ONCE.
Earlier this year I entered a short story competition in which I was given three words for direction along with a limited word count: fantasy, retirement, and secret admirer. It’s beginning line from a conversation I overheard walking on the beach years ago: You’re only 85 once!
And so, Once, was written.
At 85 years old, Della Ray is sure life has passed her by and there’s nothing much left for her. Until she takes up residence at La Fuente Retirement Home, discovering there may still be some magic left in this world…
“You’re only 85 once!” The resident director, Abram, said as he bent forward, wagging his finger. She huffed, wanting nothing more than to smack Mr. Abram and his optimistic expression out of her face. This wasn’t Della M. Ray’s first rodeo. This man and all the brochures advertising La Fuente Retirement as a place of ‘eternal youth’ for the elderly weren’t fooling her. This was her third retirement home in the last decade. The first had been shut down due to the rats in the kitchen. The second…well, she had been kicked out. Apparently it wasn’t okay to use one’s walker to poke another resident’s ribs when they fell asleep during a poker game… The resident’s broken rib had healed just fine but Della still felt bitter over it- she had been about to win.
Turns out when you’re 85 with no family of your own and you are kicked out of a retirement home, there aren’t many places for you to go. Della Ray could only thank the marketing scheme that surely was La Fuente. She had received a brochure in the mail along with a handwritten letter, inviting her to join their community. No one else had heard of it and Della barely glanced at the brochure— because it didn’t matter. She was 85 and had run out of options. Della Ray had nowhere else to go.
“Mr. Abram.. Is it?” She croaked in a voice that she still didn’t quite recognize. A voice weathered with time and groaning with exertion. Pasting a sweet smile on her face, “It’s not even my birthday. No need to give me anything.”
Mr. Abram waved his hands, insisting. “At La Fuente, Ms. Ray, we celebrate each year with a special gift!” He bent rummaging through a large drawer, “And for year 85, we have just the thing! Purple? Pink?” Della’s smile slipped for just a moment. What was she? A Kindergartener? Whatever it was, pink nor purple would do. “Any orange, Santa?”
Mr. Abram chuckled, “Not Santa, Ms. Ray, just doing my job! We are glad you are here! And if you look in the brochure you’ll see…” Della’s patience had reached its limit, she snatched the large plastic goggles from his hand. Orange, just as she had requested. She began scooting her way out of the office. She turned down her hearing aids to drown out the man incessantly talking beside her, motioning to the goggles and the brochure. Landsakes alive, she didn’t even see a swimming pool!
Besides, 85 years was old enough to know the truth of life. Old enough to have lived the downhill slope that came with age, the withering of days. How they shift from days of to-do’s to simply watching them pass by, counting down the minutes until bedtime and the handful of prescriptions to take. Della Margaret Ray had become more of a realist with each year and it had been decades since she had believed in the enchantment of a new day.
“You’re only 85 once.” Della muttered to herself, scoffing as Mr. Abram left her to settle in. What hogwash.
With a slight lean as though exhausted from time, La Fuente was a large cottage situated on the corner of East and Third. Its wooden slats and white paned windows stood in stark contrast to the concrete jungle surrounding it. Built centuries before it had quite literally refused to be torn down. The Mayor at the time, so frustrated at the resistance along with the irritations of potential buyers, deemed the house as well as the tree that grew up from it—Historic Landmarks. The weeping willow towered over the roof, covering the property in a whispering hush. Once inside, the hums of motorbikes passing and cars honking ceased.
Which is why Della Ray couldn’t sleep. It was silent. Too silent. Her thoughts wandered to dinner and meeting the other residents, she couldn’t recall a single name…well, except for the gentleman in the wool cap and plaid sweater. He had been quite charming, hadn’t he? Why, Mr. Bennett had only smiled at her and made small talk in his Scottish lilt, but Della found herself grinning like a schoolgirl! Gazing out the window at the stars Della wondered for a moment, if Mr. Bennett might be thinking of her too? “Pfft” she muttered into the darkness, beginning to feel like a fool— Mr. Bennett probably had a long line of women hoping to be his partner in a game of Bunco! That, or Mr. Bennett, like Della, wondered if the ability to love another had also faded over the years, along with all the busy days and to-do lists.
Della’s thoughts were interrupted when she saw a light flicker just outside her window. Once. Then twice. Della’s mouth opened with a slight, “Oh.” It was a firefly. Something she hadn’t seen in decades and surely not in the city. Pressing her hand against the window, she watched it flicker, farther and farther until it was out of sight. She couldn’t explain it, but the spark seemed to ignite her. She sat pondering… curious to know where it was going. And suddenly Della felt the need to leave her room. To breathe in the night air, just like the little firefly. Grabbing the orange goggles on her bedside, she strapped them on over her frizzy white curls. Her doctor had told her for years she ought to get glasses, but these would have to suffice for now. Della tightened her robe as she began shuffling out of her room and down the hall. The thump of her walker muffled by the floorboards.
