Among the Willows

She felt it again, the exhausting drip of monotony slowly working away at her skin. Or maybe it was the torrid winds of sand gritting against her. But then she remembers. The grime of the dust bowl has settled by now, the land from plain to coast drowned in beige.

Then the unease. Not taking her over immediately, but again, a slow drip. A reaction of discomfort rising and rising within her blood, shaking her nerves as if every atom in her body is at war. It doesn't stop. It never stops, not really, she simply just forgets. Forgets about the disquiet until she is once more overrun.

It is a day like that, her braid sticky on her neck, her blouse pinching at every seam, and oh, this dreaded skirt! How can a woman stand it? A feeling like wool blankets wrapped against her skin, itchy and damp from the sweat of an August high noon.

Seated at the concierge's desk, she is simply roasting alive.

For what unholy purpose do her parents even bother to keep the hotel staffed in these times? Surrounding farm lands have turned putrid, their workers and masters running westwards, eyes locked on California and her coasts.

Sadly, the self-appointed concierge sees no way those overburdened Fords will make it past New Mexico.

These thoughts are lost once her lungs yield to the whims of a dry cough. She's found that years of enduring black blizzards tend to age a young woman of sixteen. A young woman who, in moments like these, wishes water was more readily found. But she is barred from complaint; hardship grieves the whole town.

Water. She throws her head back with a theatrical sigh, lamenting to have that skirt brush against her legs once again. With every touch, those already irritable patches of heat rash become further inflamed. Yet once she stands, she need not search far. Something sits atop the desk counter. A whiskey glass. Instead of libations, it's filled with water, a cluster of white glass floating near the surface.

Or, no-not glass, but ice? Here? Certainly, a halluc—

"Hey kid."

She jolts, falling back to her chair, eyes bolted shut. Surely, no soul was in sight half a moment ago.

"Kid, you best drink that water before the ice melts."

The voice is one teetering the line between a man's and a woman's. A voice she's sure she's never heard. Squinting her eyes open, she faces a visitor leaning against the counter's edge.

"Water," the traveller reminds, "drink it."

She does as she is told.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Sophia," the concierge replies. "And what is yours, if I may ask?" Sophia would normally add a sir or ma'am at the end, but she is not positive on which to use and certainly does not wish to offend at her first impression. Glancing over the newcomer, Sophia eyes trousers and boots, a canvas vest sitting against dark skin. Skin scorched brown like the cowhands who linger past their welcome.

"My name?" Sophia watches as her visitor removes the wide-brim by the crown, sweeping it into a flourished bow. "Call me Nadie." And here, as Nadie rises back up, Sophia is caught within herself, because this is no cattleman at all, but a woman. A lawless woman who, in her beaten trousers and matted hair, pulls Sophia to the brink of gloomed nostalgia.

"You have any room open for the night?" Nadie asks.

Sophia wants to respond with a sarcastic voice of every single room is open for the night because no imbecile would dare pass through in these storms. She settles with, "yes, ma'am, we do."

"By the way," Sophia eyes her now empty glass, "how did you come across ice?"

"Ice?" Nadie looks put off, laughing as if Sophia jests. "You're funny, kid. There must be none around for miles yet!"

Keeping her confusion silent, Sophia thinks back a moment, but her memory shifts. Of course there was no ice. Ridiculous. Nadie simply smiles, soot caught in the crease of her eyes and, as Sophia gazes back, an uneasy sensation enters a little farther into her cerebral. Perhaps the beginnings of a headache.

Sophia offers to lead her guest's horse to the stables, but Nadie quickly informs that she has none. Nadie does have bags, however, which Sophia apparently missed during their conversation. Strange, because Sophia is known to be observant.

Ah, no matter. After escorting Nadie to her room, Sophia makes her way to her father's place in hopes the old grub-maid has prepared a substantial supper. (Her hope is in vain.)

"Hattie!" Sophia calls into the kitchen. "Where is Mama and Father? I have news of a guest."

The old maid's heart lumps into her throat, caught up for a moment by the question. "Your-your father," Hattie glances up to the table where she's met with the man's dull eyes. "Sophie sweetheart, your father's just here."

"Ah, Papa! I—"

"Are you not a little old to be calling me that?" Her father does not raise his eyes. Sophia watches, troubled, as he works at carving the little block in his hand. Curl by curl, he works the knife until the block becomes a hyacinth. A purple one. "Papa? But I am only sixteen?"

"No, you—"

"Sir." Hattie slices with a voice of opposition. "Leave it."

There's a war between the adults' eyes, one which Sophia cannot comprehend. Or, perhaps she could, if she desired. Perhaps she is simply afraid.

"Sweetheart," her maid turns to the girl, "why don't you tell your father about the guest, hmm?"

That night, Sophia sleeps restless. Dreams of chores within white walls follow her, sterile swimming pools and barred windows. She has never seen a doctor before, so why do many invade her nights?

"Sophia," her father's voice gently wakes her from the daze. "Sophia, do not lie to make me happy. You know full well we have no guests."

