DIANA A. CARAGEA

 The idleness of a late December is ruling over Gardenia Town whose surrounding tree-fortress has become a mass of unwelcoming spears.

 In a small house found next to the main driveway lives a thirty-year-old man, about to put the finishing touches on his canvas. He has been working on this piece since the beginning of June but could never find it in himself to continue what he had started. Until recently.

 The man’s name is Donovan Leeds and from a young age, he loved making to-do lists yet never got to finish a single one of them.

 This year, after his mother’s passing, something had to change. And so another 10-steps-list with things to do was in the making.

 The list is intended to be finished by New Years’ Eve.

“I’ve had enough time to finish it but as usual I leave everything on the last damn mile!”

 Donovan goes outside to chop some wood in the storage cabin. He curses from the cold.

 Number 1 says: do a painting.

 He has spent all summer drying his tears and getting rid of his dead mother’s belongings by donating them to a local women’s shelter.

The heavy wind begins to brush the snow away.

“Ah, a snowstorm is coming. I should unplug the electronic devices as my grandma taught me to.”

Donovan is looking for hours at the finished painting that reveals a beautiful woman with blonde hair walking barefooted on an empty country road, surrounded by burning red poppies splashed with black stains in the centre that are dancing in the summer breeze.

“Christmas would feel strange without anyone dear around”.

Says Donovan and according to the second step, he shall not celebrate.

And so he didn’t prepare anything.

The man pours himself a glass of white wine and mumbles a carol so slowly, only for his tormented soul to hear.

“Fast away the old year passes

Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…”

Number 3 says: write a poem.

Donovan used to sell poetry and prose articles to the local literary magazine for some extra income, besides the small fortune left by his mother behind.

Luckily, he is feeling inspired enough. He scribbles on a piece of paper the following:

“How I feel without your laughter,

Even skies once blue are grey

Not to have a soul call mother

And this mind goes full-astray

None to care in sickness, learn to

Love someone like her.”

“This could hardly be called poetry but it shall suffice.”

He jokingly sends it to the magazine, going to the post office on the other side of town.

Back inside, he puts a couple of pieces of wood in the fire.

Donovan throws himself on the couch, falling asleep with the hands crossed on his chest.

In the dream world, he finds himself picking poppies for a mysterious lady and catches her attention just to give her the thin-threaded flowers.

“These are for you, milady.”

“You keep showing up in this area. Are you even from here?”

She answers sceptically.

“N-no, I just happened to stumble upon you. Meaning, I would like to talk to you.”

The lady begins to run, throwing the flowers away as everything turns pitch black and violent raindrops start to chase the poor man. Yet another nightmare.

The window opens and the wind blows the papers away from the desk. A yellow crumpled piece of paper gets too close to the fire.

“Not my list!”

It was indeed the to-do list.

“Oh, sweet mother in my hour of need, what are you trying to tell me?”

He pushes the burning paper inside the fire since it could not be saved, then rushes to close the window.

Donovan turns to face the delicate lady from his painting by the chimney in her long-sleeved checker black and red dress crossed with white lines.

“Oh my Lord, a devil sent, a succubus!”

“Good afternoon, Mr Leeds. Got any deed for me?”

“Not a sound, demon.”

He begins to frantically pray on his knees, calling upon Michael the Archangel to keep him safe from such wickedness.

“He’s a busy one, don’t you think?”

“What in the Dorian Gray do you want?”

The lady mocks Donovan with her soft laughter.

She puts her hand in the fire, searching for the piece of paper that surprisingly enough, was intact.

“You’re no believer anymore so he doesn’t listen.”

“Be quiet, wicked beast!”

“The deed, Mr, which one is it for me?”

Donovan calms down.

“I must be seeing things. Lady, what is your purpose here?”

“The. Deed. Oh, just like the one from number 10.”

“You, give that back right away.”

“No. It says to fall in love by New Years’ Eve. Of course, you’re a passionate one, how fun.”

“It was written as a joke. I knew I wasn’t going to finish it so I took precautions.”

“You’re setting yourself up for failure. Then, let’s make a deal: I will help you out with your final task when the right time comes and you promise to give me the painting.”

After pacing back and forth, scoffing frivolously, he has made up his mind:

“Very well, then.”

They both shake their hands.

Donovan turns around, heading to the desk.

“I’m not quite sure if I will ever finish at least half of it but what’s there to lose?”

The ghost girl disappears.

He pours himself a glass of water and sits on the black painted wooden chair, reorganizing the desk. Then, he notices the list in the corner, looking good as new.

Task number 4 says: build a hammock.

He grabs another piece of paper and walks around the house to set a place, measuring the room in his mind’s eye.

The cuckoo clock that stopped long ago strikes for the twentieth time.

“Said and done.”

