Apple Valley

 “I’m home and there’s no sign of you,” Marnie’s phone shook with her mother’s text message. “I told you I have a meeting today at eight. Did you forget again?” it went on.

“I know,” she desperately texted back, her right hand still on the steering wheel. “Be home soon.”

“Where even are you?”

At this, the headlights of an ambulance came flashing behind her, its siren deafening, and she had to swerve for her life, dropping her phone to the floor of the car. Where even was she? She could feel the rage, the proud indignation of a burned-out executive in her mother's words.

Exactly now that she had shifted sides, the small segments of white on the center of the road had turned into one single line, and she found herself unable to shift back.

“Dammit,” she cursed, slamming the steering wheel with the cushioned flesh of her fist.

For a while she drove forward, swaying gently with the curves of the road, as though lulled by a moving cradle. But then she saw, phosphorescent and glorious, a sign – Hailtown, and an arrow aimed to the left. But minutes passed, songs were played on the radio, intercalated by broadcasters casually dropping by with some uninteresting news, and there was no such thing as a road back to Hailtown.

Slowly, little waves of slumber came tumbling down over her, as if a gallon of water were being patiently poured into a glass. The drowsiness, unbeknown to Marnie, was not something of her own, but rather something collective - the cars had started to fewer, and the ones which remained seemed to be moving at reduced speed. And the road, as though tired of the effort of maintaining its width, breathed itself in, wrinkling a bit in the process and morphing into a singular cobblestone path.

Where was she? Good question. In a struck of clarity, she drove to a halt at the side of the road and picked up her phone. On her locked screen lay a single message from her mother, sent ten minutes ago, “Leaving now. Forgot to ask, did you find your scarf? Are you sure it’s not just on the floor of your car?”

Her fingers instinctively reached for the Google Maps app, before realizing with a pang there was no signal. There was only one option now – test her luck and drive forward.

 Marnie managed the handbrake, and the car was back in motion, shaking a little as it made the transition from asphalt to stone. The stars twinkled sharply above her, as they saw themselves free from the competition of city lights. And the temperature had dropped, at least according to her dashboard. She reached for her bag, her hand foolishly rummaging around before curling up and falling limply on her leg. Her scarf - she remembered - remained lost.

On and on Marnie drove, through trees and rocks and patches of darkness so thick they reminded her of her childhood blanket. Funny enough, not long after that thought, a scent slithered warmly up her nostrils - the perfume of the fabric softener her mother used to apply to all their clothes - apple cider. Marnie lowered her window just enough for her to make greater sense of the scent. It hit her in a buxom waft.

Suddenly, as if the glorious scent were now a sight, a golden glow became visible not long ahead.

As she drove closer, the mysterious glow was revealed to be coming from a sequence of streetlamps that outlined buildings and showered cobbled streets – and their people – in gold. Marnie gawked at the sight – hundreds of people filled the streets, drinks in one hand and wobbling heaps of food in the other. Food tents flanked the main road, with sympathetic middle-aged salesmen and their bored teenage offspring filling bags of popcorn and assembling hotdogs. Children stretched their tongues to lick at seeping ice cream cones. Young men and women emerged with white moustaches from tall glasses of beer. And all around them, apple cider was being poured from barrels that came rolling down from the factory at the end of the lane, steered by boisterous working men.

Marnie parked her car at an empty space beside a closed drug store, determined to take a member of the party temporarily out of their glee to ask for directions and, ultimately, help.

But as she exited the vehicle and her thumb pressed the car key, something nudged at her sweater. She spun worriedly on her heels to find a tiny little girl in a tiny little dress rubbing her eyes, which were swollen and red with tears.

“Excuse me, miss,” she hiccoughed, “could you help me? I lost my mommy.”

Instantly sympathizing with the girl over the fact they were both lost, Marnie bowed down to meet her little face and shouted over the noise, “Where were you when you were last together?”

“We were getting sweetcorn and she gave me money to go to the playground, but when I came back she was gone!"

Marnie stood on her toes and, craning her neck over the heads of the crowd, spotted the sweetcorn tent and, not too far beyond it, the playground.

“Could you describe your mommy to me?”

“She is very old and grey,” the girl said matter-of-factly, to which Marnie chortled. “But you just have to ask the grownups if they’ve seen my mother and they'll know who you're talking about.”

Marnie took the child by the hand and bravely fought her way through the crowd. Each adult she could have her hands on was inquired about the whereabouts of the little girl’s mother. All made a face of recognition when they saw the girl and some even smiled and bowed down to greet her, but none seemed to know where her mother was. After a little while of search, however, a lanky boy in suspenders touched Marnie’s shoulder very politely and whispered into her ear, “Her mother’s gone home, miss.”

