A sweet, sugary smell greeted me as I opened the door, thanks to the vanilla-scented plug-ins spaced throughout the house rather than anything yummy baking in the oven. “Welcome to your Thomas Kinkade cottage,” I said, meaning it, though something ached within. I disengaged the security system, slung my purse over the ear of a dining room chair, and sprinted up the curved wooden staircase to the master bathroom.
Unlike the rest of the house, which, with the help of my father, I had redesigned for comfort and warmth, this space allowed for glamour and extravagance.
“Here’s where you pamper yourself,” my father had said when he shared his vision for the room: strips of Broadway lighting to illuminate an expansive mirror, cream built-in cabinets to support a countertop of shell-pink marble, and a high-efficiency whirlpool tub with foam insulation.
It was hard not to catch my reflection in all that mirrored space while I undressed and filled the tub, but I managed. The person looking back at me lately appeared haunted, and I didn’t like seeing myself this way.
“Polish the mirror regularly,” my father had instructed while stenciling To thine own self be true . . . above the mirror like a tattoo. “Face your imperfections and then wipe them away.”
After inserting a vanilla-scented wicking strip into the aromatherapy canister on the deck of the whirlpool, I engaged the mood light and pulsing jets. I then eased into the warm, churning water, rested my head on the back of the tub, and let my body go limp.
Electronic control panel; eight jets; 600-Watt blower system; balanced airflow; aromatherapy; mood lights. And I had the gall to begrudge Cliff the luxury and performance of his Mercedes-Benz?
For fifteen theta-soaked minutes, the sound of pulsating jets and the scent of vanilla sedated my monkey brain into a state of rest. But gradually, Joshua’s image—his intense brown eyes, his chubby and dimpled cheeks—formed behind my closed lids. How was he doing? Did he miss his mouse totem? Had my opal ring brought him comfort?
Damn.
I stood, pressed my face into a bath towel, and forced thoughts of the child from my mind. No way would I allow another complication into my life, no matter how sweet and innocent the source. The mouse totem, however, promised comfort without asking for anything in return. Bath towel wrapped around me like a sarong, I hurried downstairs to retrieve the small stone from my purse.
Back upstairs, I crawled into bed, adjusted my pillow, and curled into a ball; leaving the totem on the nightstand for easy access should the need for its comfort arise. In the morning, I’d decide where to go on my retreat. Or exile.
🗲🗲🗲
Cool air rushed at me from all sides when I removed the down comforter, but the promise of coffee quelled the impulse to turn over and retreat into the warmth of my bed. I pulled on my robe and within minutes had the coffeemaker sputtering to life. I retrieved the newspaper from the porch step and glanced at the front page. The forecast was for partially cloudy skies with temperatures in the 60s. Another fine day in Menlo Park.
I dropped the paper onto the table and poured myself a mug of coffee, then took a cranberry scone out of the bakery bag on the counter and slid into my favorite spot at the breakfast nook facing the street. Out of habit, I flipped to the business section of the paper, belatedly remembering that I no longer controlled my portfolio. Not surprisingly, the market news lost its appeal. The headlines, full of the usual murders and fraud and political unrest also failed to engage me. The comics lacked humor.
Then it hit me. My home phone hadn’t rung all morning. The fact that I was usually at work at this hour accounted for the lack of personal calls, but since when did that stop the telemarketers? I folded the paper and checked for messages. The first a hang up, the second, yep, a telemarketer spamming me with a $1,000 gift card, and the third, my mother.
“Marjorie? I stopped by, but you didn’t answer the door. It’s six o’clock. Why aren’t you home? Call me. Bye.”
As automatic as a yawn during late night prayer, my mother’s words drew out a sigh. Truus Veil certainly hadn’t lost her road map. She knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing, and last night at 6:00 p.m., she’d been checking on her only child.
In contrast, my current life path was full of pitfalls and barriers. I had enough money but was alone; I had religion but couldn’t comprehend it; I had a job, but it no longer inspired me.
A buzzing in my ears and slight fogginess of vision, warned me that the Voice was about to speak. I hurried to retrieve my journal and pen.
It’s in the bird’s song.
The message. It’s there.
The message is in the breeze.
I was disappointed that the Voice still scared me and that I felt anger when it spoke, but as I stared at the page, I lost myself in the words, It’s in the bird’s song.
🗲🗲🗲
It came to see me nearly every day, sometimes in the morning and sometimes at night. I had ignored it as long as I could before finally relenting and feeding it scraps. Now, I was actually buying it food.
It was the most common of cats, a gray tabby with black stripes, too old and skinny for kitten cuteness. But there was something about its eyes. They appeared to look directly into a part of me that stored my secrets, my hopes, my fears.
I took in the warmth of the sun-drenched deck beneath my feet and the black birds’ throaty, territorial chatter, while the cat sat still as a statue—watching me.
“Okay, okay.” I headed back into the house for a can of food.
When I returned and emptied the slippery goop into tabby’s bowl, it backed off. “Darn it, if you want my handouts, you could at least start trusting me. Come on sweetie, I won’t hurt you.”
As I continued to cajole, the cat inched closer, hesitating, staring, listening. Finally, it snatched a few bites and ran away.
“You’ll never learn,” I said, thinking it strange that I had a stone mouse and a stray cat as companions.
The cat halted and froze. Its ears twisted as if tuning into sounds beyond my hearing, reminding me of mini-satellite dishes rotating to catch invisible channel waves. Its stillness caused me to still. I drew in my breath, wondering why the birds had stopped their jabbering—their silence more noticeable than their thunderous chatter had been.
A breeze came up and, like a cool and invisible hand, tickled my cheek and stroked my hair. It was the lightest of sensations, not touching exactly, barely there, close as breath, like the touch of the sun but cooler.
I followed the cat’s gaze and spotted a large bird soaring overhead with its wings slightly raised. As it circled and swooped closer, I noticed that it was a hawk—a hawk looking directly at me. Goose bumps covered my skin, and a familiar buzzing filled my ears. The raptor’s huge silhouette hovered above me for several seconds before shooting back up and out of sight.
As the birds resumed their dawn chorus, I remembered that the Voice had said there was a message in the breeze and in the bird’s song. And just as I was beginning to break through the fog of understanding, I heard the Voice again.
Awaken child.
Discard the cloak of darkness.
Drop the shroud.
The cat shuddered and so did I. Then ever so slowly, it inched over and rubbed its body against my legs, the vibrations of its silent purr traveling through the fabric of my jeans. I didn’t move or speak. The cat had never gotten this close before.
The phone rang, and the cat fled.
My first impulse was to answer the aggressive summons. Instead, I let the machine pick it up. Then I slapped on some makeup, grabbed my purse, and headed for the perfect place to get away from phones and uncalled for interruptions.