Nursery

The first time she saw Stella, it was in the nursery. 

A drafty wind blew in from the chinks on the floor. The Treehouse trembled a little bit, a gentle rasp against the ruthless whooshing of the wind. 

Aunt Emmy winced. Her own pale skin seemed to tremble, flimsy as a piece of paper. 

Outside, the maples were dying. 

Maybe, somewhere far away from where Aunty Emmy ever had lived, maples were beautiful in the fall. Maybe they would even turn red.

Aunty Emmy’s maples were always brown, but they were especially brown in the fall and winter. They never gave much maple syrup either.

Aunty sat down on the splintering wood planks of her Treehouse. It might have tried the nerves of some people, but Aunty was fearless when it came to anything by people. She built her quaint little home because she liked to say that she felt some special connection with trees. Probably there was none, but Aunty Emmy liked a little fantasy in her bland life.

Aunty saw the basket from through the crevices on the floor long before she actually noticed it. When she did, all she did was watch the wicker basket on the ground with a mix of girlish curiosity and an old sort of tiredness. 

 In the end, it was Marcus who brought Stella to the treehouse. 

“Hi!” he had said, a grin plastered onto his coppery face.

Aunt Emmy always thought he looked rather like a squirrel. 

“Good afternoon,” she answered, a little drily, but not unkindly.

“There’s a baby on your front step.”

“I’m glad you noticed that.”

“Aren’t you going to take it in?” 

“I guess so.”

That afternoon, Stella officially became one of the family. 

Marcus was and had always been Aunty Emmy's favorite student. He wasn't particularly bright, nor obedient, but Aunty Emmy liked his spirit.

That was how quiet Aunty Emmy rebelled. By liking a rebellious student. She was retired by now, but Marcus still liked to occasionally visit his favorite writing teacher.

Marcus stayed with Aunty Emmy for the whole rest of the afternoon. 

Marcus thought the baby was weird. Not bad, but a little oddball.

Aunt Emmy liked the baby. She thought she had a lovely skin, pale and glowing, but she didn’t tell Marcus. Her hair was nice too, black and feathery as a raven. 

Over a series of visits over the first month of Stella's fostering, Marcus and Aunty agreed on three things. One, that milk was indeed better than whiskey for infants. 

Marcus had brought a flask of whiskey in his back coat pocket, and was very determined to make sure Stella had one drink.

“Whiskey is good stuff, Aunty Emmy. I bet you never tried liquor. I find joy in drinking this marvelous thing, and just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean the baby gets to try.”

“Marcus, you know it’s illegal for children and young adults under 21 to drink. In fact, Marcus, hand me that flask. I’m going to give it to the pig.”

After a good tidbit of debate, the two reached a compromise. Marcus kept his flask of whiskey, and the baby didn’t have a drink.

Two, that the baby’s name was Stella.

“Her eyes are like stars. Calm and beautiful in the soothing sense of power and catastrophe.”, Aunty Emmy whispered reverently.

“They are nice.” Marcus commented.

“Her name is Stella.”

“I guess so.” 

Marcus yielded quite submissively.

Finally, that the Aunt Emmy's Treehouse, should be the Nursery. Stella slept in the crib, Aunty Emmy snoozed in a makeshift bed next to her, and Marcus went between the tent below Aunty Emmy's tree and his apartment. Eventually, he stayed full time in the tent.

The first two months of Stella's fostering were blissfully uneventful.

Instead of the old skylight, there was an actual window now, with a thick pane of baby-resistant glass.

Aunt Emmy and Marcus, the two had learned their lesson when they found a wooden train in the garden and a broken window.

Aunty Emmy fed Stella a small bottle of cow's milk in the morning, in the afternoon, and before bedtime. She wasn't sure how much she should feed her, but it seemed reasonable. Marcus said so too.

Stella was officially allowed into the family on September 4, 1976, and it was January 5, 1977 when shoots of trouble began to bloom.

To tell the truth, Aunty Emmy was surprised already by how peaceful Stella's bringing up had been. She had anticipated all the trauma of her friends' stories, so she wasn't really that startled when trouble began to rise.

Aunty Emmy had told Marcus to watch Stella and give her lunch while she went to the farmer's market for oats and cornmeal, and a box of blackberries for a treat.

The first hour passed peaceably. Marcus played with Stella for an hour before her pre-lunch nap. He sang rather terribly, and there was a bit of commotion there, but it smoothed down as soon as deep, sleepy breaths graced the off-tuned lullaby.

For lunch, Marcus blended the squash and added a generous splash of some watery syrup for sweetness. Maybe treacle? He didn't know. He dumped the sweet blend into a pot of boiling water. Somewhat chunky, the soup seemed, but alright.

Stella ate with a relish.

When Aunty Emmy came home, Stella was already snoring. Her ruddy cheeks were especially rosy, and Stella hiccupped quietly in her sleep.

It began to get suspicious when Stella woke up.

Stella began to wail when she woke up from her nap. Not a tired, post-nap wail but a full-fledged, earsplitting sob that echoed in the dim room.

When Stella vomited, two hours later, Aunty Emmy was fully wary.

"What did you give her for lunch?" She asked Marcus.

"Mashed squash, with a good sprinkling of treacle, I think."

"What treacle? I haven't kept treacle in the pantry for years."

