Willow

By Shreya Roy

On a rather sunny monsoon morning, overlooked by the sun, a big elm tree shrugged the raindrops off its high branches and leaves in the middle of a street. This was an usual tree among the several others that dotted this street. Everything about it was normal but one一It looked directly into the Willow Apartment.

Tired of the blazing sun, a bluebird flapped its wings speedily to reach one of the elm’s branches. One might think this was an ordinary bluebird, though it was not. This particular bluebird had spent many mornings and nights perched on this tree.

The bluebird was familiar with this street, this neighborhood, and the Willow apartment. Even the residents of the apartment.

It flicked its tail and preened at the open big window at the farthest corner of the fifth floor. It peeked out from behind a leaf, trying to get a better view, tearing the leaf in the process. A wind blew past the bluebird, carrying off some leaves along with it. One landed on the table in the fifth-floor apartment.

A loud ring resounded from the table. It was a phone. A woman came running from the adjacent room and picked up the call.

“Hello?” The woman said, a little out of breath. “Yes, this is her... The fifth floor, apartment 5D... I’ll buzz you in.” She went to her door and pressed a button.

She returned to the room with the big windows and stood in front of her mirror. She straightened and unstraightened. Then she dusted off invisible dust from her shirt. She realised her hands were sweaty so she rubbed them against her thighs. Then she repeated the whole thing.

She swallowed. “You are Natasha Sinclair… Senior Editor at Alle Magazine. One meeting, one presentation. You’ve done this a hundred times… just not with this much on the line. You know your work better than anyone else in that room. They already know you’re good; otherwise you wouldn’t even be standing here. This presentation isn’t a test of whether you belong… it's just your chance to show them what you already do every single day. Okay?” She had been saying the same words to herself for the past hour, but her voice quivered toward the end of that sentence nonetheless. Because even as she said it, she knew she did not believe it. Her hands were sweating.

At long last she sighed through her nose, picked up her phone and dialled a number. It rang three times before the other end picked up.

“Natasha?”

“Gail. Hi. So I have the report for today with me right now and I was thinking…”

Natasha Sinclair as a 25-year-old resident at the Willow Apartment. She was the Senior Editor at a well-renowned magazine house and was up for the Managing Editor position.

She was not giving herself this pep talk because she needed it. No, this was what she always did. It was second nature to her. She could put out her nerves with pep talks. But today she could not. She had never been more nervous, more tempted to hide under her blankets.

“...You're not at the office, are you?” Gail asked.

Natasha looked around herself. The unkempt piles of papers ruffled her a lot. “No, I’m at home.” Her thoughts, though, were anywhere but home. She kept imagining the worst possible scenarios. Her mind did not seem to want to stop.

It was not like she doubted herself. Natasha knew she was exceptional at what she did. She was promoted within the first year of joining the magazine house, and her supervisor consulted her for every little thing in every issue. But… she couldn't shake the doubts clouding her mind. Somewhere she felt very underconfident about the promotion.

She hung up the call soon after and stared at her laptop screen. The presentation she had worked on the past several months, suddenly seemed all wrong to her.

She pressed stressed fingers on her keyboard and started correcting the slides. Ultimately she went back to however it had been and that stressed her out more. 

Just then her doorbell rang. She went to her door and pulled it open. There was a young boy standing in her hallway. He had a cart,  if one could call it, full of packages and boxes and had a short notebook in his hand.

“Natasha Sinclair? I have your package with me,” He handed her a big box. “Please sign here,” And the notebook. 

Natasha scribbled her signature anyway she could, her mind still ringing with thoughts about the presentation.

“Lots of traffic on the elevator so early in the morning,” The boy made small talk. But when she didn't look up he nodded silently.

Natasha handed the notebook back to the delivery boy.

“Thank you. Any chance you know which apartment is 5A?” The boy asked, looking at the remaining doors with no numbers on them. 

She blinked at him. Why was this person talking so much? “Look at me. Do you think I'm the warden around here? Like I'm roaming around knowing everything and everyone in this building and their business? Do I look like a bellboy? No! I don't know what you want but I certainly don't have any answers for you!” And with that she slammed the door on his face. 

“Okay…” The boy mumbled. He sighed and moved the cart down the hallway. Why couldn't any other resident at least stick a paper with their apartment number written on it?

It really was busy down at the lobby. It took him so long to get the cart organised. And another so long for him to get the elevator all alone. On top of that the elevator was slow as a snail. He almost thought he'd have to stay the night just to reach the fifth floor.