Marnie nodded and bowed down to the girl. “Do you know where your house is?” she asked.

The girl gave her an outraged look and snapped cheekily, “Are you mad? Of course I do!”

The girl’s face had completely lost its weepy aspect and assumed a focused and purposeful look; she was the one now leading Marnie by the hand.

They came to a halt in front of a humble-looking house with lace curtains and a doormat with the word 'welcome' written in cursive. The girl rapped on the front door, which - much to Marnie’s surprise - shook under the might of her tiny fist.

A light was turned on in the entrance hall and a woman appeared at the door. “Oh, please enter, dear,” she said to the girl.

“You senile crone!” the girl barked at the woman. “You forgot again!”

Marnie couldn’t hold back her awe as the girl stomped out of sight.

“And you, dear, thank you for bringing her back home safe,” the woman approached Marnie in her wizened voice. “Now, if you please, come inside for some tea! I do not take no for an answer.”

As much as Marnie would despise to agree with the girl, the woman truly was very old. Except in the case she had been adopted, there was no way the girl could be that woman’s daughter.

“I am sorry," Marnie started, "but as much as I’d like to, I have to go home. I got lost in the way and have been on the road for some time now. In fact, it would be wonderful if you could help me - I need to get back to Hail-”

“Seamus!” the woman interrupted Marnie, yelling at someone behind her back, someone Marnie could not yet see. “Hop back to the fair and bring this sweet young lady a bit of everything.”

A tall man, around the same age as the woman, appeared on the threshold. He retrieved his hat cordially at Marnie and walked out into the night.

“Now, dear, come inside, will you?" the old lady told Marnie. "Once Seamus is back he can help you.”

“Is there a gas station around here?” Marnie tried to change the subject, keeping her feet firmly on the ground and not relinquishing her will.

“There sure is, dear, but please, wouldn’t you like to first fill that tank?” the woman said, pointing a gnarled finger to Marnie’s belly. “God only knows I can hear it growling from here!”

Reluctantly, Marnie stepped inside. The entrance hall was gilded by a grimy wallpaper, and covering each of its every surface was a piece of lace. Porcelain antiquities lay over a side table - some broken, all dusty.

“I’ll leave the door ajar, dear, so you don’t think I have something funny planned for you,” the woman smiled at Marnie. “I know how hard it is for a young woman like you out there. I was once a young woman myself, you know. It may not seem so, but I can assure you I was.”

She took Marnie to a small living room at the end of the hall, where the little girl, knees glued to the linoleum floor, colored a book and hummed a 70’s tune. The old lady beckoned for Marnie to sit down and laid a cup and a saucer in front of her.

“Here, dear,” she said, carrying the teapot with some difficulty and placing it at the center of the table. “I’m going to drink from the same teapot so that you don’t think I’m trying to poison you.”

She poured Marnie and herself some tea.

“It feels good to sit down and not drive for a little,” Marnie exhaled.

“Tell me, dear, what brought you to Apple Valley?” asked the old woman with poised interest.

“I got lost on my way to Hailtown.”

“Certainly!” moaned the woman, rubbing her wrinkled face. “I am sorry, dear, I forget small things like this.”

“It’s alright, I forget stuff too,” Marnie said tenderly.

“Well,” the woman went on, “is it your first time in Apple Valley?”

 The drawl in her voice, that unfathomable accent, where was it from?

“It’s a little strange, to be honest, I’ve never even heard of Apple Valley. Such a beautiful little town! A pity really I've never visited it before.”

“Everything has its right time, dear,” the woman said wisely. “Perhaps this was yours. After all, now that you know it, Apple Valley will always be here, waiting for you to come round.” And at those words, the woman’s eyes glowed brightly.

“What is there to do around here?” Marnie asked casually. “Other than the fair, I mean.”

The woman went silent, as though she had not heard Marnie’s question. Her eyes were fixed in Marnie’s, but her thoughts were visibly far away.

“Madam?”

“Oh,” the old woman sighed, snapping out of her daze. “We never run out of things to do,” she replied mechanically. “Before you go, dear, there’s one thing I’d like to show to you.”

The lady walked over to a cabinet, and once there was a book in her hands, she walked back over to Marnie, and reclaimed her seat. She blew the dust from the book’s leather cover and opened it on her lap, displaying it to Marnie.

“Here, dear,” she said, her knobbly finger resting on the picture of a young woman standing with her hands on her hips in an apple field. “This is me at my father’s farm. Wasn’t I a dolly?”

“You sure was,” Marnie beamed.

“He was one of the first farmers to bet real money on apple farming. Apple Valley would not be what it is today if not for him.”

“That’s hogwash!” the little girl said unexpectedly. “You always say that, when you know too well Apple Valley is in rags nowadays!”

