There is a two-hundred-year-old oak tree on the eastern edge of our property. When I was nine years old, it was the grandest tree I’d ever seen, and my summer’s ambition was to climb up to the top.
It was a good climbing tree, with plenty of sturdy lower branches, so I had no problem getting halfway up. Three branches came together at one spot to form a kind of seat, and I would hang out there for hours that summer, watching the birds and bugs and dreaming of all kinds of adventures.
The top of the tree was very high, with the branches much younger and bendable. Each day, I would climb as high as I could reach, but I would always chicken out before I got to the very top.
All summer and into the autumn I dreamed of reaching the top branch. I imagined myself getting up there and looking over the highest of the trees in the woods. I thought maybe I could even see the shops and restaurants of Roanoke—the largest city of any size in the region—if a mountain didn’t get in the way.
So one fall day after school I determined to do it. My sister was reading a book not far away, but I didn’t tell her what I was going to do. I never told anyone the ambitions I had. Sharing them would be giving too much away, making me vulnerable in a way I didn’t like.
After all, what if I couldn’t manage to climb to the top of the tree? Then other people would know that I’d failed.
That afternoon, I reached my little seat about halfway up, and then I kept climbing. There were a couple of stable branches higher up, and I stretched to grab onto one of them and walked myself up the trunk. It took some effort and upper-body strength, but I was able to haul myself up until I was straddling one of the higher branches.
I felt safe there, and I rested a minute, leaning back against the old trunk. The bark was cracked and slightly scratchy, but it smelled familiar, woody, like a good friend. I loved the feeling of safety—of being high in the air but supported by the large trunk and a sturdy branch.
Sometimes I wish I could still climb trees and feel that kind of pride and security again.
I wasn’t at the top yet, though, so after a few minutes I held onto the trunk and pulled my feet under myself to stand on the branch. The higher branches were all flexible, so they moved when I held onto them. I grabbed at one and pulled, testing its strength.
It seemed to support my weight, so I used it to pull myself up, scrabbling with my feet for some purchase on the tree.
I managed to get higher, and then found a branch to pull myself higher still. I wasn’t at the top yet, but I was closer. The leaves were sparser up there, and I could see wide stretches of crisp blue sky above.
The big oak—my good friend of many years—didn’t feel nearly as secure up there. I could feel the breeze blowing against my hot skin, rustling the leaves and sending my hair into my eyes. For a moment, it felt like it was going to blow me right out of the tree. I was gripping two different branches so tightly my knuckles hurt, but they would move every time I did, so that stability I loved wasn’t there.
I was high in the air—higher than anything else on our property—and I couldn’t trust these branches to hold me up.
For several minutes, I was paralyzed, about four feet from the very top—willing myself to continue but terrified of letting go of the two branches I gripped. Finally, after a wave of dizziness overtook me, I just gave up.
Instead of reaching up, I stretched one of my feet down until I felt a branch beneath it. Then I began to lower my weight onto it, telling myself that in just a minute I’d reach that good, strong branch again.
I was evidently too heavy for the branch I’d chosen because it buckled as soon as I gave it my weight. This happens occasionally when you climb trees—every kid knows it—but I was so emotionally stretched at that point that I couldn’t react quickly enough to find a new support for my hand or my feet.
I lost my grip and started to slip, falling down against the bark of the tree in a way that tore my shirt and scratched both of my palms and my cheek. I grappled for a branch to hang onto, finding one that broke almost immediately from the momentum of my fall.
Silent panic overtook me, chilling my skin and blurring my vision. I could see myself, in that moment, falling all of the way down the tree, striking against branches and then finally landing with a thud on the ground. I would break my back, break my neck, bust open my skull.
I could see it all, even as my hands kept reaching out for anything strong enough to hold onto.
My fall was stopped abruptly by that nice stable branch I’d been resting on earlier. My foot slipped past it, making me straddle the branch again, catching myself quite painfully with my bottom.
I called all of my private parts “bottom” back then, and the impact was not on the part of my bottom that had extra cushioning. The pain blinded me for a minute, and tears ran down my cheeks as I clung to the trunk and found my balance again.
I was all scratched up, and I’d pulled a couple of muscles in my thighs that ached sharply. Plus the pain from the impact between my legs. But I was stable again. I wasn’t falling anymore. I kept telling myself that truth.
I have no idea how long I sat there. It all hurt so much I couldn’t climb even if I’d wanted to, but I was too afraid to move again anyway.
