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.