DOGWOOD ✔︎

10 | Auditory Hallucinations

|photo by Annie Spratt from Unsplash|

Dad looks up from his Sunday paper when I open the refrigerator. His eyes lift to my Clemson cap, they drop briefly to encompass my shabby, ready-to-spread-mulch clothes and his "Good morning," comes with a little nod of approval.

It was already dark when Mr. Desoto brought me home from the mall. I could smell the mulch I requested, but I couldn't see that it was blocking the driveway until I looked out the window this morning. Dad won't be able to park his car in the garage until I keep the promise I made yesterday.

"Is it a good morning?" he asks.

"Huh? Oh—sorry. It's fine," I say, with a shrug that means, "Not really."

His eyes dip to his paper, but then bounce back to me, like he's making sure we're done. I squat down, out of eyeshot, to re-tie my grubbiest pair of tennis shoes. I was sort of hoping he would say something about my "glow."

I get why he didn't last night. I mean, I didn't really give him a chance because I was exhausted and all I wanted to think about was collapsing into my bed. But all the physical changes are still here this morning—along with that underlying feeling of...I don't know. It reminds me of that atom video we watched in science. But like, my heart is the giant nucleus and there are a thousand tiny electrons buzzing around it at a million miles an hour.

And that hasn't changed with the shifting emotions—not mine or the ones that don't belong to me.

"I picked up some of those yogurt drinks you like," Dad says.

I stand and open the fridge to make sure he got the right flavor. Yep. Strawberry-banana. "Thanks," I say, grabbing one.

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

His eyes drop to the paper and stay there. I twist the top off my liquid breakfast and gulp it down as I head outside.

The call of spring is loud. Or maybe I'm just noticing the chirpy birds and buzzy carpenter bees more than usual. I unhook the pitchfork from the garage wall and roll the wheelbarrow over to the mulch pile—which is way, way bigger than it looked from my bedroom window. And that smell. It reminds me of my grandfather's pipe, but with some dirt mixed in and much, much stronger.

It takes me a few tries at stabbing and scooping before I figure out how to make a decent sized clump of the shredded wood stay on the pitchfork long enough to transfer it into the wheelbarrow. I roll the first load over to my dogwood. "It's mulch day," I say. But that's not what's on my mind.

I make several small piles around the base of the trunk and then drop to my knees, using my gloved hand to spread a layer that's three inches thick—like the journal says. "It's been a weird couple of days. And I've wanted to come out here, but..."

I've been telling myself it's because of Dad, but the truth is I've been avoiding my tree.

"I'm not supposed to let any mulch touch your trunk," I say—because I'm not going to think about that now. I empty the wheelbarrow and keep spreading. One load only covers about a third of the surrounding flower bed.

This is going to take forever.

I get two more loads spread before Dad comes out of the house. He gives me a thumbs up before he drives off to the golf course. I stab my pitchfork into mulch mountain so hard I have to rock it back and forth to get it back out.

"Calm down," I tell myself. "Just do the work like you did on Thursday. Let nature soothe you."

I refill the wheelbarrow and push it toward the back gate. Someone calls my name—in a voice that's deep and noticeably boy. I tighten my grip on the handles and look over my shoulder. The boy who lives in Chelsea's house is standing in my driveway.