The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I struggle to keep my eyelids open, refusing to so much as blink. I don’t know why, but I’ve decided that the fog can’t do what it wants to do if I’m watching it.

Softly, smoothly, the fog wraps itself around my legs, moving up to my waist. It doesn’t hurt. It feels nice, actually. The fog is warm and easy.

I catch my breath, only then becoming aware that I was holding it. I lift my arms over my head, on instinct, the way I do when wading into the Hudson with Herschel and the other children, putting off diving in until the last possible minute, relishing those last few minutes of dry hands before the inevitable water closes over me.

“Annatje?” Someone is calling my name.

“Is she awake?” another distant voice asks.

“Well, she should be, at this hour,” says the first voice, which I recognize as belonging to my mother.

“Is she quite all right?” the second voice asks anxiously. “It’s not like her, to malinger. Perhaps she’s come over feverish.”

A door opens and closes, and I twist where I’m standing, unclear where I am. The fog has formed itself into a dense mass at my back, pressing into me, lifting me up.

My eyes are burning from the strain of staying open. It’s no use. I have to blink. But what will happen then?

“Oh, she’s fine. It’s those books she reads. Reading too much thins the blood. And she’s always been a lazy girl.”

“Eleanor, really.” The second voice belongs to Aunt Mehitable.

“I’m awake!” I call. “I’m here!”

I press my lips together to give myself courage, and I close my eyes. The moment my lids meet, I feel myself falling, gently, softly, as one falls in a dream before starting awake.

I hear footsteps crossing a wooden floor, and then hands are pressing on my shoulders.

“Are you awake, dearest?” Aunt Mehitable asks. I can smell the lemon balm on her breath, which she chews to cover her tobacco habit. Mother thinks ladies using tobacco is undignified, but Aunt Mehitable never cared.

A soft hand pushes the hair back from my brow. I open my eyes a slit, and discover myself tucked in bed in the attic spare room of Aunt Mehitable’s house. The bud-rose wallpaper is just as it was, lit orange with morning light. Something warm and purring presses into my stomach—my aunt’s patchwork, mouse-hungry house cat.

I open my eyes fully and find the concerned face of Aunt Mehitable bending over me, with my mother looming behind, staring down her nose. You can see that they’re sisters, as they have the same sharp Yankee nose and pinched eyes. But Aunt Mehitable’s more sedate than Mother. She cares less for fashion. And by “less,” I mean she cares not a fig.

“Dearest?” my aunt says, fingering the curls over my ears. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” I say, but my mouth is dry. My eye travels down and observes that I’m in my nightdress. The cat yawns and gives me a knowing look.

“It’s late,” my aunt continues gently. “We were beginning to worry.”

My mother sniffs with disapproval and roams over to the mantel to wind the clock there, her back to us.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes. The cat leaps off me with disdain and wraps himself around my mother’s ankles before disappearing out the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say to my aunt. “What time is it?”

“After nine,” Mother says coolly from her vantage point by the mantel.

“Are you feeling quite all right?” my aunt asks, ignoring my mother. She picks up my wrist and feels my pulse. My aunt sometimes fancies herself a cunning woman. It drives Mother wild. “Your pulse is a trifle weak,” Aunt Mehitable announces. “I’ll have some licorice tea brought up. Help you get your strength back. Tone the blood.”

I can’t help but smile at my aunt’s solicitousness, given my circumstances. And hers, for that matter. But in this memory in which I find myself, I can at least enjoy her warmth, if not her licorice tea, which I loathe.

“I’m quite well, Aunt,” I reassure her. “Thank you.”

“Best get up,” Mother chastises me. “I shouldn’t have to remind you what an important day it is for your father.”