She stared through the window. The naked limbs of the trees were lightly covered with the snow that had fallen the night before. The branches reached toward the warmth of the sun that crept out of the gray clouds. Erratic in its temperament, the wind could be heard roaring against the window. Her steps echoed down the bitterly cold hall. The floor reflected the window's wintry scene like a mirror. Looking down at the surface she saw a familiar face. She bent down and touched the marble. It was absurd: a vain effort to wipe the tears off the cheeks of the young woman staring back at her. Cold. Ice cold. Her fingertips retracted, rubbing together. Her hair hung down in wild tendrils brushing the ground. Standing up, she pushed it back with both hands. She remembered what her mother had always said concerning her unmanageable mane.

"If you're going to defy my wishes and keep it that long, please, do something with it."

Her mother had always styled it when she was young. Braids, curls, elaborate creations. Her hair was either complimented or looked at strangely. A six-year-old girl decorated with a changing head of hair. Her mother would scan fashion magazines for women from different eras and would make her head an exact copy of whatever her daughter fancied at the time. Whether a bouffant or flips, that hair always brought attention. It was dress-up every day. Her mother did it as much for herself as for the whim of an eccentric daughter. By 12 years of age she preferred to wear it straight down and sometimes unkempt.

"Why do you have to hide your face all the time?" Her mother would pull it back, only to watch her daughter brush it forward.

It was her one act of defiance. Looking back, she couldn't remember doing anything else disobedient. Her hair became her comfort and security, the way it rested against her back. Now, in the frigid hall with her arms folded, she pulled at a lock on her forearm; a habit her mother had hoped she would stop.

She reached the halfway point and needed to walk nine more steps. Short steps. One, two, three, four, five. Slow steps she took once a week over the past six months. Six, seven, eight, nine steps. Turn to the left.

She looked straight ahead and her mother's name stared back, chiseled in a beautiful granite stone. Sarah Dumas 2323-2368. She saw her reflection distorted in the intricate detailing. She traced the name with her finger. Sarah Dumas. She always loved the way her mother recited their last name. The phony, French accent always made her smile. It had been a long time between smiles. Her forehead pressed against the stone. The cold soaked through her bones . . . into her brain. Whispering to her mother, she tried not to create a huge echo.

"Hi, Mom. Can you believe it? Snow in sunny Florida. I was supposed to come yesterday, but I had one of those creative explosions. I finished the painting. Think you would have liked it. It's the angel you saw toward the end. The one you described the night you . . ." She stopped, her chest heaving. "I didn't want to tell you about it 'til I finished it. Of course, you were probably watching me the whole time. At least, I hope you were. I had the hardest time with the eyes. You hadn't told me what color they were. Blue was appropriate in the end. It sounded so sad when you explained it to me . . . I tried to express that through the eyes . . . like the colors of the sky when there are only a few clouds, but you know in an hour it's going to be raining. Took me a while to get the colors right. In the end I had to go through 10 canvases and two gallons of oils."

She paused remembering those torturous hours that resulted in disaster and led her to start from scratch. It had taken a while before she had hit that groove of creativity with this particular subject.

"I don't know what else to tell you. The week's been fine. Got a new project from Agniezka on Tuesday. They think it's the original 'Olympia' by Manet. I have my doubts, but it has been missing for quite some time. The chance of it being found in the basement of a Toronto apartment building is ludicrous, but stranger things have happened. We'll see. That'll keep me busy for a few months. Oh, and I'm thinking of taking Cat up on her offer to stay at her apartment. I know, it's stupid, but I don't want to be alone in the house anymore. I hope you're OK with that. She misses you and sends her love."

She stepped back and wiped away the tears with both hands, cradling her head. I miss you, Mom. I hope you're okay. I hope you're not in pain, but I wish you were still here . . . even if you were hurting. I know that's selfish, but I don't care. The thoughts ran on in her mind. Over and over. Coming here was hard. She always walked away much faster.

"I love you."

Leaving the crypt and heading toward the transport, she held her light fall coat around her neck. It was so strange, this weather. The last time it had snowed in Verona she was six. The door to the transport 'whooshed' shut. She wanted to get out of this place, but didn't know where she should go. Home was not good. Cat was on another tour. Aggie was working, as always. No one around. A thought occurred. Perfect time.

She made the transport aware of her destination and off it went. Twenty minutes later the black vehicle was on the other side of Verona. The sky changed to a more ominous gray. Mother had warned her not to visit Jit alone. Since Mom had passed, there was no one in Verona who could accompany her. No one else knew and if they were made aware of the situation no one would bother. The harsh truth was no one would care.

This part of Verona was antiquated. The technological revolution had passed it by. There were hundreds of slums like it littering the landscape of the United States. Mother had made her aware of this. It was just another place that had been abandoned by the government and its 'honorable' citizens. They were neglected refugee camps for outcasts of one form in particular.

She passed a 24-hour laundromat, its front window cracked. The spot where the door should have been was exposed. The last time she visited Jit it was intact, as intact as a building could be in this part of town. There was trash everywhere. The wheels of the transport bounced against the decaying streets. The vibrations suggested she should take manual control of her transport. There was a good chance the automatic would go haywire due to the unreliability of the satellite signal.

Bars, mini-marts, row homes, were all in disgraceful states. Only one abandoned transport was parked near a curb. It looked 30 years old, rusty and without windows. A cat sprang out of the passenger side and sprinted across the street. She thought she spotted a fishtail in its jaws. These were common sights. Another woman might have been so disoriented she would have stopped in the middle of the road. She would have headed back to the highway. But this was commonplace for her. The silence and desertion did make her uneasy. She knew ops were in these buildings. Sleeping, drugging, whatever would pass the time until they could move around at nightfall. Mother had explained that it was too dangerous to visit Jit after sunset.

A guard transport made its way across another street heading west. Its horn went off, alerting everyone of its presence. She hoped she hadn't been spotted. The last time she attempted a visit she had been questioned. She made up an excuse about getting off at the wrong interstate exit. The thoughtful escort home messed up her plan of visiting Jit that afternoon. This time she would be spared an inquisition. The guards kept moving.

Her transport turned a corner and parked in front of a house similar to the many others. Blue paint was peeling and a few windows lacked glass. Gray plastic covered the openings. The wood porch looked as if the slightest breeze would cause it to collapse. She blared the horn once, twice, three times. A minute later, the front screen door creaked open and a tall, slender figure appeared. He smiled and ran to the transport. She got out and welcomed his embrace. He led her inside.

Jit was a foot taller than she was. His stringy, dirty blond hair fell in front of his face, hiding his slate, gray-specked eyes. His jaw was prominent and well defined. His chin jutted out and leaned to the left just a bit, making his face look off balance. A small, pointed nose rested above two pouty lips.

Conversation was held on her end. Jit offered her a seat at the kitchen table consisting of an old teacher's desk and some lawn chairs. He placed a glass of water in front of her and sat down. He looked excited. She glared at the few black grains floating around in the drink. Not wanting to know what they might be she moved it away from her. Jit didn't even notice. He was wrapped up in his need to communicate. His excitement caused him to sign too quickly for her.

"Hold on, Jit. Not as fast as Sarah was." Her hands moved with the words.

Jit's head rolled back in silent laughter. His mouth opened revealing the tongue, which had been horribly mutilated. She had cringed the first time she had seen that. Anger boiled in her when, at 10 years of age, her mother explained that all males received this procedure when they were born into society. Our society . . .

Copyright © 2003 by Sandra Faella