Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

“Come in. Get out of the street, for Christ’s sake.” She waved with a skeletal, clawish hand. Her nails were short and lacquered a dark gray. A band of diamonds glittered on her finger like a tiny collar. Marie walked into a room unlike any she had ever dreamed of before. The walls, couches, table, carpets — everything white. The ceiling was of glass, and the walls, too, everything leached of color and substance. Sunlight blazed all around them as if they were trapped together inside a bottle. It was the most terrifying and peaceful room Marie could ever have imagined.

“Let’s do introductions later. I’m going back to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Enough ma’am. You make me feel like someone’s grandmother. Me llamo Linda.”

Marie nodded.

The woman did not ask her name, only looked at her face briefly and looked away. Her eyes were such a light blue they seemed to have no color at all, like the room itself, and like the sun they were hard to look into for long. Her hair was the palest blond, also drained of color, and it swept along her chin like a delicate cloth.

“I’ll show you your room so you can get settled. Since you’ll be living here, I require you to take at least one shower each day and wear a uniform. Nothing silly — just a polo shirt and white jeans, white sneakers or loafers. Give me your sizes, and I’ll take care of it. Is that okay?”

“I always wear others’ clothes. Don’t know my own size.”

“More information than I really wanted.” Linda sighed. “I’ll guess. You’re about the same as the last girl.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman frowned. “Maybe we both need sleep.”

* * *

The maid’s room was not like the other parts of the house — the ceiling was low, the beams exposed, the walls painted a gloomy mustard yellow with figures and words scrawled across them that told Marie that the girl who had drawn them (she did not think it was Coca) had been from the islands also. She pried the window open, struggling with the warped wooden frame. The only sounds outside were of a lawn mower and the ocean in the distance. She sat and let the silence wash over her. The window looked out at a thick, coarse lawn, the blades so fat and sharp they looked as if they would hurt bare feet, and at a corner of the swimming pool, blue like a chip of island sky. Marie lay back on her single bed, the mattress covered by a balding chenille blanket. A closet, a scarred desk, a sagging chair, nothing else in the room. The most beautiful place she had ever been.

* * *

She fell asleep and did not wake until she heard an impatient rapping on the door.

It flung open before she could get up, and the woman stood in a white pantsuit, her only bit of color a pink scarf trailing down her neck. Now her eyes were rimmed in kohl, her lips a silvery pink, and Marie thought her perfect like the pictures in magazines. The woman was like her house — untouched, with no sign of time passing and leaving its imprint. “Do you normally sleep all day?” she said, lips in a frown while she raked through her small purse.

“I’m sorry.…”

“I hate people apologizing. Just don’t do it, okay? Let’s move to the living room, please.”

Marie jumped up and tried to smooth her clothes as best she could, jogging in her hurry to follow the woman’s long strides.

“Cleaning supplies are in the pantry off the kitchen. I’m sure you’ll figure things out for yourself. Coca said you have experience, right?”

“I know cleaning.”

“The number one thing to remember is that I prefer not to be bothered with details, okay? Unless it’s absolutely essential. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Linda.”

“This isn’t a Southern plantation. Linda.”

“Linda.”

The woman pulled out a dark pair of sunglasses from her purse and put them on. The room was so bright Marie wished for her own pair.

“I’m late for lunch so we’ll continue with this later.”

“Yes.”

The woman opened the front door, then turned back. “My God, I forgot to ask — what’s your name?”

Marie hesitated, her mind empty of possibilities. “Maleva?”

“What a pretty name. A pretty girl. You’ll do just fine. I’ll be back at five.”

* * *

Coca was right — the woman did not leave behind much dirt. Marie’s biggest job was to go over her own cleaning of the week before, vacuuming and dusting, replacing wilted flowers in vases that were never looked at, plumping pillows on the sofas that were never sat on for guests who never came.

Linda was gone most of each day, and at night she sometimes brought her boyfriend home. They went into the kitchen that Marie had cleaned after it had not been cooked in that day, and they stood and drank water out of bottles before they went into Linda’s bedroom and closed the door behind. When she came home alone, Marie would often hear her crying, and sometimes she watched her outside in the hot tub, drinking from a bottle of wine.

“Are you okay, Linda?” Marie would ask.

“Just need to take my happy pills. Men get mad over nothing.”

“This is true.”

One night Marie snuck into the kitchen in the dark to take a cold apple from the crisper. By the weak light of the open refrigerator, she stood deciding if she should have a piece of chocolate cake also. She could still not get used to how, as much as she ate, there was always more, and she was growing plump. Already the loose clothes Linda bought were getting filled in. Suddenly the overhead light came on, blinding her, and there stood the boyfriend in his underwear. He was slim and olive-skinned, with curly brown hair. He was as young and carefree as Linda was not.

“Hello?”

“Sorry, sir,” Marie said, dropping her eyes and backing out the door.

“Don’t leave. Get what you came for.” He smiled. “You’re the new one.”

Marie nodded, ashamed of her old cotton nightgown.

“Stats?”

She looked up, confused by the question.

“Name?” he said.

“Oh. Maleva.”

He grinned. “Bad girl. You must be. I was shocked to find food in Linda’s house.”

They both laughed. It was true, until Marie’s coming the cupboards and refrigerator were empty.

“She gets mad when I cook anything here. Cooking smells bother her. It reminds her of people actually living in a house. I’m James, by the way.”

“Maleva,” she said again.

He nodded. “Since you’re living here, watch out for Linda’s drinking, okay? She takes antidepressants, and she’s been known to take too many.”

Marie looked at him, blank.

“The last girl had to call an ambulance.”

He tapped his hand on the phone. “You know 911, yes?”

“Okay.”

“Good girl. Eat away.” James took a bottle of water and turned away. “Don’t worry — I won’t rat on you. We both need the job, right?”

* * *

In Linda’s bedroom was a table piled high with books, and some days she stayed at home and sat over these books, reading and writing.

“You like to read?” Marie said, bringing folded laundry through the bedroom to the closet. She always warned Linda of her presence with a few words because the habit of aloneness caused Linda to startle and get angry as if Marie were an intruder.

“Oh. My dissertation. For my doctorate. In case James doesn’t offer a ring.”

Marie shook her head, not understanding.

“Matrimonio, entiendes?” Linda said, tapping her ring finger. “I’m writing a biography about an author. Then I graduate.”

Marie continued to the closet.

Linda yawned. “Actually, you might find it interesting — the author Jean Rhys. Pretty obscure. I needed something off the beaten path to get my topic approved. She’s from Dominica, your part of the world.” Linda looked down at the paragraph she was marking with her finger.