He looked around. There was a lock on one of the three doors in front of him. So he chose either of the remaining two, mumbled to himself that it was okay to just leave it there, and did exactly that. He left the package on the floor in front of the second door, rang their bell, and walked as fast as he could to the elevator. Without looking back he pressed the button for the ground floor.

There was some shuffling on the other side of the second door before it opened. A young woman looked at the empty hallway. “Who's there?” She spoke to no one in particular. 

She looked at her right, and at her left. No prankster kid was roaming the halls again like she had suspected. Then just as she was about to close the door, her gaze fell on the brown paper. She stepped out and picked up the package.

It was quite heavy, a little crumpled,  and the address label wasn't very clear. All she could really make out was the name of the sender, which was written in bold.

She pinched in between her eyebrows and closed the door behind her. She then put the package on the center table.

“Isaac!” Her eyes were glued to the package even as the said person strolled into their living room.

“What?” Isaac asked. His followed her gaze to the brown wrapping paper on the table. He wondered why she was staring so intently at it.

“Anything you want to say?”

“About what?”

“This?”

“And this being…?”

She scoffed. 

He frowned. “Anika, that's a delivery package. I didn't order anything, if that's what you mean.”

“Well of course you didn't,” Anika crossed her arms. “It's from Emily. Your mother. She couldn't get us to agree to go review those fancy wedding plannings so she's now resorted to sending them over to us.”

“What? Mom wouldn’t do that.”

“She wouldn't? I'm sorry, are we talking about the same person here?”

Isaac tsked. “I know Mom can be… a lot sometimes. And she's pulling all sorts of things for our wedding, but she wouldn't do this. She has barely the time to talk to me over so many calls with her planner.”

“And me. She's calling me almost every other hour to discuss flowers, and curtains, and invitations and oh those invitations.” Anika turned to him, pulled her shoulders back and raised her chest, “Well, wouldn’t the cream color just go extraordinarily with the gold lettering?—Why of course it would, Emily, add to the white lace borders!” She mimicked the voices of his mother and the planner.

Isaac chuckled. “That's what you all have been discussing?”

“You're laughing? You find this funny? I'm telling you, it's a serious job, this style browsing. I mean it matters a lot which lace you pick,” Isaac caught on the sarcasm in her tone. 

“Well…”

“And not just that. There's a ton of people calling me just to ask me if I'm registering gifts. Because apparently no one we have known for the past two decades knows what we might like.” Anika wasn't sure where this was coming from but she just wanted to go on and dump all of these.

Anika and Isaac were high school sweethearts. They recently got engaged and it wouldn't take a genius or a lot of words to say how Anika felt about her to-be mother in law.

They had been bickering a lot ever since the engagement, but deep down it was just two twenty-five-year-olds doubting if they were even ready for this marriage.

“And now, I have this really heavy, really small package in my house and I'm not even sure i want to open this!”

Isaac silently walked over to her and pulled her into a hug. No questions, no words; he just pressed his palm on her head and rubbed soothingly.

Anika's shoulders dropped and she deflated like a balloon. She sniffed his cologne and her nerves calmed down. “It's very crumpled.”

Isaac chuckled and pressed his lips to her hair. “I know. You don't have to open it. We'll just toss it out and if Emily asks, we never got it. Good?”

“Good.” Her reply was muffled by his hoodie.

He pulled back and smiled. “I'll take it. You just sit here and relax.”

He picked up the package and looked it over. The address label was faded but it was clear that Anika had read it wrong.

“Honey, since when do you think I'm a Rothschild?”

When Anika frowned, he showed her the label. “This is the receivers address and it says Rothschild. That's apartment 5A written right here.”

Anika's cheeks got red. She plopped down to the couch and scowled. “Not my fault it got delivered to the wrong apartment.”

He laughed and opened their door. Apartment 5A was right across from them.

“Wait, Mrs Rothschild isn't just Mrs Rothschild? She's actually an Emily?” Anika perked up.

“Hmm.. she does look like an Emily.” Isaac had a thinking face.

“You do know your mother is an Emily too, right?”

“No one speaks of the devil,” He laughed and went out.

It was a well known fact that Mrs Rothschild didn't react well to loud noises, even though she herself installed her very loud doorbell, so Isaac didn't want to ring it. Instead, he left the package on the floor and knocked on her door twice before going back and closing his door.

The door to apartment 5A opened at least two minutes later. An old lady peeked out from behind the door and immediately saw the package.

With all her might she bent down and picked it up and closed her door.

She caressed the big fig plant at her door and then placed the package on her table. She went inside her kitchen to bring out regular scissors and patted the several snake and pothos plants on her way out.

