Usually the mail carrier just left the mail in their box, situated next to the road at the end of the winding driveway, not visible from the house. They’d met him only a couple of times, when he’d driven their packages up to the porch. He wore a hat with earflaps and drove a four-wheel-drive postal service jeep, and he’d told them he always delivered to them early, as they were near the beginning of his route. Orla had established a new favorite routine, something she never would have imagined enjoying: strolling the sixty yards down to the mailbox every morning, cup of tea in hand. Now, almost two weeks into their new life, she looked forward to seeing how the routine would change as the seasons turned over—come summer, would she brave the walk in bare feet? Would the path be dotted with wildflowers?
It was another crisp, clear day, but she didn’t mind putting on all her winter gear to make her serene walk. Steam rose from her mug, and the warmth of the tea, as she swallowed it, countered the chilly air. They were on their fifth day of using boiled and bottled water, and someone had come out two days before, Tuesday, to test their well water. She and Shaw had started consulting with each other every night before bed, but there’d been nothing new or odd to report. The household had been filled with giggles and music and chatter all week, bolstered by a renewed optimism.
In the city, quiet time had been at a premium. Orla realized now she’d craved it more than she’d been consciously aware. Those Saturday or Sunday mornings when she’d snuck out early on no discernible mission other than to see the streets with no traffic, the sidewalks with no people. Sometimes it was a very narrow window of opportunity, and the cars and people would creep into her solitude. But before they ruined it, Orla marveled at how different it all felt, how peaceful, with the city that never slept subdued in its hour of slumber.
And here, beyond the boundaries of a cluster of small towns, they were, technically, nowhere in particular. While she was no longer lacking in quietude, the morning jaunt to the mailbox was often her only chance to be by herself. Or to walk anywhere. Eventually she’d have to summon more courage and start taking little walks around the property, maybe even venture deeper into the woods. She wouldn’t survive long term without being able to stretch her legs—beyond her body’s need for it, it was imperative she not feel trapped.
She walked in one of the rutted impressions made by their SUV. It had been a few days since they’d driven anywhere—their last venture out was to the nearest pizza place, thirty minutes away—but it hadn’t snowed since then and the tire tracks still looked fresh in the parallel ruts. It was so quiet she could hear wind rustling branches in trees far away and, closer, the muffled splat as snow lost its grip on a limb and tumbled onto a drift below. Orla smiled seeing her cheery friend the resident cardinal looking down on her from a branch above her head. The air smelled only of cold and the foreign aroma of cardamom wafting on the air from her tea.
Part of her morning ritual included being very aware; she made a point of noticing things she hadn’t seen before. Shaw had picked up the practice in an acting class he’d taken years earlier, and it was something they both incorporated into their lives—when they remembered. It had been harder to do in the city, where slowing down on a sidewalk was likely to result in impatient pedestrians bristling past. But here…she let her gaze wander, paused whenever she saw something that required more of her attention. Such as…tiny footprints?
At first she thought they were bird tracks in the snow—perhaps left by her feathery red friend? But on closer inspection…she was starting to regret the details she noticed every time she leaned in to get a better look at something.
She recognized the pattern. It couldn’t have been more obvious; she had a print of it hanging across from her bed. But it was impossible. We boiled the water.
Some contemporary choreographers used a system called Benesh Movement Notation, though most of the ones she’d worked with preferred to use video. The choreography was recorded on what looked like a five-lined music staff, but it documented sections of the body, not musical notes. Early in her career she’d become fascinated by older systems to record choreography, and she’d discovered Feuillet and the French dances he’d documented in the 1700s. The notations were drawn with swirling lines, as if you were looking down and seeing the patterns on the floor made as the dancers moved around. Her favorite, the one Shaw had framed as a print for her, was called simply Balet. It showed in mirror image two double-lined S-like shapes with matching curls and swoops. On their bedroom wall, it looked graceful, if abstract. On the snow, it looked…
Wrong.
She blinked hard, clearing her vision. Maybe it wasn’t really there. Maybe she thought of dance so often, even if subconsciously, that now she saw it materialize in the landscape of her new world.
She peered at the markings again. And laughed at herself. “You’re losing it.”
She’d been right the first time: little bird footprints etched in the snow.
With a bit more haste, she continued on until she reached the road. The shriek of the mailbox’s rusty hinges was a violation; it left a bloody color in her mind.
They paid all of their bills online and never got much mail, but she was never disappointed when the box was empty. In fact, it was something of an accomplishment; they didn’t need to waste trees to communicate. But today there was personalized junk mail from their new satellite company and their new bank. She stuffed them in her coat pocket and turned around to follow her footprints back to the house. Although she’d been bothered the day they moved in that the house sat so far from the road, now she liked it. She liked walking a deserted path without having a single structure in sight, at least for a short way. And although once that had made the location seem dangerous, that no one knew they were there, now it felt safer. No one could spot them from the road, unless their chimney was smoking.
Slowly, Orla was acclimating to the new concept of invisibility. She was inconspicuous now, a person without a stage, a platform. After so many years of being a performer, she’d anticipated an itchier adjustment. Maybe Shaw had been right that it would be easier for her away from the city, with fewer distractions. Fewer reminders. (Bird tracks in the snow notwithstanding.) Fewer bright lights to linger beneath.
As she brought the mug to her lips, it suddenly blew out of her hands. A gust of wind that caught her by surprise.
She bent down to pick it up. The splatter of tea on the snow reminded her of dog pee—from a slightly ill dog. That made her chortle until a blast of wind knocked her off her feet. The snow came next, descending on her like a wall of wasps. The frozen particles whipped her cheeks, tiny razors that felt sharp enough to draw blood.
Gale-force gusts assaulted her from every direction, and she struggled to stand. The mug forgotten, buried, she shut her eyes against the frenzied snow, uncertain if she should hunker down and wait it out or plow homeward. Last time, the whiteout had ended before she’d even gotten the children into the house; maybe this one would dissipate just as quickly. She kept her body folded over at the waist and made a battering ram of her head, determined to get to the safety of home.
The wind rushed toward her face, forcing itself down her throat. It stole her breath and she gulped like a fish on land, momentarily panicked by the sensation of suffocation. She tucked her mouth in under her coat and struggled onward, glad the kids weren’t with her.
There was an excitement to it, to the danger, the randomness. After they’d spent so many years keeping track of schedules—the never-ending who-where-when, the jigsaw-puzzle picture constantly changing depending on what was going on in the busy family’s life—it was oddly fascinating to be kidnapped by the unexpected. Part of her even appreciated the weather’s show of power. It reminded her to be more humble, especially after an adulthood spent working for applause. There were things about the world she didn’t understand, and this—now, as she struggled to breathe, to stay upright—didn’t have to be something adverse. She was open to the possibility of being put in her place, a minuscule creature awakening to the vastness, the unknown, spinning in tandem with the perpetual outward force of the big bang.
She pushed forward, unaware of anything but the wind and snow. Even that struck her as appropriately philosophical; she was wholly in the moment. Her new life, she decided, required mindfulness, appreciation, and, yes, becoming more philosophical. In a place devoid of the endless entertainment she’d once taken for granted, she’d go crazy if she couldn’t find meaning and satisfaction in the things around her. She’d replace the fine art of ballet with the fine art of contemplative gratitude.
The ground around her started to brighten, not unlike the first moments on a stage, and she turned toward the light. But she didn’t recognize what it was until too late.