After Joe left for work and I came out to pick up the paper, my neighbor Trip took one look at the bruise emerging below my right eye and the black and blue marks on my arm and insisted I grab a few things and go. “It’s a four-hour drive,” he said, pressing the key to his vacation cabin into my hand. “It should be far enough away.” He scribbled directions in the margin of a take-out food menu without giving me a chance to say no. “It’s not the Hilton,” he said. “Hell, it’s not even a bad Motel 6, but it’s out in the sticks and away from here. Give you time to think.”

Now it was dark. I was exhausted from driving but couldn’t relax. My shoulders ached and my stomach was in knots. When I finally came to the highway exit, and pulled up at the stoplight, it was the first time my right foot had moved since I got in the car. The directions said turn left onto a farm road. I saw a guy coming toward the car from under the overpass on the right. He was tall and lanky with long black hair. It was too dark to see him very well except that his orange jacket had the number 34 on it. It was a jacket like high school kids wear, but he seemed older than a teen. I locked the doors and avoided making eye contact. I gripped the steering wheel and decided to run the stoplight if he came any closer.

The light changed. I made the turn and saw that there was someone else with him, a small, compact person sitting under some dark blankets, hunched over. There were a couple of canvas bags, too, as if both people had been camped high on the concrete embankment of the overpass.

The farther I got from the highway, the fewer lights I saw, until it was so dark I was afraid I might miss the landmarks in Trip’s directions. Finally I saw the group of mailboxes on the right. I slowed and turned left, away from them, onto the dirt lane, not dirt really, but gravel and big rocks. The road was bad. I slowed to a crawl. A flat tire here would be a disaster—this was Joe’s car and I knew it didn’t have a spare. He had taken my car to a job out of town for the weekend and left me with his clunker, probably assuming this piece of junk, plus the black eye, would keep me stuck at home.

I rolled down the window. The air was chilly and damp and smelled mossy and fertile, as though there were living things all around, hiding, watching. I imagined their tiny eyes, glassy like dolls’ eyes, peering at me, the intruder, from all their various hiding places. On the left side of the narrow road was thick brush and a few trees with branches that scraped the side of the car. A barbed-wire fence ran along the right side of the road. If I had to go for help, I guess I’d crawl through the barbed wire, probably scratch my head on a rusty point, and die of blood poisoning.

Trip had said, “When you’re absolutely convinced you’ve gone too far and you’re in the wrong place, and it looks like a bad neighborhood in Tijuana, don’t be afraid, you’re almost there.” In that case, I must be getting very close. Several rusted-out cars were piled at the edge of the road on the right. Something dark and furry dashed in front of my car, and I jammed on the brakes. I clutched the steering wheel and rested my head against it. I can do this, I told myself. The hard part is over. All I have to do now is hang on. Soon I can rest.

Past the junk cars, I saw what looked like a rock wall on the right. It might have been a fence but it wasn’t, it was the outside of a small house and there was a big, bare picture window in the middle of it. Inside, a fire burned in an old wood stove. A woman walked past the window holding a cup to her lips with both hands. She had brown hair down to her waist, and she was wearing something green and flowy with long sleeves.

I drove on another hundred feet and spotted the open gate on the right. I pulled through, then got out to close and lock it. The night air was velvety and full of sounds—crickets I recognized, but there were more unfamiliar noises: trills, peeps, whispers, and screeches. The ground was uneven, and the light from the open car door only shone a few feet. As I pushed the gate closed, I felt something brush my hand. I scrambled back to the car and followed the rutted driveway to a carport. This had better be Trip’s cabin. It was completely dark. I should have brought a flashlight.

A noise startled me. It sounded like a screen door slamming pretty close by. I locked the car door and rolled down the window a little. A woman’s voice called a name over and over, but I couldn’t hear exactly what it was. Then I heard clearly, “Wilbur! You come in here right now—it’s bedtime.” The screen door slammed again.