Emily cut down the tape and it revealed a big black plastic bag. And inside there was a pot of orchid mix soil along with a small cloth bag carrying eight seeds. Eight small seeds of Anthurium Reflexinervium plant.

The old woman squealed in joy. It was finally here!

Looking around her small apartment, every wall, every corner was covered with plants and greens and bright pops of colours of flowers. Her heart swelled with joy as she went to her gardening table and pulled out her tools.

She prepared the soil and moistened it before sowing one tiny seed in there.

She went to her balcony and found the right spot for her new plant—in a corner where there was no direct sunlight. She cleaned out her tiny pots and placed the new pot there.

Then she hurried and brought her special water.

When she stepped back to admire the new addition to her space, her hand slipped and a pot of clear soil fell down and landed on the balcony right down hers. 

BAM!

Mia looked up from her laptop. The doors to her balcony were open and the curtains were flying in with the wind. The soft warm wall lamps illuminated the countless books strewn on the floor. Her coffee mug was somewhere between them, cold and abandoned.

It almost looked and felt serene.

Except there was a broken pot right in the middle of her balcony. The moist soil splotches dripping down her white walls.

Mia closed her laptop and got up. Her eyes were glossy but she blinked fast and opened her door and walked straight into the apartment across from her.

“Charlie?” The living room was empty. As was the kitchen and the bedroom. She hollered the name in every room she entered before she opened the only other bedroom in the apartment and there was her best friend.

Mia closed the door with great force and it made a loud noise.

Charlie led with a start and dropped the paint brush from her hand. She pulled down her headphones on seeing her best friend with a weird expression on her face in her art room.

“Wow. Jump-scare much?” Charlie put down her headphones and sat back down on her stool. She looked at Mia and raised her eyebrows. “Who's done what now?”

Mia smiled and nodded. “Mrs Rothschild.”

Charlie's jaw dropped to the floor. “No way! Again?” To which Mia nodded. “What is this? The fourth one in a month?”

“Yes. And also the biggest of them all. I'm surprised she managed to knock over such a heavy one.”

Charlie shook her head with a laugh. “She doesn't do this intentionally and you know it. She's growing old. Cut her some slack,”

“The woman is obsessed with her plants. Shouldn't she have safety nets put up by now?” Mia walked over to the easel and canvas Charlie was currently painting on.

It was just a brown and green background with few sets of small steps here and there. 

“And I’m just surprised she even has these accidents nowadays. Too many times she's done this and I have had to scrub the soil off the walls. Last time I had to wash my curtains too.”

“I know, I helped you wash them.” Charlie wiped some paint off another stool and nudged her head for Mia to sit. “Now, what's up?”

Mia looked at Charlie then to her painting and back again and rolled her eyes. “Mr Smith's lecture.”

“What about it?”

“It's just bugging me. I wrote what i thought was right for the inane topic of role of empathy in legal decision making. If he thought my piece had flaws, he could have called me to his office. Instead he chose to bring it up in his lecture. ‘A way to set an example for others’, he said.” Mia huffed.

“Hmm. Very uncool,”

“Exactly.”

“And?”

Mia raised her eyebrows, “And…?”

“Do you think your piece had flaws?”

Mia sat up and frowned. “I guess? I mean, I did so much research and revisions.. I'm sure I didn't exactly write a D. It could have been an A or a B.”

“Write an A plus and throw it on his desk. Tell him to use that for an example.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Mia sat on her hands and looked closely as Charlie drew small balls on the canvas. After some time, when she still couldn't understand what it was she was doing, she asked, “Okay, Picasso, what is this supposed to be?”

“My next masterpiece? At least while I'm still trying.”

Charlotte Baker was an artist and had a habit of overthinking. She doubted herself a lot. She had been painting ever since she could grasp something in her hand properly. Studying Art as an undergrad was her dream come true. But she often ruined her finished pieces the last minute before submission just because she didn't feel it worthy of submitting.

Fortunately for her, her professors all knew what an exceptional artist she was so she didn't lose marks for late submission. Most of the time, that is.

She and Mia Abbott met in college on the orientation day itself. They hit it off immediately and had been best friends for three years now. Being able to lease two wonderful apartments just across from each other was the cherry on top for their friendship. 

“And what are these?” Mia pointed to the small balls, all in chains.

“Caterpillars.”

“Caterpillars on steps?”

“Yup.”

Mia nodded. “When did you wake up?”

Charlie halted for a second and turned her head to the side, grappling for the colour tubes. “Uh… I didn't sleep last night.”

Mia narrowed her eyes. “You told me you couldn't watch a movie so you could catch up on some sleep. At eight p.m.” 

Charlie pursed her lips and inhaled. Her hands continued painting.