I could have called out for help. My sister wasn’t that far away, and she would have run over and helped me—or else gone to the house to get assistance from our mother.
I didn’t cry out, though. I didn’t make a sound. Everything hurt. I couldn’t move at all. I was trapped at a significant height in this old oak tree. But everything would be so much worse if I had to ask for help, if I had to admit I couldn’t do it on my own.
Eventually, the pain subsided enough for me to risk swinging my leg over the tree. I made it back down to my branch seat, and I felt safe there again. I wiped away my tears and wiped away the blood from my skin. I decided if I was quiet enough I could make it back to the house and into the bathroom without anyone seeing me.
Some people naturally ask for help. They like the attention of having other people run to their rescue. They like leaning on other people for support in their times of need.
I’ve never understood them. Needing help has always been a very private matter for me. Even as a child, there was something shameful about it. You only accepted help when there was no other choice, and you never, ever asked for it.
I did make it down the tree and back to the house and into the bathroom without my sister or my mother seeing me. I cleaned myself up and verified that nothing was damaged in a way that would be a lasting problem.
I told my mom I’d tripped and fallen down, scratching up my palm and face. I’d already bandaged myself up at that point, so she told me I could have a glass of lemonade if it would make me feel better.
I did have the lemonade. I was shaky for the rest of the day.
The following afternoon, I went back up the tree, but I didn’t go any farther than the seat of three branches.
I never tried to climb up to the top of the tree again. Any time I thought about doing it, I’d get a heavy knot in my belly.
I would sometimes dream about getting to the top and looking out at the rooftop of the woods, seeing our house and the old barn, maybe even catching a glimpse of Roanoke in the distance.
I know now that I would never have been able to see that far. With the slope of the land, I probably wouldn’t have been able to even see our house. But I still feel that ache of regret at never reaching the top of the oak.
It’s one of those losses that just doesn’t go away.
My nephew, Roger, has gone on earlier to my new home, taking my boxes and the few pieces of furniture I’m bringing with me. So it’s just Beth who is driving me now as I look back toward the old house, the dilapidated barn, and the much-loved woods and grassy lawns disappearing behind the curve in the road.
“At least it’s staying in the family,” Beth says, in a voice that’s obviously intended to sound cheerful and encouraging.
I appreciate the attempt, no matter how little the tone works. “Yes. I’m very glad your dad wanted it.”
“I know it’s hard,” Beth says, glancing over at my face. “But I think, once you move in, you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how nice it is to not have to worry about meals and housekeeping and all that. It’s a really nice place.”
Eagle’s Rest is a nice place. It is very nice, as far as assisted-living homes go, and it offers the option of moving to full-time nursing care, should I need it in the future. I visited other, less expensive places, and they made me sick, even just walking in the door.
When I don’t answer, Beth goes on. “And it might be nice to have a lot of other people around, at your stage in life. Hopefully, you’ll find a lot of friends and things to do. You won’t have to be alone.”
I smile at her and murmur a wordless answer. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She is a sweet girl, and she is trying to help. But I like being alone. I don’t want to be surrounded by a lot of annoying retired people and forced to participate in ridiculous activities I’m expected to enjoy just because I have gray hair.
I didn’t like games and ice cream socials when I was younger, and I sure don’t want to put up with them now.
I want my books and a view of the Valentine Valley. I’ll be okay if I’m left alone with those.
Beth is going on, listing all the good things she can brainstorm about my change in living situation. “And it will be such a relief to know that there’s always help if you need it—nurses and assistants and anything you need.”
“Yes,” I say. “That will be nice.”
If I hadn’t fallen two months ago, I wouldn’t be moving now. Sometimes I curse myself for the one step, the one slip of my foot that caused me to fall and break my hip.
One moment of time, and everything changes. That’s always the way it happens, but it doesn’t get any easier just because you know it always happens that way.
“And Dad and I will come visit you as often as we can. You know that, right? And I’m sure you can come out to visit the house sometimes too.”
“That would be lovely.” I’m saying these things because it’s expected, because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. It would be nice if she’d just drive in silence, but people often aren’t comfortable without words, not when things are hard.
So Beth keeps saying encouraging things and I keep acting like I’m encouraged until we finally make it to the other side of the valley and she drives up the mountain to the collection of buildings that make up Eagle’s Rest.
There are two large buildings—the main residence with the apartments and dining room, and the community building with lounge spaces, exercise rooms, a swimming pool, and health services. There are also quite a few cottages around the perimeter that are rented out to seniors who want an “independent living” situation, and there are tennis courts and a garden.