I made myself go up to the carport, found the back door, and used the key to open it. I flipped on the lights. The kitchen was plain, off white, with a small round breakfast table and two metal bistro chairs. I went from room to room closing all the curtains and shades. I opened the refrigerator: a six-pack of canned Cokes with one missing, a bottle of salad oil, and in the freezer, a bag of miniature Three Musketeers bars. I reached up to look in the cupboard over the sink. There was a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter. There was also one plain white coffee mug with no handle.

The phone on the wall by the kitchen table rang, a shrill, old-time ring. My hand froze in midair. Each ring penetrated my head like a dentist’s drill. Finally the ringing stopped. I locked the kitchen door, slid one of the chairs over to it, and braced it under the knob.

The living room was a limbo for abandoned furniture. A beige sectional, elegant in the 1980s, a recliner of no particular era, a matching pair of table lamps, each with a ceramic base in the shape of a saguaro cactus and topped with a pink lampshade. I turned off the lights, and sat down on the sofa in the dark. I held my backpack on my lap with my arms wrapped around it.

I dozed off and was awakened by the ringing phone. I jumped to my feet and ran to the kitchen, shaking. I picked up the receiver and put it to my ear but said nothing.

I heard a male voice, “Debbie, is that you? It’s Trip. Are you there?”

A wave of warmth rushed through my body. “Oh, Trip, you scared me to death! I thought you were—you know.” I sat down at the kitchen table and sagged with relief and exhaustion.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I wanted to make sure you found the place okay. Is there any food?”

“No, but that’s all right.”

“No it’s not. Listen, I’m going to call Sage. She lives just down the lane from you in the rock house. You passed it. She’s very laid back, a little offbeat, but a really good person.”

“Trip, please, I couldn’t let you put anyone out. You’ve done enough for me already. I don’t want to be any more trouble.”

“Debbie, baby, you’ll be a lot more trouble if we find you up there starved to death. Sage is very cool. I’ll tell her not to bother you, and she won’t. I’ll say you might come down. I’ll call her right now. Don’t worry. Only a few people even know I have this place, and none of them are straight. Believe me, they’re not Joe’s kind of people. You can walk to Sage’s house without even going down to the road. There’s a gap in the fence that’s easy to crawl through. You call me if you need me, okay? Promise?”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said weakly and hung up. I hadn’t wanted help from Trip or anyone, but he was hard to say no to. Even though he lived a few doors down from me, I only knew him in passing. I usually ran into him or his partner, Jack, when I went out to get the paper. Sometimes I was still in my robe. They would be coming back from jogging and would always say hello and invite me up for coffee. I appreciated them being nice to me, but I never went. I knew Joe would be livid if I started hanging around with guys like them.

I wandered back to one of the two bedrooms and lay down on the bare mattress in my clothes, with my backpack next to me. I fell asleep.

When I woke up, there was light around the edges of the curtains. I knelt on the bed, opened the blinds, and the room was bathed in light. Pearl Lake was beyond the brush and trees on the other side of the road. The shimmering sunlight looked like it wasn’t even touching the surface of the water, just dancing across it. My watch said it was ten o’clock. I closed the blinds and crawled out of bed, stiff and still tired. I was also hungry. In the kitchen there was instant coffee, but no milk or sugar. I opened a Coke, took the bag of candy bars from the freezer, and went back to the bedroom. I stared at the lake, listening for cars. Maybe I should have parked the car behind the house where it couldn’t be seen from the road.

After a while, I went to the kitchen table and picked up an old Reader’s Digest I had found in the bathroom. I sat at the table with the magazine, the Coke, the candy, the crackers, a plastic knife and the peanut butter. Trip was probably expecting me to call him, but I didn’t feel like it. I just wanted to be left alone and figure out what to do. After this unsatisfactory lunch, I was still hungry. Maybe I could go see Trip’s friend and borrow a few slices of bread and some sandwich meat or a can of tuna. Maybe some orange juice and a banana. I wouldn’t stick around.