Mia gasped. “Liar. You should have called me. I'd have stayed up with you. I got up at five a.m. anyways.”

Charlie could see it. Behind the big black glasses Mia always wore when she was trying to concentrate, there were visible eyebags. She slept little.

“You hate missing your sleep. What kept you up?” Charlie asked.

“Again. The lecture. I kept remembering the horrible feeling and I just wanted to finish Mr Trudeau's assignment faster.” 

“Go get some coffee. You'll end up napping for five hours in the afternoon otherwise.”

“Let's go together. I'll bring my laptop. I wanted to do that earlier,”

“No,” She gestured to her painting.

“Come on! You were up all night! You need caffeine in your system just as I do and you also need to relax,” She pulled out her phone and started typing, “We'll go to the new café that's opened around the block.”

“No,”

“Charlie! There's soil splotches all over my balcony! I need to get far away from there or I'll end up saying horrible things to Mrs Rothschild.”

Charlie huffed and stopped painting. “Fine and don't you dare. She's always the sweetest when she talks to us.”

“I know,” Mia straightened. “Any sound from the Coopers?”

Charlie gasped silently. “No, I forgot!” She got up aand went out to her living room. She grabbed a big box from her dining table and went to the side wall.

“What's that?”

“Becky's box of notes. Rachel asked me to keep them so Becky wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night and start rewriting, again.” Charlie said.

She knocked three times on the wall before removing the big portrait covering a large portion of it. Behind there was the back of another portrait. The portrait got removed and a young woman looked at her expectantly.

“Morning, Rachel. Is she ready?” Charlie asked the woman.

“Morning, you two,” Rachel smiled and nodded at Mia, “She's beyond ready, I'm sure. Just a bit of nerves. She's getting dressed now.”

“Well I'm sure she'll do great. Here, her notes. I'm sure she won't need them but either ways…”

“Thanks a lot for keeping that. You girls going anywhere?” Rachel took the box from her.

“Just taking a break.” Mia replied.

“Well, take a nice break. You both need it,”

“I guess. Anyways, bye. Give her that,” Charlie nodded to the box.

“Yes. Bye, girls.” Rachel pulled down the portrait and set down the box on her table.

It was the box her daughter Becky carried everywhere for the past three months ever since she started working on her entry.

“Beck! Becky! Come out and have breakfast!” She called out.

Inside, in one of the only two rooms, standing in front of her mirror was Becky. She was straightening her tie, brushing her hair, and constantly rubbing her uniform straight for the last one hour. 

“Coming, Mum!” Becky called back and then looked at herself again.

“You'll go there, sit quietly and when they give you the paper you'll start writing immediately. There's absolutely not one minute you can waste. Nobody has ever finished their writing in this competition. If you do, you have a higher chance of getting selected.” Becky sighed once again. Could she remember these words she's saying to herself? Could she stop herself from getting so into writing that she forgets the time limit, again?

She sighed just thinking about it. It was either that she got lost in the process or she clumped up and became unable to write proper words.

And this was an international writing competition. She had to get her head straight and concentrate.

“Just one time and if I succeed, I'll make Mum proud.” She thought.

It was so important to Becky that her mother was proud of her. Because Rachel was only sixteen when she had Becky and she had to give up her studies so she could earn money for the both of them.

Rachel was proud of her daughter. The two were more like sisters than mother and daughter. She could only wish everyone had a daughter like Becky and she considered herself very lucky.

But at the end of the day, self doubt still clouded Becky's mind. She got into her head a lot, which she thought was a bad thing.

“Becky!” Rachel called again.

Becky looked at her door then to the mirror again. “One day.” And she walked out of her room.

“Sweetie, the bus will be here any minute. You cannot skip breakfast today,” Rachel said.

“I know, Mom.” Becky took a seat at their table and Rachel passed her a bowl full of cereal and milk.

Becky noticed her notes box. Rachel pushed it to her. “You need that?”

Becky shook her head. “I'll be fine,” 

Rachel smiled and pulled it back. Once Becky was done with her breakfast, she passed her blazer to her and wrapped her neck with a scarf. “You'll do great. I know it.”

Becky exhaled and walked out of their apartment.

Across the hall she saw Mia and Charlie going into the back lift.

“Becky!” Mia called after her. “Break a leg, sis!”

“All the best, Beck!” Charlie hollered.

“Thank you!” Becky waved them bye as the elevator started going down. This elevator was fast, small and worked only from the fourth floor. The other elevator was the lobby one. It was as slow as a snail. Even its doors took time to open and close. But there was some work going on in the emergency stair exit so the only way down was the lobby lift.

