Page 19 of Until the Last Leaf Falls

The nights drew in.

The leaves turned and finally began to fall.

Niles kept waiting, even as anxiety and then fear squeezed his heart like a vice. Maybe, his wonderful memories were nothing more than a dream he’d concocted to soothe his loneliness.

A Different Interpretation

His library visitors, especially Bob and his friends, noticed his abstraction. They inquired after his health and left sweet treats and encouraging notes on his desk, but nobody asked him outright what was wrong.

Niles was in two minds about that. Part of him was grateful for their reticence. Sharing his deepest concerns had never been his way, and starting now, when he couldn’t even admit to himself what bothered him? A road leading to disaster, surely.

A small part of him thought differently, wished he could talk about Orren with someone other than his trees who offered comfort and encouragement, but weren’t able to assure him of his sanity, or temper his runaway anxiety. But asking for help wasn’t his way either. He’d been alone so long, solving his own problems had become a habit.

Then, one rainy Wednesday evening when Niles found things to do so he wouldn’t have to pass his trees and see their colourful leaves covering the gravel, Celia breezed into the library.

Niles blinked. She was a frequent visitor, always with her children, often with her friends in tow. Right then, she was very much alone, and she carried a bottle of wine under one arm and held two glasses.

“Oh, he’s good,” she said briskly. Then added, “Bob mentioned you were afraid to go home.”

It wasn’t his home he feared, but Niles shrugged and let it go. “I like my work and there’s plenty of it.”

“Yeah, right. And I can smell bullshit when I’m face-down in it. I have children, you know? Sit. Here.”

He sat on the sofa and accepted the glass of wine she poured for him. Her visit was a welcome distraction. Hopefully what she needed from him would prove one, too.

“Now, come on, spill,” she invited after sampling the wares she’d brought. “You’re the only one who doesn’t have a moan buddy. How do you even cope? I love coming here with the girls because there’s always someone happy to look after the children for twenty minutes so we can have a proper chat. They do it, too, of course. Bob’s crowd, I mean. They go out to the glade to have a private moan. But you never do that.”

“I have a roof over my head, food on the table, and a library to run… what’s there to moan about?”

“Oh, top-level bullshit. Everyone needs a good moan now and then. And you’re moping and it’s getting worse. So spill. Who broke your heart?”

Niles had just taken a sip of wine and was in danger of spitting it across the table. “What?”

“Oh, come on. We can all see you’re pining, but we haven’t seen anyone around. Ergo… breakup. Probably long-distance. Who is she? He? They?”

“He,” Niles said. Just saying the word sent a weight sliding from his shoulders. “It’s such a weird story I don’t dare tell it to anyone lest they think me a nutcase.”

Celia held her wineglass loosely between her fingers, her posture more relaxed than Niles had ever seen.

“I’m a psychotherapist,” she said after a while. “Fully trained and licensed. I stopped practicing to have the children, but I’m keeping up with the research and my CPD hours, so I can go back to it when they start school. You could treat me like your friendly neighbourhood shrink and know that whatever you say will not go any further.”

“You’ll have me committed.”

“No chance. If you were that sort, I wouldn’t have let you near my children. Come on, Niles. Tell me what bothers you. Maybe I can help.”

She topped up his glass and Niles drained it as if he needed Dutch courage. But really, if Orren was a hallucination then the only one he’d hurt with entertaining it was himself. Or was it? The website project and the town history had grown from his interaction with Orren, and now they were touching many lives. In that context, talking it over with Celia didn’t seem so unreasonable. At the very least he could make sure he did no harm.

He held his glass out for another refill, then took a deep breath.

“It started last autumn,” he said. “I came to the library and found a book on my reception desk with a leaf on top. That leaf held a message—anonymous, of course. More came, both books and messages. The books were about local history and mythology. The messages were personal. Nothing creepy, but they sounded as if they’d been written by someone who’d watched me. Someone who… understood. Who cared. And then one morning, Orren waited in the glade when I came in from my book round…”

The words came easier as he got into the telling, and Celia made a fantastic listener, not interrupting his train of thought and letting him get it all out.

“I sent him a message when I saw a chestnut in the park starting to change colour. That was before the August bank holiday. He never replied. We’re now well into autumn. There’s no sign of him and—” Niles took another breath. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that I made him up. I needed to change and I needed a reason or maybe a push and…”

“Orren was that push?”

“Yes.” Niles was proud of himself for telling his story without excess emotion. He’d even delivered his conclusion, damning though it was, with professional detachment.