It’s a gray, humid day, and there aren’t very many people outside as Beth parks in one of the visitors’ spaces in the front. To the right of the main building, a wide lawn slopes down into woods. There’s a path that skirts the woods, leading to a valley overlook.
I know it’s there because that path is the reason I chose to spend the rest of my life in Eagle’s Rest.
As we reach the front door of the main building, I’m about to pull it open when a middle-aged man walks out.
He blinks in surprise, evidently not having noticed our presence immediately, but then he smiles and holds the door open for Beth and me.
He’s balding, with a plain face, but he has very soft brown eyes and a kind smile. I smile back at him, thanking him.
“Of course. Sorry I almost ran you down. Welcome to Eagle’s Rest.”
I wonder who he is. Maybe a relative of a resident or a staff member. He looks very nice, and he makes me feel better about being here.
When we get into the lobby, we’re greeted by a staff member named Charlotte. She looks to be around forty with just a little extra padding on her—maybe size 14 or 16, about my size—and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She has the kind of washed-out face that makes her look like she’s been at the back of the closet for too long.
She has a very nice smile, though, and it seems sincere as she welcomes us and shows us back to my new place.
“You’ve got one of my favorite apartments,” she says, turning her head to look back at me. I can tell she’s used to walking quickly, getting things done efficiently, and she has to consciously slow herself down to my pace with the walker. “It’s on the corner on the ground floor, and it has a lovely view of the gardens. It’s east facing, so you can see the sunrise if you wake up early enough.”
“I’m always up before dawn.” I haven’t been able to sleep in past six o’clock for years. It’s just one of those things that happened to me as I got older.
“It will be so nice to be able to make a cup of tea and sit down to watch the sunrise when you wake up,” Beth says, still trying to be cheerful. She’s carrying my bag with the stuff I needed this morning that couldn’t be packed up with the rest of my possessions and brought over by Roger.
“Your nephew is in the apartment now,” Charlotte tells me, turning right at the end of the hall and waiting for me to catch up. “He’s been working hard to get it set up for you.”
It’s very nice of Roger to help me out this way. He’s always been a good nephew, particularly after his mother died. I’m glad to have him. And I’m glad to have Beth. I don’t have much family, but I certainly can’t complain about the family I have.
There are photographs lining the wall of this hallway, and I glance at them as I walk. They are clearly of residents of Eagle’s Rest performing different activities on the grounds. I’m sure they’re hung there to give the impression of the community being a fun and social place to live.
I’m not particularly impressed, though. I’ve never liked tennis, and I’ve never liked bridge. There’s one picture of residents dancing, and I shudder at the idea of going to a dance.
There’s one nice photo of people drinking tea in the garden, and that’s the only activity that looks like something I would enjoy.
I pause at that picture, caught at first by the lovely colors of the garden and then by the teacups on the table.
But then I notice something else. Someone else. My breath hitches slightly as I recognize a man standing in the background.
He has gray, thinning hair and a body that is really not bad for his age—with shoulders that are still broad and straight and only a slight paunch around his middle. But what captures my attention are his features—the broad forehead, the strong nose, the chin with the cleft.
“Is this Dave Andrews?” I ask, peering at the photo and wondering if I’ve mistaken him somehow.
“Yes,” Charlotte says, walking back and looking at the picture with me. “Yes, that’s Dave. Do you know him?”
“I used to. He worked at my college for five years. I didn’t realize he was still in the area.”
“He moved in with us about seven years ago. He had one of the cottages for a long time, but last year he moved into this building. He’s very popular with the female residents. If you know him, that won’t be a surprise.” She gives me a little smile, as if we share a secret.
I return the smile, deciding I like Charlotte. She isn’t really as back-of-the-closet as she seemed at first. She’s clever and has a sense of humor, and she would be a lot prettier if she’d wear her hair down. Her claim about Dave Andrews doesn’t surprise me at all. He was married when I knew him before, but all the girls had been crazy about him anyway. He was one of those guys who could charm anyone—good-looking and used to getting his way because of it.
I hadn’t liked him at all. I didn’t—and still don’t—like those charming, schmoozing kind of men. I don’t trust the kind of appeal that comes too easily.
Plus, I had other reasons not to like Dave. He was brought in to get finances under control at the college, which meant he was going around cutting lines in everyone’s budgets. He’d thought the library was a money pit, and he hadn’t been afraid to tell me so.
I hadn’t appreciated it, and I hadn’t been afraid to tell him so.
