For five days, Fanguella did not show up at the restaurant. She did not answer her door when Richard showed up for their appointment. She did not pick up her messages, or leave any. She told herself she was sick. She lay on her bed in her red silk kimono, simply staring out the window, watching brilliantly red leaves on the old oak tree out in her yard dry up and fall, one after another. Not many left, she thought, mourning them. They had been so beautiful, She would watch them every morning before getting up to go for brunch at the restaurant, glad for them, for they made her start each day with a smile. Now they were almost all gone. And all she could think of was, why is it that I can smile at a bunch of leaves, feel glad of them, peaceful even, yet I can't leave this house without the need to protect myself. I used to be shy, scared of people. I thought I was over that, but now I see that I am not. I've been lying to myself. I still can't leave this house and smile spontaneously if I feel I am being watched. I need to be alone with a tree, a tree. Fanguella was an attractive woman, she knew that, and more then that she held herself with a kind of dignity, an otherworldliness that people couldn't help but to look at. She left the house, she was going to be looked at. A lot. She could never get used to that. She used to cover herself up, loose clothes, head down, but one day she had had enough, enough of living in reaction to fear. She wore what she liked to wear, if it drew attention, so be it. She walked with a natural grace, an arrogance that made her lift her chin, look down her nose, challenge coldly with a mere glance. That is if she deigned to look at you, which she would mostly only do to people who were rudely staring. Mostly though, she kept her chin up, and her eyes turned inward, and like this she felt, nobody could touch her. And she no longer needed to feel scared. But Douglas, he looked into her face, caught her in an unguarded moment, caught, and saw her, and through her. And when he mentioned in that soft, warm way of his that she wore a mask, a guarded look, he had stolen her one defense, by giving it a name. He had spoken the truth, and in so doing had unmasked her. How could she go out there now, feeling so exposed, surely others recognized her mask for what it was, would she have to get rid of her pain before she could face the world without her mask? And weren't masks necessary? Didn't everyone wear one at times? Whatever the case, she has lost her only protection, and did not know what to do now, could not even think of what that could mean, so she simply lay there, watching the leaves fall, brilliant red tears, slip down slowly in the breeze, soon to watch the last ones final death. The oak trees will reach up beseeching with naked arms, frozen in a death prayer right outside her window. Its prayers and her own, may not be answered for a very long time. If only she could shed her pain like leaves, and start anew. Yet even the tree she reminded herself, seems to go through a mourning time, must live through a winter before fresh new leaves are born. Well, Fanguella has found her winter. Human nature was funny, she thought. People feel horrible about their problems, yet once they are able to discard them, they almost miss them, don't know life without them. People take comfort in their old pains, just as they are tortured by them. Unfortunately, her old pains, or fears still existed, she had only managed to hide them, mask them. Now without her mask she did not know what to do.
Fanguella got up and got herself a glass of juice. Grapefruit. She wandered round her apartment mindlessly, unsure. Her indecision seemed to be spreading to all different parts of her life, generalizing. Should she eat eggs or cereal, sit in her room or move to the living room for a change. Should she go out? She would have to go out some time. She didn’t even want to think of Douglas, it made her cringe in embarrassment. Richard must have assumed that she had lost interest. Douglas haunted her though. She pictured how he would react if she told him the truth. She was scared of people. She was scared of herself. Did he know that too? Just how much did he know of her, how much did he see? Something that had been floating at the back of her mind made her jump into action. She took off her kimono and walked naked to her bedroom. She pulled on a fitted red t-shirt and jeans, found a bag that she had stored under her bed, and she packed her kimono and a few articles of clothing. As she left her house she forgot to place her mask into place on her face. She was already too deep within herself for others to see her or for her to care if they did. She hopped onto the Queen streetcar and went west to Yonge Street, then south to Union station. She did not know where she was going, but did not stop until she was inside the station. She would look at train and bus times; take a cheap trip to some unknown town. Her only care was that it would be a place with a comfortable motel, where nobody knew her face. People crowded past her walking in every direction. They raced by, unseeing. She noticed a row of black plastic seats, and walked over to sit down and perused her train and bus schedule.