I unlocked the back door and looked in the direction of the rock house. It was just past noon and the breeze from the lake was soft with no edge. I must look a mess. I should have showered or changed my shirt, or at least combed my hair.

I came to the fence, and Trip was right, it had a big hole that was easy to step through. I could see the tiny rock house up ahead. It had a metal roof and a little chimney, I guessed for the wood stove. Next to the house was a raised-bed garden overflowing with flowers in bloom and vegetables, too. At the edge of the garden was a pole as tall as the roof with a wire that stretched to the house. Draped over the wire was a canvas curtain that reached to the ground. Water was puddling below it. Just then a hand pushed back what I now saw was a shower curtain and a woman of about 30 stepped out, completely naked and dripping wet. “Oh, hi!” she said politely. “You must be Debbie. I’m Sage.” She leaned her head to the side and grasped her waist-length hair with both hands, twisting it into a tight rope. Rivulets of water ran down her elbows and dripped onto her knees. I tried not to look at the patch of hair she had down there, and before I turned away, I noticed that she also had a lot of hair growing under her arms.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean to—” I ducked my head and backed away.

“Don’t go,” she said. “Trip called last night. He said there was no food at his house and that you might drop by. Come on into my house. You are absolutely welcome.” She opened the door and motioned unselfconsciously for me to walk in front of her. “I’ll just run and put something on. I love showering outside. It’s so exhilarating! Even in the winter. You get the water really hot and just let it pour over you in a flood. Afterward you can see the steam rising from your skin. There’s coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself.” She disappeared. I stood awkwardly in the doorway.

Sage called to me from the back of the house. “Trip is a great guy, isn’t he? I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s had to take so much crap from people and occasionally some genuine abuse, but it hasn’t made him bitter or anything.”

I answered, “He’s my neighbor, but I don’t really know him that well.”

Looking around the room, I couldn’t focus on her words. The house was plain on the outside, but inside it was a jewel box. It was like entering a geode. The interior rough walls had many tiny ledges where the rocks jutted out. On every one of these there stood some exquisite object, a beautiful stone, a silk flower, a miniature animal, a doll, a statue of a saint, a piece of jewelry, a teacup, a candle. A white cat with intense blue eyes jumped down from somewhere and began rubbing sensuously against my ankles. His orange collar had the name Wilbur woven into it. I nudged him away, but he would not be put off and kept making figure eights back and forth between my feet.

The picture window I had seen from the outside when I drove past it last night was so clean, it was like looking at the road and the lake on a high-definition TV screen. Under the clear sky, Pearl Lake glistened and glowed like its name. Dozens of crystals hung from clear fishing line along the top of the window and threw rainbows all over the room. The floor was covered with several overlapping rugs in dark blues and greens. Draped over the futon was a patchwork quilt in mostly purple with orange accents. In front of the wood stove was a straight-backed rocking chair. On it was an oversized red and blue pillow with tiny mirrors sewn all across the front. I felt like a drab brown mouse in my messy hair and slept-in clothes.

The kitchen was only about the size of a closet but also filled with beautiful things, the most remarkable of which was the refrigerator. At first it appeared to be painted, but in fact every square inch was covered with magnets of all colors, shapes, and sizes. They fit together like puzzle pieces so that around the edges, only slivers of the white enamel were visible.

Mismatched dishes in bright colors were displayed over the sink on shelves with vertical dividers that also worked as a dish drainer. A dozen or so mugs hung on a wooden rack, a dozen more were stacked on the counter. I took one of them and a silver-plated teaspoon with the monogram M engraved on the handle. The coffee was in a dark blue handmade ceramic pot decorated with a white lily. The sugar bowl had a strawberry for a handle on its lid.