Five years I spent fighting battles with him as he tried to gut the integrity of the college library. He finally got tired of dealing with academics and returned to corporate finance. I’d heard he moved to D.C., and I wonder now if he came back just for the retirement community or if he’d come back before he moved to Eagle’s Rest.
He hadn’t seemed to really like this area before, being more of a big-city guy, but maybe that has changed.
Shrugging off the memories, I turn away from the photo and keep walking. At the end of the hall is my new apartment.
It’s a studio apartment with a private alcove for the bed. It’s four hundred square feet with high ceilings and some good sunlight that comes in from the windows on two walls and a French door that leads out onto a small patio.
There’s a door that opens to an updated bathroom, and there’s a small kitchenette on one wall with a sink, half-size refrigerator, microwave, and electric kettle. Roger has been busy putting up my books on the bookcases he brought in for me, positioning a new recliner near the window, and laying out my pictures and wall hangings where he thought they might go.
It’s a decent room. It doesn’t feel too much like a hospital, although the bed, sofa, and small table and chairs that come with the room are quite generic.
It isn’t home, but it will be okay. I can live here.
I’ll have to live here.
“What do you think?” Roger asks with a broad smile.
“It’s nice.” I walk over to look out the window. Not only does it have a view of the garden, but it also has a view of the woods beyond. “It’s very nice.”
“I love all the sunshine,” Charlotte says, walking over to open the blinds a bit more.
“Yes, that’s very nice.” I smile at Roger. “Thank you so much for getting it ready.”
“Of course. Just tell me where you want the pictures on the wall, and I’ll hang them for you.”
He knows I never feel at home in a place until the pictures are hung.
We’re busy for an hour or two, and then Roger and Beth finally hug me and say good-bye. I’m left alone in the room.
It’s really quite pleasant. It could be so much worse. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself or complain when I’ve ended up in a very nice home.
I find my comb in my bag and carry it to the bathroom, where I put it down on the vanity.
As I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I look so old I barely recognize myself.
Maybe it’s just the lighting here. It’s different from my bathroom in the house. Since I’ve always carried a little extra weight, my face isn’t as wrinkled as a lot of women’s my age, but I see the creases on my forehead and at the corners of my mouth and eyes that stand out in stark detail at the moment.
My eyes are blue, and my hair is steel gray, hanging down to my shoulders since I always had long hair and still can’t bring myself to cut it all off.
I used to wear red lipstick, and I think about putting it on now to brighten up my face before I go down for dinner.
I don’t, though.
My lipstick days are over—just like my days of having a dog are over. I’m not going to be one of those silly women who can’t let go of her younger self and so becomes slightly ridiculous.
I’ve always been intelligent, independent, and practical. That’s what I’ll continue to be.
I can be so here too.
I’m surprised when there’s a tap on the door to my apartment, and I turn too quickly and jar my hip painfully.
So I’m slower than usual as I shuffle to the door to open it.
It’s Charlotte, smiling at me. “I’m just checking to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Yes, it’s very nice. Thank you.”
“I’ll go down with you to dinner, if you want. I know it’s not always easy going alone if you’re new to a place. Some folks have told me it’s like the first day of school.”
It’s a very kind thought, and I accept it. I grab my crocheted handbag and start down with her.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask as we go.
“Almost twelve years now.”
“You enjoy it?”
“I do. I really do.”
“Do you have children?” I ask because I’m curious—no other reason than that.
She shakes her head. “I always wanted them, but it’s not looking like it’s going to happen.”
“Well, you never know. I doubt it’s too late for you yet.”
She gives a little laugh. “It’s getting there.”
“So you’re not married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I … I think so.”
That answer doesn’t seem promising—nor does the slight twisting of her face as she says it. If a woman isn’t able to say confidently that she has a boyfriend, then it’s likely she doesn’t.
But I like Charlotte and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I just nod. “That’s good.”
“His name is Kevin. He’s a lawyer. Oh, actually, Dave Andrews is his stepfather.”
“Oh, really?” I try to sound interested, since I know she just mentions it because I brought up Dave to her before.
“He’s out of town. Dave, I mean. Well, actually, both Dave and Kevin. The family took a trip to Niagara Falls. They won’t be back until next week.”
The truth is I don’t care all that much about Dave. It’s of no interest to me whether he’s in town or not. I didn’t like him before, so I’m not inclined to like him now.
I do like Charlotte, and something tells me that Kevin, the lawyer, isn’t the kind of boyfriend she deserves.