La Fuente’s courtyard was in the center of the cottage, its rooms and hallways seemingly built around it. Turning corner after corner, like getting to the center of a seashell, Della finally saw moonlight spilling in from large arched windows. Stepping onto the cobblestone patio, she paused. The smell of lilac wafting through the air, and in the light of the moon all was still except for the bubbling fountain. Della shuffled closer to the ornate monument, suddenly grateful for the goggles as she felt sprays on her cheeks. Pressing her hands flat against the marble of the fountain she braced herself against her walker, leaning in.
Drawn to the water, she gazed at her reflection distorted by the rippling water. Della leaned closer and closer until her nose dipped in. The water was warm, and despite wearing goggles she closed her eyes. Hesitating for a moment before she slowly submerged her entire face into the water. Hair swirling around her, cheeks puffed out as she held her breath—and when she opened her eyes not a rusted penny or algae covered nickel was in sight. Nor the marble of the fountain. Before her eyes was a forest, glowing with fireflies, swaying leaves, and the melody of crickets. (Which was odd, because she had left her hearing aids on the bedside table.) Odder still, as she leaned farther in, was the way the world turned in on itself as the grass became parallel with her feet. Still in slippers, no walker in sight, for a moment she felt frightened at her loss of movement. She had needed a walker since the summer of the trampoline aerobics classes at the Community Center. What was she going to do?
Wrinkled hands stretched out before her, reaching to lean on the nearest tree before she lost her balance. But— her elbow didn’t crack. Not the way it always had since the day she had carried one too many groceries inside. She rolled her fingers against her palm, her joints didn’t ache. Holding her breath, Della Ray took a step, and she didn’t fall. She stood on her tiptoes. Stood on one foot. Skipped. Once. Then twice. She didn’t fall a single time.
In all her years Della Margaret Ray had prided herself on being practical, on having a sound mind. It’s why she had never gone to college when she was offered a job as a secretary right out of high school. Job security was more important than a degree at the time. It was why she had bought the brown house, the one with the ugly kitchen floors she never renovated. Frugality was more important than keeping up with the Joneses’. It was why she had never married, it was never practical. Not for a woman like Della.
Which is why, Della knew for a fact that she was not losing her mind. She gasped, hands to her mouth, a laugh escaping her. She was not imagining this! Every practical bone in her body knew—this was magic. And although Della had always ignored the books on the shelves spouting wonder and wardrobes to far off places, at 85 years old, for the first time in her life it seemed completely practical. To stumble upon magic. After all, what else was she supposed to do at this age?
Raising both hands above her head, Della leapt and yelled, “WEEEEEE!” as she tore off into the world around her (at surprising speed for someone her age, magic or no magic.) She went off to explore. She dug her hands into the dirt, unafraid to kneel and bend her knees. Pressing her nose to the flowers, picking the fallen ones and pressing their stems under the straps of her goggles. She reached on her tip toes to pick apples. She bent, snapping sprigs of mistletoe. Seeing a pond, Della smiled. Full of mischief and without hesitation she ran at full speed; jumping into the pond with a cannonball and a loud SPLASH!
She found herself leaning against the fountain once again, as the light of dawn began to creep along the edges of the courtyard. Coercing her walker over the cobblestones, Della returned to the hallway with muffled steps. Through the winding cottage the ache of her joints returned, but Della smiled ear to ear grasping a bundle of mistletoe in her hand as wildflowers fell from her goggles in her wake.
The next morning at breakfast, Della sat at the table as her heart beat in a way it never had before, butterflies turning over in her stomach as Mr. Bennett joined the table beaming in his wool hat and plaid sweater. He gazed around at everyone, nodding his head with rosy cheeks, thanking whoever had left the sprigs of mistletoe at his door.
That night she left a basket of apples at Mr. Bennett’s door, sharing a piece of her world until she found the courage to speak to him in the daylight. This went on for weeks, until the day he turned 85 and received his pair of goggles. Della wrote a note inviting Mr. Bennett to meet her at the fountain. He showed up with matching orange goggles. Della found that with someone else along, the world around her seemed to grow and expand. With Mr. Bennett there were mountains to climb. With Mr. Bennett there were cozy cups of hot cocoa.
One evening Della asked Mr. Bennett what he had thought when discovering a world in the fountain at La Fuente. He had only chuckled and in his melodic voice asked, “Why Della dear- didn’t you read the brochure?” Della shook her head, as she leaned on his shoulder and intertwined his fingers with hers. The magic had been there all along waiting to be found, hadn’t it?
These days, she rather preferred not knowing what to expect at La Fuente because Mr. Abram had been right, she was only 85 once! But, she couldn’t wait to see what La Fuente and Mr. Abram had in store for their guests in year 86… After all, Della Margaret Ray found she had never been more wrong about anything in her life. It turns out each new day does still bring an enchantment, to young and old alike (especially for those like Della, living beneath the weeping willow of La Fuente…)