I opened the refrigerator and took out the glass bottle of milk. In the fridge were many different kinds of cheese, a head of purple cabbage, eggs, oranges, a bunch of green onions standing in a jar of water, several containers of yogurt, a bowl of what looked like spaghetti sauce, carrots and beets with their tops still on, two huge bottles of wine, and a bunch of covered dishes.

Sage reappeared wearing a baggy white shirt that hung down to her knees. “Bring your coffee in the living room while I put the cinnamon rolls in the oven.” She once again waved me past her, and I went and stood by the wood stove. I didn’t know where to sit. The futon looked comfortable, so did the rocker. There was also a little bench in front of the stove with a needlepoint cushion on it featuring bees of all sizes. Even Wilbur had a needlepoint-lined basket next to the wood stove.

Sage took a pan from a shelf and pulled off the towel that had been covering it. “Sage is my real name, in case you’re wondering. My mother said I was conceived in the back of a pickup truck in the desert near Santa Fe while the sage was in bloom. She claimed that the man who became my father that night was her soulmate even though they only spent the one weekend together and never got past first names, nicknames at that. His was Ryder.” There were rows of spiral rolls packed tightly in the pan. Sage slid the pan into the oven and picked up her coffee mug. “They’ll be done in about twenty minutes. How about some oatmeal first?” She took a covered bowl out of the refrigerator and dumped the contents into a pot, threw in a handful of raisins, half of a sliced banana and a good squeeze of honey from a bear-shaped bottle. “If you soak the oats overnight in yogurt, they’re ready in about five minutes.”

She carried her cup to the futon, sat and tucked her legs under her. Wilbur draped himself over her feet. “I would have liked a more conventional name, but my mother never got over the sixties. When everyone else turned materialistic, started acquiring things, and playing the stock market, she remained a perpetual flower child.” She shrugged. “She did teach me how to cook from scratch and clean a house from top to bottom. Actually, that’s what I do to make money. I clean houses. So I guess I have Mom to thank for my career.”

“I think Sage is a pretty name. It’s very unusual.” I hesitated. “You know, they have DNA testing today. You could look for your father.”

“Lily. That is the name I would have liked. I love lilies.” She crooned as she rubbed Wilbur’s stomach and he rolled over, spread-eagle on his back.

I was still standing by the bench in front of the stove. Heat felt good on my back. The smell of cinnamon filled the room. I couldn’t wait to bite into one. “Why don’t you call yourself Sage Lily?”

She looked at me then sat straight up, swung her legs down, and put her feet flat on the floor. “What a wonderful idea!” Wilbur sat up, too, shook his head vigorously, and licked himself. “Sage Lily. I love it. It’s beautiful. Why didn’t I think of that? Sage Lily. It is totally me. This is amazing.” She leaned forward, gazing at me intently. “Who are you, Debbie, a word wizard?”

“I’m nobody special. It just seemed like something you could do.” I turned to the cat. “Is this Wilbur? I heard you calling him the other night. Have you had him long?” I was ready to leave. I felt like a wax statue standing very near a fire.

“Okay.” She nodded and stood up, heading for the kitchen. “I found him on the highway, starving, and brought him home. What else could I do? I couldn’t leave him there. I’ll get the oatmeal, and I’ll give you some cinnamon rolls and some other stuff to take home for later.”

I felt wobbly and reached for the back of the rocking chair. Of course, it wasn’t steady. One thing I was sure of was that I needed to sit and eat something. She brought me some oatmeal in a big orange mug. It smelled heavenly, like the essence of bananas and honey. I sat on the futon and we ate. Thankfully, she didn’t ask any more questions. But when I stood and walked into the kitchen with my dish, she gave a little cry. I turned around.

“Debbie, your back. There’s blood on your t-shirt.” She came over to me.