Becky pressed the button to go down and it came down almost immediately. The door opened and there was already someone inside.

It was Natasha Sinclair, a resident from the fifth floor. Becky knew it was her because, well… she stalked her online. Not creepily. Becky was just in awe of her. She still remembered the day her mom came and told her in her infamous gossipy tone that one of the writers—the best of them all, actually—at Alle Magazine moved into the bigger apartment upstairs. She couldn't believe it.

Becky and Natasha never crossed paths, but seeing as today was the most important day for her writing career, she took it as a good sign.

However, her shaking body was all her. She became nervous all of a sudden. Which was when she realised she hadn't gotten into the elevator yet. And Natasha was looking at her. She was looking at her. 

“Oh my God, she's looking at me!” Becky panicked and stumbled into the elevator. She tried and failed to glance at Natasha nonchalantly. So she just stared ahead as the elevator doors took forever to close.

Natasha looked at the girl who got into the elevator. She recognized her as the girl whose mother threw everyone in the building a party to celebrate her enrollment into one of the best schools known for honing aspiring writers almost two years ago. Of course she couldn't go because she was pulling an all nighter to try and prove herself at her new job.

All she really remembered from that day was the loud noises from the anteroom downstairs. She remembered seeing a little girl just outside, hunched down with her back to the wall. The girl was playing with her fingers, staring at nothing, while everyone inside was having fun.

That girl was Rebecca Cooper, as she recalled from her mother's poster. It was easy to remember seeing as there was no other teenager in the building or teen girls or anyone she ever really talked to.

She seemed fidgety. And the elevator was taking the longest time. Natasha herself felt a little on edge. She thought making small talk would be better for both of them.

“Hi, I'm Natasha,” She started.

“Oh, I know who you are,” Becky said and immediately realised she had made a grave mistake. It seemed like she was her stalker. Her neck felt hot. “I mean… I'm Becky and I've read your articles online… I like reading so.. you know..”

Natasha smiled. “It was overdue. You do seem like a reader. What do you like to read?”

Becky couldn't belive it. Natasha Sinclair was making small talk with her. She had to get out of her head. “I love classic literature. Mostly historical fiction. And philosophy. And romance. Anything I can get my hands on, really. I just love reading. And writing. I can write day and night and never get tired of it. I love letting words flow out of me. The feel of a pen or pencil in my hand is just magical,” It came screaming at Becky that she had just blabbered to Natasha Sinclair. Her cheeks became bright red as she stopped talking.

“I'm sorry I'm just nervous a little.. I have this writing competition today and I'm just a little on edge… I talk a lot when I'm nervous…” Becky fidgeted with her fingers.

“No need to feel sorry. You're passionate about something while being so young. You should be proud of it.” Natasha said.

She knew she should understand. Natasha was just like her when she was little. Except now she thought more than she wrote. She mostly reviewed others’ writing and in the end all she wrote was just whatever was asked. Never anything she loved writing anymore.

“Yes, I guess,” Becky looked down at her fingers. She liked having this love and passion for writing and she appreciated it that Natasha could see that.

“So… what kind of competition is this?” Natasha asked.

“The International Creative Writing and Poetry competition?”

“Wow, that's a hard one to get selected for. Congratulations. Getting selected itself is a huge deal. You deserve it,” Natasha gave a bright smile. 

Just seeing who was one of her role models give her so many smiles and hearing her say that she deserved it gave Becky all the confidence she needed. 

“Thank you, really.. thanks a lot for saying that,” Becky managed.

The elevator came to a screeching halt on the ground floor. It opened to reveal the not so busy lobby.

The two of them stepped off the elevator and walked out of the apartment building.

“Well, all the best.” Natasha nodded with a smile to encourage her.

“Thank you, again!” Becky smiled back.

“Bye, Becky.”

“Bye, Natasha.”

“She's just a teenager and has such passion for writing. I wish I could find my love for writing,  again. Just like her.” Natasha thought as she looked at the bright eyed girl in front of her. A girl who had her life just waiting for her.

“She's only twenty five and already the Senior Editor at a well-renowned magazine. She's so confident and clear. I wish I can write at least half as good as her someday.” Becky thought as the taller girl flashed her a smile. Her stature spoke for her. That she was an established writer and she knew it. 

The two parted ways in front of the Willow Apartment. Becky went right while Natasha took the left.

The bluebird tweeted and tilted it's head, perched high up on the elm tree. It looked at the Apartment, curious as the dawn itself. A monsoon wind blew right past it, carrying off more leaves.

It tweeted again before fluttering once and drifting upwards, disappearing into the morning light.

By Shreya Roy