“Don’t listen to her,” the old woman whispered to Marnie. “Apple Valley is exactly how it’s supposed to be.”

The woman flipped the pages of the old book, showing Marnie some more photos of her youth. Out of politeness, Marnie grinned and giggled at the stories the old lady had to tell. Stories of her silly little love affairs, of throwing tantrums and disobeying her parents, and of the ever-changing world. Sometimes the little girl would intervene, uttering her disappointment on her mother.

“You have a second daughter, then,” Marnie said, as the woman showed her a photograph of their updated family – her, Seamus, and two girls.

“Of course she has!" said the little girl. "But I was always mommy’s favorite.”

The woman then proceeded to show Marnie a group of pictures of herself, her husband and their second child.

“For the favorite child, you don’t seem to be appearing in much of the family pictures,” Marnie said in mock banter.

“How can you be so mean like that?” the little girl cried, slamming her little drawing table and bolting up from the ground. “I hate her, mommy! Why do you always make me bring her here?” And she ran out of the room, hiding her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry, did she say, 'always bring her here'?” Marnie asked in high pitch.

The woman dismissed her with her hand. “She is just mistaking you for a friend of mine,” she said assuringly. “That is why she might have been to you in the first place - she thought she knew you. Now, please, let me just show you a few more pictures. “Soon Seamus will be home and you’ll be free to go at your will.”

Marnie sat down again, and the lady continued her exhibition. Those pictures didn’t appeal much to Marnie anymore. They looked like they could have belonged to a local museum, and that was all. But then the woman’s finger rested on a picture of someone Marnie knew.

“That girl,” Marnie said, pointing at the face of a teenage girl seated atop a carousel horse and smiling at the camera. “Do you know her?”

“Of course I do, dear,” the woman replied sweetly.

“This is why you wanted to show me these pictures, isn’t it?” Marnie exclaimed, suddenly more relaxed. “That’s my mother! Where do you know her from?”

The woman went silent, her fingers caressing the woman on the picture. She looked around indecisively before her eyes darted resolutely at Marnie's.

“That is my daughter,” she said, in that unfathomable accent of hers.

Marnie smiled dazedly and then laughed, sure that had been a joke. But then the woman began to breathlessly digress, with great detail, on some personal stories Marnie’s mother had told her. She mentioned the pony she used to have, and how it one day became aggressive and bit her on the shoulder. She talked about her dollhouse, and how exactly she would play with it every day. She named each of her scars with impossible precision. She described, better than Marnie's mother herself had ever done, how she had reacted to her older sister's death when they were both children. And then she continued flipping the pages, and, sure enough, there were more pictures of the two, undeniably mother and daughter.

The last page was filled from top to bottom with a picture Marnie knew too well – the picture of her birthday.

“This is the day your life began," the old woman said, "and mine came to a close.”

There was never a day Marnie was not reminded by her mother that her grandmother had passed away on her birthday. She sometimes wondered whether it was meant to make her feel guilty.

“I knew your mother wouldn’t show you these pictures, so I knew I had to do it myself,” the woman said finally.

“I’m sorry, this must be one big misunderstanding,” Marnie said, rising from her seat. She asked herself what had kept her from uttering that sooner. But there had been something so comforting in that woman’s words, and something even more comforting in being sat down and have someone tell her with care and patience stories that had previously only been spat at her with reluctance.

“Please,” the woman said, staring Marnie in the eyes with haunting emergency, “Please tell me that you see something of you in me.”

But as the tips of her fingers touched Marnie’s arm, the young woman flinched, taken by the coldest of shivers.

She ran out into the corridor, bumping into Seamus, who offered her a bag with 'a little of everything'. She shook her head convulsively and made for the door, clutching her arm.

“I told you, woman,” Seamus bellowed at his wife, “it’s useless! She always comes during the fair, and her reaction is always the same! Why do you keep insisting?”

“I reckon I'll always forget to forget,” the woman whispered wearily.

But as Marnie ran down the steps, the woman’s scream echoed behind her, “Marnie! Take it, you forgot it here the last time.” It was her scarf.

Marnie turned on her car and steered it out into the street. As she ventured into the crowd, some passers-by yelled in indignation, calling out names that had longed ceased to be curses for the modern language. But when she happened to hit one of them - a ginger man with a straw hat - his figure simply quavered like dust particles across a beam of sunlight.

Not long after, Marnie’s car was safely tucked inside the road back to Hailtown. She looked up at the rearview mirror, surprised at why her eyes looked swollen – it must have been one of those bursts of emotion she seemed to increasingly be having these days. Her hand made for her bag, as her eyes were met with the sight of something red and slithery at her feet.

Her mother was right, she thought, her scarf truly had been on the floor of her car all along.