I took a step back. The beautiful quilt on the back of the futon—I had gotten blood on it. I needed to get out of there. I said something about getting scratched by the branches in the woods. I thanked her for the food and ran out without taking anything. I made my way, stumbling, back up to Trip’s house. It was plain and utilitarian and smelled moldy. It felt more like where I belonged than that exquisite fantasy cottage.

I took off my t-shirt and put it in the kitchen sink to soak. Then I took a lukewarm shower. The warm water made the cuts sting a little. Actually I had forgotten about them, the way I usually did afterward. They should have cleared up by now. I put on two t-shirts, one on top of the other.

I went outside and crossed the road toward the lake, deciding along the way that I spend far too much time cooped up inside and need to get outdoors more. I sat on a rock about halfway down the hill. The flickering sunlight was subdued now.

I’m going to make some changes when I get home. I’ll walk every day, and I’ll get Joe to walk with me. And cook more at home, and eat better food, too. It felt so good to be out in nature, making resolutions, making decisions. This is what I’ve been missing. Taking charge of my life. That’s what I need to do. What was that Sage had said about soaking the oatmeal? She’s certainly an odd person—no, that’s unkind. She’s really very nice considering her background. I’m going to promise myself to stop thinking tacky, judgmental thoughts about people. We’ll go camping. Joe and I used to have so much fun camping out. We haven’t done it in years. We’re both under too much pressure now. There’s just too much going on. We need a break. Camping out, there’s no pressure. Just hiking and talking. Sleeping outside, cooking, washing—a picture of Sage’s outdoor shower flashed into my mind.

The next morning I put my few clothes in my backpack and put it in the car. I straightened the kitchen and stuffed the little bit of trash that I had created into a plastic bag to take with me. Without thinking, I started off through the woods toward Sage’s house, not sure what I would say when I got there. I didn’t really know why I was going. I suppose I could always thank her or something. I didn’t want her to worry. She should know I was okay. The air smelled like dry leaves and the sun was shining again. This would be a good day.

I got to the opening in the fence and crawled through. There was the house. The shower curtain was closed and the water was running. I stopped to let her finish her shower. I’d let her go into the house and then knock on the door.

I heard laughing. She wasn’t alone. I slipped behind a tree. The curtain opened and there was Sage and a dark-skinned man with long black hair. Both of them were naked. They were kissing. I watched his deep brown hands stroking her alabaster skin. I turned around and stood motionless for several minutes. My throat was closing up. I turned my head back very slowly to look, but they were gone.

The door stood open. I leaned in and saw them on the futon. She was kneeling astride him and her hair hung down like a curtain around them. I felt like I was standing on a hot griddle. My feet wanted to jump up and run away. On the bench by the wood stove was an orange jacket like school kids wear, with the number 34. He must be the same guy I saw camped at the overpass when I first drove up here. I stepped back outside, closed the door, and leaned my head against it.

There was a wooden lawn chair at the other end of the house next to the raised garden bed. In it sat an elderly woman with a braid of shining white hair coiled on top of her head. She was dressed in black, and seemed to be dozing. She must be the other person I had seen with the guy in the jacket—his mother, or more likely, his grandmother. Sage had brought them home from under the highway. My lips were flaky and I kept biting them and tearing off tiny pieces of skin. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t make my feet move.

After a while, Sage came out in her big white shirt. “Debbie, I’m so glad you came back. This is Raoul.” He stood close beside her and extended his hand. There was no way to avoid shaking it so I did, nodded, and whispered, “Hello.” He was barefoot and wore nothing but a pair of blue jean shorts. A snake tattoo curled around each wrist. His grip was firm and gentle, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.

Sage walked to the old lady, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek. “This is his grandmother Delia. I met them yesterday. They’ve been having a hard time, and they’re going to stay with me for a while until their luck improves.” She walked back to Raoul and linked her arm through his. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and ran his forefinger along her chin to her lips. She kissed it. I couldn’t bear seeing this and looked down.

“Come inside, Debbie. Let me put some herbal ointment on your back.” She reached for my arm, but I put my hands in my pockets.

