|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.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
Kyle has obviously been run-dribbling his soccer ball. I know this without having to ask because he's wearing a sweaty t-shirt, and the blue and white ball is wedged between his running shoes. I've worked up a pretty good sweat myself. Also, I'm wearing gardening gloves and there's a pitchfork resting on the top of my wheelbarrow full of mulch. Isn't it obvious what I'm doing?
"Uh...spreading mulch," I say anyway.
"I thought taking out the trash was bad."
I get that he's making a joke. It's not funny but still, I'd offer up a pity smile if I wasn't so confused. Why is a boy I've never talked to standing in my driveway making bad jokes?
The voice in my head doesn't chime in, but I feel this source of curiosity that's just...extra.
Here we go again.
"You left this in the lunchroom," Kyle says, lifting his arm. He's holding my purple and green polka dot lunch bag.
The terrible warmth that comes with extreme embarrassment creeps up my neck. I left my bag in the lunchroom after I rolled my apple down the table.
"I tried to return it after school on Friday," he says. "But nobody was home."
"Oh. Uh...I was here. Sleeping, I guess."
"Lucky you."
I shrug. Because no, not really.
"I'm Kyle Hansley," he says. "We're in the same gym class."
"Yeah. I mean...I've seen you."
"I've seen you, too."
There's a weird seriousness to his tone and his deep brown eyes have this glint of something that might be curiosity. He does this sort of sideways head-shake to cast his dark bangs off his forehead and raises his arm a little higher—reminding me that he's waiting for me to claim the bag.
I take it out of his hand and he says, "See ya in the morning?"
"Yeah," I say again. Stupidly.
Kyle steps down on his ball, putting a little backspin on it so it rolls onto his toe. Then he hikes up his knee with enough momentum to launch it up into his waiting hands. He tucks it under his arm as he turns to the street. His house is only a couple hundred yards from mine—diagonally: two houses up and across. But I have to walk halfway down my driveway to watch him open the door to his garage.
What in the world would possess this boy to pick up my lunch bag? And why didn't he just leave it on my front porch?
I reclaim my wheelbarrow—pausing only to toss my lunch bag into the garage—but then I can't seem to steer through the gate. I abandon it and walk to my tree, shedding my gloves. "Boys are weird," I say. "People in general, actually."
It's a stupid thing to say, because it's obviously me. I'm the weird one.
"Something happened Thursday night," I confess. "I don't know if it's real or my imagination, but..." I reach for one of the dogwood's blooms and then stop myself. This is what I've been avoiding. Because I'm afraid it will answer the real-or-not-real question.
Can I just go on with my life—mulch today, school tomorrow—and not know?
Nope.
I cup my hand under the flower—barely making contact at first, and then almost closing my fist around it. "Something's not right," I say, moving my hand to one of the branches. Then I stalk over to the giant oak tree—like the day Dad first brought me out here. I press my palm against the trunk for comparison. No buzz, as expected. I check the walnut and the smaller oak. Normal and normal.
But not buzzing isn't normal for my dogwood.
"Where are you?" I ask, cringing because I think the answer might be...
"I'm right here."
Yeah, that.
I back up, stumbling when my heel hits the edge of the patio—but I don't know why I'm in such a hurry to get away, because the annoyingly perky voice didn't come from the tree. I dart into the garage, slam the button that closes the door and kick out of my gardening clogs. When the door is a foot from the cement floor, I peel out of my filthy shorts, run through the kitchen and bound up the stairs.
It's in the shower, when I'm enveloped in a cocoon of steam, that I allow myself to relive the bird dream. Usually, when the dogwood makes an appearance in my dreams, it just stands there like it does in real life. But this time its two lowest branches turned into arms and wrapped me in a flower-covered hug. And now... I mean, is it possible that what I'm feeling—that underlying hum of alien sensation—is my tree, transferred somehow?
"Exactly."
My chest goes tight—with panic that's definitely mine. That's not the answer I wanted to hear. And it's coming from a source I don't know if I should trust.
I get out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel and march, hair dripping, to my computer. Today's question for Google is: What does it mean if I'm hearing voices?
"Ginna, we need to talk about this."
I'm not sure it's a good idea to talk back to a voice that's coming from inside your head. I pull my mp3 player out of the desk drawer and tuck the speaker-buds in my ears. I crank up the volume and click on the first website. A brief summary tells me that at least five percent of the "general population" has "auditory hallucinations."
Okay. But can getting your period cause you to have them—and what does it mean if they have an ability to express their own thoughts and feelings?