Oh, Sophia pouts, she had wished Nadie to stay a little longer.

Readying for another tedious day, Sophia's unease returns to see her key ring missing from her belt. She has never lost those keys. Not once. Perhaps, she hopes, the set has simply been left at her desk.

Bare soles running down the stairs, Sophia leaves off her boots. Her skirt is long enough that her mother should not notice. She stops quickly upon approaching the front. "Nadie! My papa had said you'd gone!"

The woman shakes her head with a smile. "You were missing these, right?" She tosses a key ring from hand to hand. "I would never just leave you. The law would have to chase me away."

"Say, kid," Nadie continues, "is there a place to eat around here? I've yet to see a fellow besides you."

"Ah! Well, I can cook. My mama taught me."

Sophia leads her guest to Hattie's kitchen, yet the maid is nowhere to be seen.

"Of all the talk I've heard of your mother, I've yet to meet the woman," Nadie muses. "Is she here?"

Oh. That headache. That horribly intrusive headache rages anew in the back of Sophia's skull. "Yes," Sophia spits the words out harsh, defensive, more crude than she had intended. "Of course she is around."

But Nadie doesn't mind the venom. "It is no matter. What should we eat?"

After the morning meal, Sophia decides to stay with Nadie. They end at the stables with the visit of a familiar mare. "Nadie?" Sophia questions. "Who's horse is this? I recall you did not bring one."

Nadie laughs as she saddles the mare. "This is my old girl. How would I have arrived without her?" But, of course Nadie is right, Sophia thinks. How could a person travel through these storms on foot? Ridiculous.

The mare reminds Sophia of her mother's horse: soft brown and genial. "My mama would take me riding with her every day when I was young. One time—" But Sophia stops, because reminiscing turns the headache worse.

"Then let us ride, for old time's sake. Shall we?" And Sophia reaches up, letting Nadie pull her right behind the saddle's apple.

Dust devils lead their way through the deserted plains, the mare kicking up a trail of dry earth behind. But the wind, ah! The wind! Laughter of emancipation fills the noon air. Sophia hadn't put a braid up this morning; her hair is free to whip through the sky.

Too soon, Nadie pulls the mare to a rest under oasis shade. "Come, Sophie darling! Let's rest a moment under the willows." Once they stop, there's that feeling again of something impending. A dark sense, as if something is coming after them. But the headache rears up before Sophia may dwell.

After dismounting, Nadie turns back to lift Sophia down by the waist. At that touch, Sophia feels immediately small and, like a child, giggles in Nadie's arms as she is set barefoot on the sand.

For Sophia, everything melts away in this moment. The singular matter being this woman before her. Sophia rests in a childlike peace, because she is within the strong care of Nadie.

And then at night, it is those dreams again. Those dreams Sophia hates where the headaches persist until her skull would rather implode than bear another moment. The men in lab coats offer her a cup of pills and, once she swallows, she wakes back in her dusty sheets.

Halfway through the day, Sophia realizes her keys are misplaced yet again. Her memory fails her for the last thing she can remember is Nadie and the willows, but perhaps Sophia can find her mother around to inquire.

"Hattie?" She asks, finding her in the kitchen. "Where is Mama?"

Sophia is ignorant of how Hattie's face contorts in disgust. Or, pain? Nevermind. "Sweetheart..." Hattie starts, "Do not worry, your mother—"

"Go ahead and tell!" Her father spits from the table. "The sooner she stops asking the better for my own peace of mind. Go ahead and tell her how her beloved mama was met with the California collar."

"Honey." Hattie ignores the man, gently pulling Sophia's face toward her own. "Your mama is simply out among the willows, you understand?"

But no, Sophia does not understand. All she wished was to ask her mother about the keys, so what is this nonsense? Sophia leaves the room, shaking off her discomfort to start her own search. Sophia did not make far progress, though, before Nadie appeared from her room. "Were you looking for me?" Nadie asks.

Sophia kindly smiles, nodding her head. "Yes! Have you seen my keys?" She asks. Nadie holds the ring up with a puzzled face. "Of course. You gave them to me. Do you not recall?" Sophia shakes her head, leaning forward to grab them, but Nadie stuffs the keys back in her trouser pocket. "Let me hold them for a little longer, yeah? You aren't ready yet."

What can Sophia do but oblige and wait?

The night, as always, is full of dreams. "Sophia." The doctor knows her name now. "Sophia, tell me how old you are?" Everything is so white, so bare. Where is the grime Sophia is comfortable with? "I'm sixteen," she answers. The doctor seems disappointed. "What year is it?" He tries next. "Nineteen thirty-eight." Why would a grown man ask such dull questions?

"Would you like to join us in the common room for a little while?" He questions next. Sophia declines. She must convince Nadie to relinquish her keys soon. Sophia swallows her cup of pills before the dream ends.

Sophia wakes with tears in her eyes. Her anguished head throbbing even before she rises from the bed. Her heartbeat is in her ears, louder and louder as if something is trying to scratch its way free.

