I go outside to swim, in a suit, while Maya sleeps. The water is cold, just what I need. I swim back and forth, back and forth, cooling my grief. I shower away the chlorine, and by the time I pad back inside in a thick robe Augustus himself bought for me, I feel calm and focused. Maya is sitting up on the couch with a tablet in her lap, her arm propped up with a pile of pillows. Dark rings circle her eyes. “Hey,” she says, and it’s croaky. “I thought you might have gone.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No. You can stay here if you want, but you can have one of the bedrooms upstairs. Sorry I already took the main, but there are four others. Pick one.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
She waves with her good hand, a weariness that slices through all the bullshit. “Just stay.”
“You want some tea? Coffee?”
“I looked it up and I can take ibuprofen before twenty weeks.”
“Okay.” I smile. “I’ll get you some.” I sit on the ottoman in front of her and slide the plastic bag I used for ice last night from between the cushions.
And as ideas will do sometimes, one strikes me as I stand, but I’ll have to figure out how to ask. I fetch the ice and ibuprofen. “Do you want me to call your sister?”
“I can do it in a little while. She’s going to freak out, I think.” She sighs. “I wish I could have made decisions the way she has. Turns out it makes a big difference in your happiness.”
I see my opening. “Was she born here, your sister?”
“No, I think she was born somewhere near Chico. It’s some strange name, like a weather or something. Some shit town up there. Meadow left the second she could get out.”
I nod, secreting the answer away. A strangely named town near Chico. That I can work with.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I take off?”
“No. Thanks, Norah. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem. See you afterwhile.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Meadow
On Sunday morning, I am teased out of bed by light spilling into my bedroom from the east. In all the fuss and drama of the past couple of weeks, I forgot how much I love this place, a house I built for myself with my own money, exactly what I most wanted. It’s not huge, but it’s reminiscent of a house I used to see in my childhood, a farmhouse with porches and long double-hung windows. A place to be happy.
My house.
Windows line both the east and north walls of my bedroom, and gauzy linen curtains float on the breezes. The floors are wide pine planks. Elvis and the cats sleep with me in the big soft bed with more pillows than three people could reasonably use.
I sleep in pajamas these days, something that makes me feel old, but also gives me a tremendous amount of pleasure. When I was married, my sleeping attire was nightgowns designed for attractiveness, with straps and lace and all sorts of uncomfortable things, and I’m not sorry to lose them. I do wonder why the hell I spent so many years not pleasing myself in the first place, but that’s a thought for another day. I pad over to the window to look out over the fields, or at least the portion I can see from here, which are the strawberries covered with netting, and the edge of the herbs. If the wind is right, I can smell a wild mix of sage or dill or whatever else is being most prolific.
This morning, the light is a deep reddish gold, and my stomach drops. Only smoke makes the air that color. I open the window wider, but I can’t smell anything. I look out the windows to the north and can’t see the source. Picking up my phone, I ask it to show me the fire map of California. A map with red dots comes up and I click on it. So many for so early in the season!
Zooming in, I see one large red dot to the northeast. It’s almost fifty miles away in the San Rafael Mountains. I look at the haze in the sky, thinking it must be a big one. When they get going in the high mountains, it’s hard to get them under control, all those ravines and cliffs and impassable forests.
We’ve had several big fires up near Ojai the past few years, and we all have varying levels of PTSD over that particular color of light and the scent of burning in the air. Still, this one is a long way off. The farm is safe.
I shower and dress, winding my hair into a braid to keep it off my neck in the heat, and head for the fields with a cup of coffee. It’s a good practice to lay eyes on the plants regularly, see if there are bugs eating too much, or leaves going yellow or spotted. I have managers who do it full-time, but I still enjoy it. It’s peaceful and centering, walking between rows of crops, hearing workers trading conversations in sibilant Spanish, water running, honeybees and slow, heavy bumblebees bouncing from plant to plant to fertilize everything. The sun on my arms is warm even so early, and I make a note—it’s going to be a very hot day.