An Indigo Virgo

Walking up the moss-covered stone stairs that lead from our strip of beach to Highbank, my camp in the Adirondacks, I pause frequently. Sometimes I take that time to consider other ascents, though there have been too many to remember each distinctly, day after day, summer after summer, for nearly fifty years. If my affliction were blindness, I would still have the ability to navigate them with a sure step.

Resting, I close my eyes and turn toward the autumn sun, willing the individual rays to pierce my thin skin and heat my bones. I reassemble the stones against my eyelids precisely the way Great Uncle Roebling, named for the famous engineer, set them into the sloping hillside, except for the third one, which I tip up to the right, as it has been since the earthquake in '71. Seventeen granite slabs. In the past few days, I count them as I descend to the sandbar, wondering if I will make it back up to camp. A sensible person would forbid someone as sick as I am to stay here alone, but alone and as imprudent as ever, here I am.

In '68, a far more gangling than graceful seven year old, running to get a fishing pole, I slipped up the wet moss, and chipped my budding front teeth. Mother was furious about having to decide between letting Doctor Gilligan fix them or packing us back to the city early. Not only has Doc Gilligan's work stood the test of time, he has become a stalwart friend since my return upstate. Having someone close in the medical field is invaluable as the politicians of New York State continue to debate and deny the legal use of medical marijuana.

In '76, I tripped on that jutting third step as I ran away after David left in Jill's motorboat, though I was unable to flee from them entirely, sobbing into my pillow long into the night. If only he hadn't looked back, I could have covered up my feelings, but he did, and he saw for the first time my wretchedness and my love both, naked and unprotected. His smile faltered, and in that moment, what seemed at first simply a choice was confirmed as a betrayal. My knee was crap from the fall for the rest of the summer, though they both thought I wouldn't water ski because I was being huffy.

On August third, 1984, David carried me up the stairs, changing everything that had gone before. He was as unfaltering as an ibex, on the stone steps, and on my bed, and throughout the far-too-short life we had together. He was literally unswerving on July 4th, 2003, when an oncoming SUV jumped the median and crushed his compact car, which posthumously earned him the media's accolades on behalf of the parade-goers he might have mown down if he had taken an evasive maneuver onto the sidewalk. It goes without saying that I wasn't so easily impressed.

At last, having caught enough breath to heave a sigh, I complete the climb to the little house one more time. Turning at the screen door to take in the view across the lake, I note that the sun is farther down than I would like it to be, considering there is no fire yet started, nor dinner planned. Lighting the logs I set this morning is simple enough, as is filling the teakettle and placing it on the electric burner. My eyes linger on a few remaining bottles of red wine on the rack opposite the stove, but I've lost my sense of taste. The hot, milky tea will trick my stomach with a sensation of fullness while it warms me from within.

I awaken on the couch a bit later, the quilt loose around my shoulders, empty mug on the coffee table. I can tell by the logs on the fire that I did not doze for long, although it seems the sky is dark early. I realize I hear rain in the gutters. All my life I have enjoyed listening to the rain in bed, and there is no reason to put off the climax of my day for the sake of propriety. Swaddled in the quilt, I shuffle to the white painted door off the right side of the main room, wincing because I left it closed and the heat of the fire will not have warmed the chamber at all.

It is the room I had during all the summers of childhood, with the faded rosebud wallpaper and the Jenny Lind bed-and-a-half. Mattresses that size are nearly impossible to find nowadays, but this one, humped in the middle like an aged tortoise, is surprisingly fine, perhaps because of my light build. I packed away almost everything else that was in the room, including the curtains, so that I could lie in a perpetually blooming rose garden and gaze out at the lake.

A floral hurricane lamp, a box of tissues, a photograph of David and me with McHenry's Peak in the background, a cold mug of tea, a disposable lighter and a clear glass ashtray sit on my night stand in the corner of my rose garden. I like to keep the bottom of the lamp turned on all the time so that I don't wake up in the dark, as my sleep is interrupted several times a night. I talk to David sometimes, but I mostly ignore that silly young girl with him. She never listens to my advice, especially the part about don't get so lost in grief over David's death that you forget to take care of yourself.

My stomach is suddenly sour and I barely have enough strength to pull myself up and into the middle of the bed. The pillows agitate me and I pummel them weakly into position. Good, I can still reach the nightstand. I pull open the drawer and place my hand easily, adoringly, upon the small brass pipe inside.