Errand

It wasn’t the voices that had waken me, I’d gotten used to those. It was the thumping of heavy boots. By the time I rushed downstairs, the paramedics were already lifting Ms. Alliston carefully from the floor. They used a handled sling to cradle her, and she practically disappeared into the quilted fabric of her dressing gown. “What happened?”

“She fell and pressed her emergency button.”

I hadn’t even known she had one. “Will she be ok?”

They set her on the stretcher and had a mask on her face and straps on her in moments. “She’s stable, semi-lucid, with several lacerations. I suspect a pelvis and arm fracture. We’re transporting her to Memorial, they’ll evaluate her there. You family?”

“No, I just rent a room.”

“You might want to contact her family.”

“She doesn’t have any.”

The stretcher navigated the single granite step with ease. I was grateful I had pulled on socks as I followed them out into the snow. “You’re welcome to meet us there, but it might make more sense to wait till morning. They’ll be evaluating her tonight. You’ll just be stuck in the waiting room.”

Ms. Alliston reached out and smacked the paramedic on the arm, pulling the oxygen mask off her face. She waved to me with a hand that looked strangely dark. The paramedics paused so I could come up against the side of the stretcher. She reached out, grabbed my sweatshirt, straining against the restraints and pulling me forward. Her hands looked like they had been dipped in ink, and I could see blood caked in her hair.

“Errand.” She whispered, her eyes were cloudy and looked grey instead of the normal washed-out blue, but they held me tight. “Package…Study…Mail.”

I wrapped my hands around hers. “Of course.”

Her eyes slid closed, her hands relaxed.

Then they were gone, tires leaving tracks in the unplowed snow.

The snow had stuck in little clumps to the wool of my socks, and I was able to stomp and brush most of it off. The house felt still and strange. I had never been in the study. When I had come to look at my room, she had said the house would be mine except her room and the study. It was a nice old Victorian house, the living room slightly overstuffed, dining room set for a dinner party, kitchen worn and cozy. She had also offered dinners as part of the price, she said it was a waste to cook for one. I had moved in that afternoon.

That night I’d had doubts. She had turned out to be a good, if simple, cook. But as I usually worked an early shift, I was drifting off around nine o’clock when I heard soft laugher and the rise and fall of conversation. I awoke later to the soft sounds of cutlery on plates and the clink of glasses. Curious, I peeked down into the dining room. The room was dim, chairs and plates empty. I backed into my room and pulled the covers up over my head. If there were more sounds that night, I didn’t hear them.

The next morning, Ms. Alliston was reading the paper in the kitchen and offered me fresh blueberry muffins. When I returned in the afternoon the muffins were gone, but the table was set for two. I ignored the table but asked about the muffins.

She stood and turned the kettle on. “I deliver them to the food pantry.”

“That’s thoughtful.”

Selecting a delicate rosebud cup, and a sturdier cup with palm leaves, she smiled. “Tea?”

Ms. Alliston often made tea when I got home and seemed tired, or stressed. In the warmer months she would invite me into the solarium for a cup, and might put out some small, sweet treat. But that first day, and on cold winter days, it was tea in the kitchen, with the wood stove pumping out heat. Her attentive listening, and thoughtful observations had helped me through a couple tough patches. That night I again heard the ring of cutlery, and the occasional soft laugh, but if there was conversation it was too quiet to make out. Lemon muffins the next morning.

I had decided that invisible dinner parties were the tradeoff for the ridiculously low-priced room and board. After I’d lived there a month, she insisted I hang lavender in my room. In the spring, she claimed gardening should only be done at night, and she kept the moon cycle posted in the potting shed.

On evenings when the table was set for a full party, I simply played music. I slept better after she hung the lavender, and night-time gardening meant I didn’t have to offer to help. We had passed three years together with out a single harsh word.

The door to the study was cracked open but pushing the door open took more energy than I expected. It smelled of old books, and the walls were lined with shelves. Closest to me were leather bound books with titles like Aetheric Conditions, Enochian Dictionary, and Light Magicks with Runes. I felt like a trespasser, like the room would prefer I leave. On the floor next to an elegant writing desk was a small package. It looked like it had been wrapped in a paper grocery bag turned inside out. It was tied tightly with a sisal cord. Ms. Alliston’s elegant writing had written our return address in the upper corner, but recipient’s address was written in thick black lettering.

I picked up the package to get a better look at the address. It seemed to be somewhere in Peru. There was a plastic envelope taped to the bottom, holding some sort of customs form that crinkled when I shifted it in my hands. Still feeling like I shouldn’t be in the room, I carried the package out toward the kitchen. By the time I set it down on the table, my fingers had started to tingle unpleasantly. As soon as I was no longer touching the package, the pins and needles disappeared.

Outside the window the snow was falling harder, but without Ms. Alliston in the house it felt creepy for the first time. I pulled on boots, coat, hat, and the gloves I used for skiing, then took the package out into the night. The snow absorbed all the sounds but glowed softly, giving everything a bluish cast between the streetlights. It was only a block to the post office, but by the time I pushed the door open to the lobby my hands were tingling again and I was relieved to set it on the postage scale. It took a moment to figure out how to find the country list, but I didn’t hesitate to pay for first class. As soon as the label printed, I stuck it to the box and dropped it in the out-of-town slot.

The walk home felt lighter and warmer, the snow a comforting swish against my calves. The house felt empty, but welcoming as I put the kettle on.

I poured the hot water over her chamomile blend in my palm leaf cup and added a half teaspoon of sugar. She always raised an eyebrow when I added sugar but had never said a word. I sipped, letting the warmth spread through me. The snow was still falling. I let my eyes slide close and started to drift.

A soft touch on my wrist, accompanied by “Thank you,” woke me. I blinked, taking a moment to figure out where I was. The sky outside was just starting to bruise with morning. I stretched and was about to take a sip of cold tea, when I notice the rosebud cup on the table.