The hexagonal-shaped pieces of wood are balancing the acute triangular foundations, double on each side, fixed on each angle of the base. On the intersecting point of the twin shapes, a piece of wood finds its way a little outside the plan so that an old red sheet can hang around both sides by two silver curtain rings.

He places a pillow taken from his all-times avoided room on the hammock and falls into a dreamless sleep.

The next day, Donovan wakes up craving the pancakes his mother used to make every Saturday which brings him to the familiarity of the following point on the list.

Task number 5 says: make mama’s pancakes.

He goes grocery shopping at the local store.

“Good morning, Donovan, I didn’t see your face in a while. Did you find another store in the meantime?”

Says a short man with an animous curiosity that could be mistaken for happiness.

And indeed Donovan did, anything to avoid talking to the nosy villagers.

“Good morning, Bart. It’s beacuse I haven’t been much around.”

Lie.

“Too busy to eat, ay?”

The man feels the urge to leave the store and never to return. He didn’t get why locals were ever so nosy.

“Sometimes.”

The shopman switches his curiosity to worry, his dark and thick eyebrows being lifted by the heaviness of that single word.

A bit later, Bart puts in a paper bag two bottles of milk, flour, sugar, butter, eggs and vegetables.

“You know, my wife died two years ago. It never gets easier but you learn how to live with it. Wait.”

Bart puts in a separate bag some sausages and two pieces of drawn poultry.

“No, you shouldn’t bother.”

“Take it as a Christmas gift. See you around.”

“Thank you so much, Bart. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Donovan puts one of the pieces of poultry in the oven after seasoning it with old spices and prepares the pancake mix while waiting for the food to be ready.

“Of course I forgot to get the jam.”

He is feeling too embarrassed to return and decides to make his own.

The remembrance of the late Mrs Leeds hits him with a kitchen scenery and the sick woman moving at a slow pace to clean up the place while the food was cooling down on the stove.

“It wouldn’t hurt to help your mama out.”

His mind was spinning in every direction, not knowing how to make up his mind as the request had been worded.

“Alright, fine. I’ll wash the dishes.”

That night he got severely beaten by his all-time gone father for being caught sweeping the living room while his mother was begging the monstrous being to calm down and eat.

“You’re tired, you say? What about me? I’m building houses and sweat my whole life away for you to complain and make my son your maid. What would the people say?

He was roaring like a lion, smashing everything around him, including the cuckoo clock gifted by his grandmother on the boy’s tenth birthday.

He takes the strawberries out of the freezer, leaving them to melt inside the casserole in the sink.

The clock strikes its twenty-fourth attempt of singing as Donovan tastes the outcome of improvised jam after a couple of failed attempts.

“I’ll be damned, the lemon juice did the work. I thought it was just an absurd myth.”

He calls it a day and goes to sleep.

In his dream, the blonde lady reveals herself talking secretly to an unseen figure.

“Is it morning already? I could swear I was asleep for only five minutes.”

Task number 6 says: call an old friend.

And so he does after drinking a cup of black tea joined by two scrambled eggs.

Donovan gets his phone agenda and looks randomly at the names he used to know, associating them with forgotten faces. One stands out in particular, which was underlined several times.

“Hello, is this Martha Cedric?”

“It was before she married me. Who is this?”

“It’s an old friend. Tell her Donovan said hi.”

The man hung up in his face.

“I must have gotten her into trouble.”

He then decided to have a bowl of warm soup, falling asleep soon after.

Task number 7 says: dine with a friend.

“I could use a smoke but I started because of my father and stopped because of my dear mother. God rest her beautiful soul. I still remember her last words.”

“Don’t smoke, silly boy.”

“And so I’ve never put my mouth on a cigarette since then. The shivers were the worst but misery kept me going on. Even misery itself is such a dirty word. All alone and unloved in this cold, cold world. Then, so be it. Tonight I’m dining with misery, my old friend.”

He fries the sausages and prepares some mashed potatoes with some coleslaw to have on the side.

“Bon appétit, Mr Miser!”

On the next day, he is awakened by a delicate touch on the forehead and cheeks. Donovan pretends to be asleep so the touch is still perceptible but just like the creature could sense his intentions, she stepped back.

“Martha, what are you doing here?”

A petite woman with dark and chin-length curly hair greeted the loner with a small nod before guiding the man off the sofa into his bedroom to sleep.

“Now I am sleepwalking like a lunatic.”

Task number 8 says: read a book.

While eating a chicken sandwich with tomatoes and salad, he crosses the halls into the isolation of his parents’ room. He feels the urge to knock but brushes the intention away.

“Mama had the best books in the house kept here. I used to read so much Jules Verne. The French are something else. Philosophy, literature, even art.”

The dust makes him sneeze a couple of times.

“There, Les Miserables. And Madame Bovary. Oh, and The Red and the Black. Alright, I’ll pick you.”

