly woman seated on the old, orange bench to her left, but couldn’t quite succeed. So she deliberately looked out the window to her left; the blinds were slanted upwards, so that the indoor eye would have the slight advantage looking to the street below, while subverting the eyes of the curious bystander. Leilora felt her stomach tighten and something tingly race up her spine: the weather had worsened.

When she exited the waiting room and stepped lightly down the old, oak stairs to the covered entry, she bent to sooner see what lay beyond the double glass doors. What had been small, dark clouds lingering on the mountain peaks, had now massed into rolling tidal wave pouring over the range and over the city. They weren’t the highswept painter’s clouds, nor the puff-ball clouds of children’s drawings. These clouds, she knew, were snow clouds. Winter was arriving and she couldn’t contain her excitement.

The winds that drove people to dig their woolen sweaters and silken scarves from the boxes in storage only made Leilora grin with delight. The swirl and rustle of fallen leaves were the whistles announcing the coming arrival of the first flurries. She wrapped her own scarf higher on her neck.

Leilora loved keeping warm while staying exposed to the natural turn of the seasons. While she did not fear the cold, she did not enjoy being in that state. But if she could be out in chilly weather without feeling, in turn, chilled, she most certainly would.

So she smiled when she pushed open the glass doors and felt the wind rush against her cheeks, pile against her coat, batter itself against her bastion, and fail, flowing around her pillar of warmth. And though she smiled to herself, it did not happen to go unnoticed.

As a point in fact, another person, struggling with a newspaper in the sudden burst of the wind, looked up in despair at the news and caught her smile. Which, in turn, brought a smile to his face. But Leilora did not notice this, could not have noticed this. She kept her posture and walked off the curb, across the street, and walked along Park Avenue all the way home—all the while admiring the formation of the clouds and promising herself to make herself tea and scones when it would snow that evening.

*

At 5:12 p.m. Leilora looked up from her book and saw out her window the first snowflake of the season and rose from the couch to put the kettle on the stove. Her favorite chair, an old, deep, fern-green Victorian monster of a chair, she had moved halfway between the fireplace and the window in anticipation of an evening without thoughts—opening to the realm of reflection. And so, thoughtlessly she moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. There was something relaxing about the process of making tea, something of lucidity, a way of introduction to herself. She found her favorite mug from the cupboards, a thick, ugly, rough-shapen mug with character. People had always asked her why she liked that cup. And she could never truly reply. While she did give answers (I like its weight; it lends a feeling of antiquity; I feel like I’m drinking tea for the very first time in the very first mug) none of them quite resonated with her. She enjoyed running her fingers over the coarse ceramic suface, but that wasn’t why she liked it. No, it was inexplicable, she decided—it was her favorite mug simply because it was her favorite mug.

She set the teabag—Earl Grey—in the bottom of the mug and inhaled the scent of it. She let her eyes roll upwards in delight—the smell of tea soothed so many cares, so many worries within a soul. It was a sharp odor, demanding to be recognized, poignant, but warm and soft, like the paws of a kitten, she decided.

The kettle radiated warmth, now, but remained silent. Leilora leaned on the counter and opened the blinds of the kitchen window. The flakes fell more frequently now—she didn’t have to search to find one. But in the gathering dark, off down the valley, the haze of the clouds descended to blur the trees and she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long for the air to fill with swirling blowing specks of snow. The storm was so close now; when would it make that final sweep up the vale and draw the breath from her?

The kettle’s first, pathetic whistle drew her from the glass. She acted quickly—the tea needed to be hot—piping hot—she knew, if it were to steep well. But the thought of a burnt tongue always kept her from allowing the kettle to gain too much momentum with its cry. Ah, there was the muffled rush of the boiling water quieting as she poured it into the mug. There was the clarity of the water absorbing the life of the tea—darkening, mixing, changing. Leilora snatched up her spoon and stirred, entranced by the brown churning strands invading the water, claiming the mug for its own.

Enough stirring, she thought and returned to her chair. She sat—she fell into the embrace of the monstrous chair—it seemed to consume her. Crossing her legs and folding her arms, she watched the last lights fade from blurry gray—changing her world, as the tea did the water—to a dark, wonderful concoction. Tea and snowy nights, she decided, were not so very different.

After a while of staring out the window, Leilora found that she was no longer looking at the snow, but rather at her own reflection in the glass. Who was this person staring back at her? She had changed since last she remembered taking time to study herself. She was twelve at the time—wondering what would be left of her when she grew up. Leilora smiled at the memory; certainly her eyes had not changed much with the years. They carried more weight, for sure. But the same soft hazel glow was there, glistening darkly at night, lightly in the dawn. They were easy eyes to look into, unlike the piercing hawk-gaze of her sister. She had always wondered if anyone could find more to her eyes than ease of manner—if someone, someday would tell her that her eyes ignited a fire deep within him, a fire that would ravage and consume him, unquenchable by anything other than itself. She had never seen that in her own eyes.

Her nose hadn’t changed much; it was an acute, slim nose, triangular almost, without much curve to it. But her cheeks revealed the most change about her face: they weren’t so round anymore. They were high, cheerful cheeks, but leaner—a bit more fit for a serious conversation. Like her ears, which seemed to lay back against her skull like those of an aggravated cat. But she had always imagined her ears sleek, like those of an otter playfully spinning underwater.

Her dark brown hair, pulled back and loosely braided behind her at the beginning of the day, now fell around her ears. She pulled idly at a strand and stared at her reflection. Her shoulders sloped wearily—she made an effort to pull them back up, but somehow the day weighed heavily upon her. If only she still had the energy she did at twelve. If only she could dream like she did at twelve—if she could dream of her

The falling snow intensified, descending in wild waves upon the world, clinging first to tree branches and leaf tips before blanketing the resistant ground. All the while Leilora stared at or beyond the window, unsure of how to welcome the snow. The paradox of warmth and chill mesmerized her: she did not like being cold, but she did like being warm when the weather was cold—for that she enjoyed the snow. But her image in the glass, the person staring back at her was cold.

She remembered tea and strode back to the kitchen. When the mug rested firmly between her cupped hands, she found her way back to her chair and realized that the sun had set. The twilight blur of snow erased forms into darkness and the window reflected less clearly than it had. With every minute she saw less and less of herself, until all she saw was night.

The tea, however, helped her forget the cold. Her mind drifted to thoughts of tomorrow: a week’s end. She would sleep until she woke—not a minute earlier nor later. She thought about showering—a quick shower was all she needed—and then walking in the morning sun and admiring the pristine landscape. She swallowed the last of her tea and set the mug on the glass coffee table. It sounded like a plan to her.

She walked to the patio and switched on the outside light; a thousand flurried flakes ignited the night. Good, she thought, it’s still snowing. She always had to make sure; the thought of waking to a foot or more of snow was a permanently thrilling one. She flipped the light off and sauntered to her bedroom; she turned down the thermostat and left her slippers by the bedside. The sheets pressed her closely; she pulled her blanket up to her chin and sighed out her soul to the snow beyond—discovered herself drifting, drifting downward on wings of ice into the infinite darkness, falling further from the stars.