Tree

Premonitions

The earliest thing I remember is when I was about four. I’d just gotten a plastic tea set for Christmas, and I was parading it around like it was my prized possession, which at the time it was. I remember the feel of the indents in the pattern, and the vivid pink of the handles, but I don’t have an inkling of what I should have remembered. I’d poured my family multiple cups of steaming hot tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and even water, and hadn’t left them alone until they’d pretended to drink it. I was a pest of a kid, remembering things people wanted forgotten. One time my Uncle Michael had raided my mum’s alcohol cupboard, and he’d made me promise not to tell her, but silly me told her a month later accidently, and I’d gotten shorted on my birthday that year. Though I could probably write a novel about each year in my life, no matter how hard I strained my brain I couldn’t make it work. Why wouldn’t it comply when I only needed it for one thing? What was the use if it failed me now?

I remember playing in the garden, screaming, shrieking when Mum squirted me with the hose. I know I saw her dig that hole, carefully drop the seeds in but for the life of me, was it raining? What was I wearing? I wouldn’t have a clue.

I straightened the knife pedantically, waiting impatiently for my food to be placed in front of me. Not once did I think to call out to my mum. She might have needed my help; I could have carried something for her. No, not me. When I finally got my meal did I notice the posture of her? No. Did I see her drooping eyelids? No. As I shoveled the food down my mouth, I didn’t see her gaze outside cravingly, or the tears falling from her eyes. No, I didn’t.

Cherrie squeezed the man’s hand anxiously, not pausing for a minute, and knelt her head beside him. Her breath gasped out, and her tears flooded his face. The bed shook with her sobs, but there was no reaction. He was just as unresponsive as ever; his eyes gazed blankly into the ceiling. Cherrie’s hands caressed his, and she smoothed his hair from his eyes. Judging eyes watched her, piercing her neck, but she ignored them, only caring for the man in front of her.

My first moment of pure joy wasn’t even from something I’d done. Sure I’d discovered it, but nothing had been touched by me. The first shoots of green stood out on the barren land, calling for attention to be paid. I’d run screaming into the house. Poor Mum had thought I was bitten or something, but my screams were only joyful. I remember the warmth of her hand in mine as we traipsed out to the garden, my tiny boots taking four steps to her every one. I tugged her along, not bothering about the poor plants being squashed beneath me. Mum rushed right along behind me, not caring either. That should have been the first sign I would have looked for, but I was too naïve, too young to understand the fragile state a mind can become.

When we reached the mound of cold dirt, I squatted eagerly beside it, and Mum, pleased as punch marveled over it for an hour. That should’ve been my second warning.

I gasped over the way the tiny seeds I clearly remember being small enough to fit in my mother’s hand had turned into tiny shoots of pure green. I couldn’t understand how something so tall, could’ve been made from something so small, not understanding that everything grows and changes. I know that now, just like I know how the human mind doesn’t.

A knock at the door interrupted Cherrie’s brooding. Throughout the whole day she’d not taken her eyes off his limp form, but she did now. A quick glance confirmed her suspicions, and she returned to her icy mask, the late halfhearted smile in vain. The frozen hands lingered, not knowing how to comfort her; they did not send the judging eyes a glance either. They did not need to however, as their mere presence sent Cherrie bawling. The sobbing grew louder and louder, but Cherrie never took her eyes of him. Not once did she look at the man she’d been left by as a child. Not once did he turn away from her. No one said anything for a few minutes, the sobbing was the only sound, however the scraping of a chair reminded them they weren’t alone.

“Dad, I’m so sorry,” Cherrie whispered. The man merely sighed.

I was at kindergarten, running away from a boy with glasses. He was it, and for some reason he was only chasing me. I’d felt confused, but eventually he cornered me behind the tunnel. I was stuck; the only way out was up. I scrambled for safety, but his prying hands pulled me back down. I collapsed onto the ground in front of him falling badly on my elbow, though I screamed out in pain he didn’t flinch. He simply squeezed my hand tight and called out for help. While the teacher was rushing forward the boy didn’t leave. His hand was so warm, and it heated mine as I went through hot and cold flushes.

He’d come and visited me in hospital, and that was the only time he talked to me for the rest of the year. He felt horribly guilty, and I’d tried to persuade him it wasn’t his fault, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it. Secretly I was glad: it was his fault. I’d lain in bed for a whole week, not talking. The only thing I did was watch out my window, as I swore the green tendrils got bigger and bigger.

I’d needed stitches because the bone had pierced the skin. The stitches at the time were painful, and they left a horrible pinky scar, but at least every time the boy saw it he shut up. He never played tiggy in kindergarten again.

Cherrie bit her lip, and squeezed both of her hands, one holding the man who had helped bring her to life, the other holding the man who had brought meaning to her life. The limp form on the bed didn’t change, and as the night rolled through Cherrie didn’t move. Henry, her father, fell asleep after a while, so Cherrie was the only one who noticed when the door opened and her mother was escorted out. She didn’t move, didn’t say goodbye. She hardened her face even more, her eyes black, though there was no way of seeing her again for a while. She no longer cared.