“No, no, really. I don’t want to—” I backed away. “I really don’t need anything. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Debbie, honey, I know you are in pain. You have good cause. There’s no shame in it.” She said this gently, but I hated her for saying it. I looked down, chewed my lip some more, and made firm fists in my pockets. She went on, “You can lie on your stomach and I’ll just lift up your t-shirt.” She moved slowly toward me. “It won’t hurt. At least it won’t hurt any more than it already does. I promise.” She went back in the house pulling Raoul by the hand, and I followed.

I sat on the futon without leaning back, but I didn’t want any ointment. I didn’t want to be around Raoul. Still, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at him. He must be about 20. They’d probably talk about me after I left. Feel sorry for me. Tell each other what a loser I am.

“Can I make you a cup of tea, first?” Sage asked me.

I hunched my shoulders up and shook my head. Raoul sat on the bench by the wood stove and smiled at me. To be polite, I smiled back, but I was ready to jump up if I had to. After a while he went outside.

In a few minutes, Sage returned and held out a cup of tea. I took it. She also handed me a little tin of salve. I set the cup down and pushed up my left sleeve. There were bad bruises near my armpit. Some deep scratches, too. The blood was mostly dried. I looked up. Sage was gazing at my arm. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“Belt buckle,” I said. She shook her head, and now the tears were running down her face. Her serious expression made me feel like I should be serious, too.

She sat down, opened the tin, and smeared some of the stuff on her fingers. It smelled sweet like flowers and grass, but also sharp and cool like menthol. She gently began dabbing at different places on my arms. It really stung. I lay down on my stomach and she pulled up my two t-shirts in the back. I let her put salve on all my cuts and wounds. There were a lot. On my back and shoulders, even on my neck. There was one on the back of my head under my hair. Each and every place she touched throbbed with dull pain. When she was done, she pulled down the two t-shirts. I sat up and she wrapped me in the quilt.

Raoul came back into the room, leading his grandma to the rocking chair and speaking softly to her in Spanish. He took the pins out of her hair and uncoiled the long braid. It hung down over the back of the rocking chair almost to the ground like a white waterfall. He rooted around in one of the canvas bags and brought out a beautiful silver hairbrush studded with turquoise stones. He stood behind her, lifted her hair, and began to brush it carefully and lovingly, cooing and fussing. She let her head move back and forth with the brush. As I watched their rhythmic movements, I slid farther and farther down until I was curled up on my side on the futon. Wilbur snuggled up next to me and started kneading on the quilt. Making biscuits my mother used to call it when the cats did that. He purred, and I rubbed the top of his head with two fingers.

Sage called from the kitchen, “Raoul, I forgot to tell you. From today, my new name is Sage Lily. Isn’t it perfect? Debbie gave it to me.” Raoul smiled at me, gave me a thumbs up, and whispered, “I like it.” This time I met his warm brown eyes and smiled, too.

Grandma closed her eyes and hummed a melody as her grandson steadily brushed and brushed. With every long, slow stroke, I seemed to feel the hairs on my own head being tugged gently but firmly from the roots out to the ends.

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Evelyn Cooper’s 40-year career was in development and fund-raising in San Antonio, Texas. She served successfully for ten years at three different non-profits, rising to the position of Executive Director at the last one. It struck her one day that she was spending more time talking to her therapist about her Board Chair than about her love life. This realization led to her next move, doing strictly grant proposal writing as a freelancer. She continued this for the next 30 years for many organizations in San Antonio. Although grant requests must be fact-based, successful ones are not dry and bloodless. They tell the story of the organization’s need in a heartfelt narrative that unapologetically engages the emotions of the reader and paints a vivid picture of what the requested funding can accomplish. Goosebumps sometimes happen, in the writer as well as the reader. Now retired and widowed, she has time to write. For herself. This is her first fiction publication.

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