Donovan takes Two Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

“Did you enjoy the book?”

The strange blonde startles Donovan.

“You again.”

“It’s me, yes.”

“I’ve read it before if that’s what you’re implying.”

“And? Would you like to come out of your shell already?”

“I still don’t trust you. I don’t even trust myself lately.”

“What do you mean?”

“This list is helping me more than I would have expected. It troubles me how long it took me to figure all of this out.”

“Sometimes it’s not enough to run away and not face reality, Donovan. The journey might seem appealing in the beginning but aren’t you suffering more when you come back in the end?”

“I never told you to call me that. Besides, I never got your name, lady.”

“Astrid. Now be careful how you use this name.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that names are very powerful where I’m coming from. Spirits can hear everything if you mention them and can arrive in a heartbeat if summoned.”

“My poor mother must be in pain over how many times I screamed her name.”

“Perhaps.”

The cuckoo clock starts singing, startling Donovan.

Astrid had left.

The reality of his tasks being almost finished surprised the hopeful man.

“Tomorrow is the day I shall finish my tasks. What if Astrid can’t do her deed? I never wanted to feel something more than in this moment.”

The snow begins to melt as a heavy rain falls out of nowhere, making Gardenia murky.

Task number 9 says: write yourself a letter.

“Dear old friend,

How dare you be so selfish when I need you the most?

You’ve let me down so many times and now I need to write to you for forgiveness. I do understand why you pushed everyone away and isolated yourself from the world in the house you grew up in, surrounded by the people you used to play with as a child in your neighbourhood and how well you used to get along with Martha…

Take it easy, pal.

Yours truly,

Not a complete idiot.

P.S.: I forgive you if you can find it in yourself to do the same.”

This morning seems peculiar for the loner.

He washes the dishes from the previous day and goes shopping to prepare food for tonight: New Years’ Eve has finally arrived.

Donovan insists on buying this time after the long insistence of Bart.

“You’ll become bankrupt with this generosity of yours, Bart!”

“Happy New Year, boy.”

Home, at last, he begins to cook in a heartbeat to let go of the uneasiness that paralyzes every bone from his body.

“Too much food will be wasted but I cannot stop cooking.”

He ends up making enough food to satisfy an entire army.

A strange thought occurs to him of getting another chair from the storage cabin.

“Perhaps Astrid shall bring Martha?”

Tbe cuckoo clock was singing, oddly enough, marking midnight. Donovan starts tapping his foot nervously. One more hour.

There are indistinct voices that could be heard from the foyer.

“Anybody there?”

He turns white as charcoal as the voices stopped. The feeling of his heart that was racing faster each moment, giving him hurting tingles was enough to try and calm down, not to expect the worst outcome.

Astrid steps in the doorframe dressed in a black swing dress.

“Aren’t you ready? Get one more chair.”

He rushes through the back to bring another one.

She then warns him in a loud whisper.

“Who is it for, Astrid?”

“Please, come in. We’re all settled.”

“Astrid, what is going-”

“Hush and play nice.”

The man’s heart stops as Astrid drags a massive oval mirror with a floral golden motif frame. She puts it at the other head of the table to face Donovan.

“What a trickster you are, I should have known!”

Astrid takes a seat as well, right in between.

“My, Donovan, aren’t you ravishing tonight? Look in the mirror.”

“Is it mother you want me to show? You must.”

The young woman sighs deeply.

“Your mother is gone, Donovan and there’s no turning back. Can’t you see what you did to yourself?”

In the reflection is shown an old version of him, from last summer with an overgrown, untrimmed beard, oily hair and the same clothes he had on for most of the season.

“Stop it!”

“Keep looking.”

The image shifts in waves to face him washing the dishes and trembling from all the laughter. It was that cursed day. His mother was nowhere to be found in the mirage.

“Astrid, please…”

Donovan’s face turns red from keeping the tears inside but shortly rivers are pouring on the table, his whole being shivering from a numb pain.

“This is healing. You deserve to move on just the way she does.”

“She, mother?”

“Exactly.”

The mirror reveals a woman in her fifties with white streaks of hair and a calm look on her discoloured, blue shimmery face.

“Happy New Year, my beautiful son.”

“Mother, is that truly you or is my mind playing games?”

“It is me, truly. It’s time to let me go. I’m tired and I need to rest.”

“Yes, mother…”

He pours himself a glass of wine and sips the sweet, red liquid slowly.

“Happy New Year.”

The image clears, coming back to normal and the blonde goes away.

For the rest of the night, Donovan was looking for hours in the mirror, taking a pencil and beginning to draw every feature as if he had discovered a great treasure he had to carry for the rest of his life: himself.

The list laying on the desk withers like the late summer roses into a burning trait of ashes and the painting seems to have vanished into thin air.

Source: Narcissus by Caravaggio, 1597-99