Voices. All of them feminine. Hands explored my face, fingers tried to open my eyes, and all I could do was grin, turn my face to the loamy soil, and seek sleep.
A deeper voice, urgent and bossy—definitely bossy—joined in. A strong, thick arm insinuated itself behind my knees, and another arm supported the back of my shoulders, while softer, smaller hands cupped my hips and the back of my head.
Golden. The sun kissed my eyelids. I smiled at the gift. My body met the cool surface of a car’s interior, and my heart reached for the door, pressed at it, willing it to stay open so I could escape the machine-made confine and make my way back to the Earth.
The door won. Grass then macadam, unfurled under the tires. I rocked with the rhythm of the road, left my resistance someplace I might never remember, and drifted to sleep again.
Water. Warm water, softened with soap and scented with strawberries.
Support. My shoulders once again cradled by an arm thicker and stronger than my own. I opened my eyes slowly. A pulse on a throat. The curve of an unshaved jaw. Hair, wet at the tips, grazing a muscular neck and shoulders.
My bath. Tanner’s gaze on my knees where they broke through the bubbles coating the surface of the bathwater.
“Why are you here?” I asked, my voice scratchy.
His head turned in slow motion, and his eyes sparked bronze, as though the irises were newly forged and piercingly hot. “Rose called me.”
“Oh.” I closed my eyes, let my knees drop together and my head loll toward Tanner’s shoulder. My bones were missing. He was shirtless. I was defenseless. I took a long inhale through my nose and found his musky scent underneath the light-hearted soap. “Did I do okay?”
“I’d say you passed. You more than passed, which is why Rose asked me to come and get you. She thought if I brought you home, you would find yourself faster.”
“Was I lost?” I sounded drunk. I felt drunk.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know. But you’re here now, and that’s a good thing.” Tanner pressed his lips to my forehead, extracted his arm from behind my shoulders, and placed a folded towel over the edge of the bathtub.
I rested my head against the thick terrycloth and sighed a breathy, “Thank you.”
“You okay to wash yourself?”
I had to think about that before I flipped to my side, seal-like, and nodded. I didn’t want to let go of his eyes, his beautiful, gem-like eyes, a mother lode of crystal in a lightless cave. “Yeah. But if I’m not out soon, check on me.”
“I’ll do that.” He reached for the tall glass on the counter beside the sink and handed it to me. “Drink. It’s water with electrolytes. And if you feel dizzy when you get out, yell. I’ll wait for you in your room.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s almost dinner.”
Mmm, did Mama make honeycakes?
I sighed, slid under the surface, one hand gripping the curved edge of the tub so I wouldn’t go all the way under and swim down the drain and follow the call to the sea. Eyes closed, I ran my free hand over my skin, felt for my hair. Tanner must have washed away the dirt and blood I vaguely remembered coating me when I crawled out from inside the apple tree.
I emerged from the bath, steadying myself on the rounded sides of the old standalone tub while I bent forward and squeezed the excess water out of my hair. Fresh towels were stacked on the toilet seat. I unfolded the top one and wrapped it around my head. Standing tall in my terrycloth turban, I patted dry. My skin was too tender to rub or scruff. A jar of wild rosehip oil sat near the glass of water. I sniffed the oil’s familiar healing notes and poured a generous portion into my cupped palm before drizzling it up and down my limbs and around my breasts. I followed that with rubbing the oil over my joints and into the folds of my labia.
Pulling my hand away from between my legs, I noticed no blood. And after I toweled my hair and went to detangle sections with my wood-toothed brush, the stroke kept going, two or more inches longer than usual. I separated out a hank of hair and pulled it away to examine the color under the light above the mirror.
Chestnut brown. Thick. Luxurious.
I tugged. Not a wig.
My hair.
I looked down the front of my body. My hands travelled over my skin, found my waist, rounded my hips and my breasts. Maybe no one else would notice, but I did. My skin was smoother, more taut. My waist nipped in, not to its pre-babies circumference, but missing a little of the layer of fat that had arrived on the heels of my fortieth birthday.
I patted my cheeks and breasts again. Still full and maybe sitting a tad higher. I walked naked from one side of the bathroom to the other, chin lifted, hips swaying, feet confident as I landed, heel to toe, heel to toe, on the firm tile surface. Assaying the front of my body again, wanting to make sure this was really me, even my pubic hair was more lush.
I hadn’t thought to check my appearance in the mirror. The reflection would confirm one of two things: either I was crazy or the ritual in the apple tree had laid some serious consequences on my biological processes. My bathrobe hung from its hook on the back of the door. I slipped my arms through the sleeves, folded the halves across my chest, and tied the belt snugly at the waist.
Curious, I spread