"I'd be happy to explain what's happened if you'd just..."
I sing along with the music, "If you think this is over then you're wrong," nice and loud, to drown out the talking. But then the same line repeats two more times and it feels like the song is trying to tell me something.
"Would you please stop that horrible noise and listen to me?"
Horrible noise? But this is Radiohead. There's a quote from this song written in the gardening journal.
"Sorry, but it's hard to communicate with all that drumming and moaning."
Well yeah, that's kind of the point. I press the stop button and extract the tiny speakers anyway.
"Good. Thank you."
"You're...um..."
I clear the search window so I can ask Google if it's okay to have a conversation with my auditory hallucination.
"You don't have to talk to me, Ginna. Just listen."
Fair enough. I tighten and re-tuck my towel and drop my hands to my lap.
"There are many names for what I am, depending on the culture, the language, the century. The one I prefer is tree spirit."
Tree spirit? I type the phrase into the search box and press return. There's a reference on Wikipedia, but it's really just a list of the cultures around the world that believe in some kind of tree spirit, ghost or goddess. I click on a few other sites—I'm kind of surprised by how many there are—and skim-read for information. Three points stick with me:
1. Tree spirits act as guardians and protectors of nature.
2. They have been known to offer wisdom and healing magic to humans.
3. They are not entirely bound to their physical tree bodies.
Okay. "So that was you on Thursday when I was upset," I say—out loud. To no one. "I asked a question and you 'offered wisdom' by making the journal fall open to the Twain quote?"
"No. I didn't make the journal do anything."
"Why have you waited so long to talk to me? And I don't get the tree-spirit thing at all—why not just live in the house with me and Dad?"
"Tree spirits live in trees. The explanation is right there on your—"
"Why is your voice so different?"
"What do you mean different? The voice I have is the voice you gave me."
"Because I'm imagining all of this?"
"That's not what I mean, Ginna. I didn't have the ability to communicate with you before, but now that I do, I can't control what you hear. So if I sound a certain way to you—I believe the term you used was 'annoyingly perky'—then it's based solely on your perception."
"No, that doesn't make sense—because if I get to choose, then I'd rather hear the voice from Dad's old videos. I want you to sound like you did when you were alive."
There's a moment of alien confusion, immediately followed by a sharp twinge of realization. And then the ghost sighs. It's not just something I hear in my head. I feel it, like someone just filled my lungs with sand.
"I'm sorry, Ginna. But I'm not the ghost of Evelyn Williams. I'm a spirit of nature, a guardian."
A guardian. Of what—my backyard? I stand, adjusting my towel, and walk to the window. "You live in my dogwood tree?"
"Yes—usually—but right now I'm living with you because two nights ago, we coalesced: two spirits living in one body."
"What?" Two spirits in one... "Oh god."
"I know! Isn't it a-ma-zing? See, I've already learned so much. And I have so much to—"
"Stop! Please. Just stop talking."
Indignation, as clear as can be, rises above my own spike of panic. I'm possessed.
"No. If you were possessed, I'd have complete control of your faculties."
Yeah, that's true. That's how it was in that movie where the— "Wait. I didn't say I was possessed—not out loud. Please don't tell me you can hear my thoughts."
"Oh, yes! I have access to your thoughts and memories. You know, kind of like the Internet."
No. "That's not possible." I refuse to believe any of this is possible. I'm hallucinating. I am. I just need to accept it—and I should probably tell someone.
I get dressed, jog down the stairs and take the phone off the charger. Then I walk, making the usual lap. Dining room. Foyer. Family room. Kitchen. But I don't know who to call.
Aunt Becky, I guess. Because at least she noticed there was something different about me. But I can't just tell her about the voice. I'd have to explain everything else—and then she's going to tell Dad.
Except she won't, because Aunt Becky doesn't want to get in the middle of it. She's going to make me tell him.
No, thank you.
I keep walking the circle until my breathing slows and I calm down enough to remember that I've known there was something different—and possibly even magical—about my tree since I was nine years old.
Well. I can't say I ever felt like I knew for sure. But I believed it enough to ask for a very specific kind of help. And now I have three potential friends. Four, if I count Tina's boyfriend.
Nope. Three.
That can't be a coincidence.
And even if it is, I don't see how it could hurt to keep this to myself for a while and just...see what happens?
It's like Dad's always saying: You can't make a good decision without all the facts. Right?
I put the phone back on the charger and head upstairs. Tomorrow I'll go to school and either people will talk to me or they won't. Then I'll have my answer.