Keys. Sophia needs her keys. But she cannot think straight, cannot think at all with this incessant pain because thinking itself hurts. Sophia doesn't understand. Maybe Mama can—

"Sophie!" Hattie calls from the bedroom door. "Sophia darling, what's wrong?"

The morning light, too, stings Sophia's mind. But she can't squeeze her eyes or the pressure makes everything worse. "My head," Sophia groans.

"Oh honey." Hattie just laughs, seemingly oblivious to Sophia's affliction. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with your head."

And then immediately, as Hattie says, there isn't. Hattie is right, of course she is. Nothing was ever the matter. Sophia joins the maid in laughter, every pain forgotten.

"Have you seen Nadie?" Sophia asks once they've calmed.

"Who?"

"Our guest." Perhaps Sophia forgot to inform Hattie of the name.

"Dear," Hattie shakes her head, "your father already said, no one is here. Why don't you just stay with me today, for your safety, hmm?"

"What about Mama?" Sophia asks as the maid leads her out.

"I already told you, darling, no one is here." Hattie locks the door behind them. "Come along now."

The afternoon, as usual, is scorched dry once Sophia regains her post at the hotel's desk. Perhaps I'll go to California once I'm old enough. Once I'm seventeen, she muses. In any case, her birthday is to be coming soon but, to Sophia, it feels as if the age of sixteen has lasted decades. Horribly tiresome, it is.

"Sophie!" The girl jumps back, eyes shot open upon hearing the panicked voice.

"Nadie?" Sophia watches as the panting woman slams herself against the counter's ledge. The headache returns at full strength.

"Sophia, kid, come on, we're taking the mare." But Sophia is rooted in place. No, no, Sophia mutters in her mind, Hattie said— Until Nadie's hand grabs her own. "Now!"

Far too quick, Sophia is wedged between Nadie's chest and the saddle's apple, galloping at a sick pace through the desert. "Sophia, I need you to think!" Nadie's voice is hoarse from the wind. Yet, still now, Sophia cannot obey; pain bars the process of thought.

Nadie pulls the mare to a halt alongside the willows from days past. Or was it years ago? Sophia cannot recall. But she is not left with much time to think as Nadie grabs onto her waist, lifting her off the saddle.

"Nadie?" Sophia's voice is so small now, so young. Her eyes have grown wide, round with the virgin look of a child. "Nadie," she whines, "I'm scared." Men's shouts and hoof beats ring through the dusk, closing in on the pair. Sophia burrows into the woman's chest, escaping the approaching torch flairs riding the horizon.

Sophia relaxes as maternal arms surround her. Then Nadie speaks. Her voice now infinitely more familiar to Sophia's ears. "I know you're afraid, kid, but you'll be okay," Nadie whispers to the child in her arms. "We've been among the willows for too long now. They've finally caught up to me." Nadie gently unclasps Sophia from herself, pushing the child back to brush the wild hair from her eyes. "But you'll be okay, darling," she smiles. "You're only five, they won't dare harm you. When I am gone, you'll just go meet your papa."

Sophia's little tears boil from her eyes like crystals. Her increasing headache heightens the pained torrents of memories.

Nadie reaches into her pocket, bringing her hand out with Sophia's key ring. "Here, Sophie, you have the key now." But Sophia refuses to grasp it. Gentle as ever, Nadie persists. "Just breathe, Sophie. It'll be better once you can remember."

"No!" Sophia cries. "No, I don't want to remember! Don't want you to go."

"Darling girl," Nadie smiles, "I'm already gone." Nadie places the key in Sophia's little palm. "Breathe," Nadie says again. She demonstrates the inhale and exhale of her own lungs, coaxing the child to mimic.

This time, Sophia chooses to oblige.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"I love you." Sophia remembers her mother's words.

Sophia wakes. Slowly, her eyes drift between waning torch light and overhead bulbs until she comes to full awareness curled up in pristine sheets. Her bare feet meet the tile floor. "Ah! Sophia!" The doctor calls as he enters on his morning rounds.

Eyes still wet and irritated, Sophia greets him back. "Good morning, sir."

"Can you tell me how old you are?" He reclines in the bedside seat.

"I'm thirty-four," she sighs. "We're in California's Norwalk Hospital. It's nineteen fifty-six." Sophia already knows his questions. She's heard them countless times through the years.

He nods in satisfaction. "Your episode was far longer than usual. It's good to have you back." He stands to offer Sophia her tray of chlorpromazine. "Come finish your chores, now, before therapy. The laundry has been in dire straits without you."

Sophia nods absently. Her gaze, instead, focuses on the singular photo by her bed. A nineteen twenty-seven newspaper clipping made up of simple, grayscale dots on thinning paper. Flimsy and yellowing, the sole photo of her mother.

In a longing gaze, Sophia runs her fingertips over the article's heading, the title etched in her mind.

Infamous Elsie 'Nadie' Delgado Hung in Las Cruces Square

California collar - noose.

Among the willows - running from the law.

Purple hyacinth - grief/sorrow.

Nadie - nobody (Spanish).