"It was some sweet-smelling syrup, I think, but not really that sticky. It was more, like, watery."

"So it really wasn't necessarily treacle. Lead the way. Where's the syrup?"

It was in a round little bottle, with a fancy advertisement printed in elegant letters. Aunt Emmy's pale face seemed to drain of its little color.

Marcus lifted the little bottle and sniffed.

He stared at Aunty Emmy incredulously.

"Aunty, this is currant wine. You drink wine?"

Aunty blushed.

"Only a little, and only when I'm ill." she murmured.

Marcus was triumphant.

After that little incident, Aunt Emmy took over all the cooking and cleaning, while Marcus read her bedtime stories when he could. Stella was better in a few days.

Harmony was restored to the Nursery for a while.

Meanwhile, spring crept back into the land. Small patches of clover began to bloom in the garden, and lavender flowers began to flourish in the meadows. The ugly bushes, dead for months, and withered, dropped its browned leaves and sweet-smelling jasmines seemed to grow upon dark green leaves like dew on blades of grass.

The peach tree, old and trusty, bore its small green peaches. Rather bland, they tasted, but not too tart and good for jam and cut into slices for Stella's snack.

Aunty Emmy's peach jelly was quite famous in the farmer's market. She sold quite few jars of that heavenly jam, though she always saved a few jars for herself and Marcus, and especially for Stella, who had just mastered the art of eating toast.

That was when the second major incident of Stella's first year at the Nursery occurred. Aunty Emmy, singing to Stella by her bed, had fallen asleep. The bed was more of a giant stuffed mattress than it was of a bed, but they called a bed and a name is an identity.

Stella just learned how to crawl, and on the reading table beside Aunty's spectacles and a large "Encyclopedia for All of History" was a half full jar of jam, with a spreader and the remains of Stella's afternoon snack stacked neatly to be thrown away.

Stella wanted the jam though, she was hungry, and she held the table leg with both chubby hands and shoved.

The stout little reading table rattled a little.

But Aunty Emmy had also put a full mug of tea next to the Encyclopedia, to drink while she enjoyed her afternoon reading.

After a while of shaking, Stella was tired out, and she crawled back to the bed to finish her afternoon nap.

When Aunty Emmy woke up with a start from her nap, she smiled at the slumbering baby and went to the quiet refuge of the reading table.

Indeed, Stella's shaking had no difference to the heavy jars of jam and the plates. But the soothing, rich green of her green tea had splattered against the tiny print of Aunty Emmy's Encyclopedia.

The Encyclopedia had been in Aunty Emmy's family for five generations.

"At least," she chuckled sadly, "I'll have my mark on history."

Quick fact: Aunty Emmy went on to pass the Encyclopedia to three more generations. The Encyclopedia was finally destroyed by a friend of Aunty Emmy's to-be-grandson while on a fishing trip.

From spring to summer, the Nursery was abuzz with activity.

Milk seemed to magically make its way into Aunty Emmy's yarn basket, and Marcus's feet suffered from all the pointy edges of Stella's toys.

But those accidents were too often to mention, and so we shall skip to a certain summer morning when Marcus walked into the Nursery with a brown paper parcel

under one arm.

"What is it, Marcus?" asked Aunty Emmy tiredly.

"Honey cake! You know, Aunty Emmy, you used to always give me honey cake and strawberry milk after school, and it was really good."

"Thank you."

"Um, Aunty Emmy, would you like a slice too? I mean, it's for Stella but maybe you would like it too. "

Aunty Emmy looked dismally at the lumpy, funny-smelling slab of cake. She forced a smile and nodded.

The cake tasted bad. Later on, she was reminded of her first attempt at bread. But for the moment, all she focused on was swallowing the dry, coarse bite of honey cake stuck in her throat.

Moreover, it was salty. The sickeningly sweet overdose of honey fought ferociously with the salt, and she could feel the grains of salt stuck on the roof of her mouth.

She flinched, and said in the sweetest tone she could manage,

"Marcus, maybe you shouldn't take the cake to Stella. Just try the cake."

Eyes shut, and hands clasped tightly, Marcus nibbled at the corner.

"And also, Marcus, I'm pretty sure honey should not be heated."

Marcus apologized, and the honey cake was suitably disposed of.

And then of course, came autumn.

Aunty Emmy loved autumn. Marcus hated it.

Aunty Emmy loved autumn because she loved the warm colors of the season. She loved the spicy flavors of cinnamon and pumpkin.

She especially liked autumn because of pumpkin pie, smooth and rich with a heart warming dash of spice.

Marcus hated it simply because he didn't like brown, or cinnamon either, for that matter.

Aunty Emmy's signature autumnal dessert was pumpkin pie. She loved to bake it, and her pleasure was amplified by the thought of Stella's half-toothed grin.

Aunty Emmy had decided Stella was old enough to behold the miracle of pumpkin pie first-hand.

Aunty Emmy trudged outside with a bounce in her step and a wooden pail in one hand. The maples were brown, as always, but Aunt Emmy cherished a undying faith that the maples would really give sap.

She tapped the nail into the rough, auburn bark of her first maple tree.

Aunty would eventually admit that the amber syrup that spurted healthily into her wooden pail nearly shocked her unconscious.

On the fourth of September, 1977, for the first time in 23 years, Aunty Emmy's maple tree gave syrup.