The Tree

The engine ticked as I sat in the parked car, blinking at the mutilated tree. The thick branches that flowed down onto the lawn like the graceful folds of a lady's gown to create a lush barrier were gone, leaving the bottom third of the trunk exposed.

My mother limped off the porch as I got out of the car. She turned to follow my gaze.

“Oh that,” she shrugged. “We had those branches taken out months ago. It wasn't good for the lawn.”

I bit the inside of my cheek as I accepted Mom's indifferent embrace. She held me at arm's length, taking in the sight of what I imagined she considered to be her greatest failure. Instead of watching her smirk at my travel-creased clothes and rumpled hair, I turned back to the tree.

Mom sighed. “You leave for months, and all you can do is look at a tree when you get back?”

I pressed my lips together and forced a smile. “Sorry, just tired after the drive,” I lied.

“Well, it was a choice,” Mom shrugged as she turned back to the house. “Your father's awake. You should go in and see him.”

I took a deep breath and followed her into the darkened living room. Dad was propped up in his recliner. His face brightened as he pulled himself up straighter.

“It's my favorite rocket scientist,” he rasped as we hugged. His shoulders felt thin in my arms.

“I'll go fix lunch,” Mom said as she limped into the kitchen.

Dad eyed me as I watched her go. “Don't mind her,” he said. “She's still sore about that last fight.”

I pulled the folding chair left near his recliner closer and sat down. He took my hand. His hands were icy. The illness I had only heard about felt suddenly real.

“I saw the tree,” I said, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice.

Dad grinned. “Knew you would see it right away, with all the time you used to spend there,” he chuckled. “I always knew you were there if we couldn't find you anywhere else. First with your dolls, then with a book or two. Even caught you sleeping there once after you and your mother had a fight.”

I nodded, thinking of how the dim light shifted between the needles in the branches. “It was like a natural tent,” I said. “No one could see me. It was so private.”

“You must have spent hours out there,” Dad mused. “I remember seeing how you had it set up at one time, with those old outdoor cushions and all the needles swept away. It was you little cave.”

I grinned at Dad's description. “Tommy and I called it our secret cave when we first discovered that the lower branches dipped down like that,” I said. “Of course, Tommy didn't like playing with his stupid little sister much after third grade, so the cave became all mine.”

“Tommy will be here for dinner,” Dad coughed. “He's bringing Janice and the boys.”

“Janice has been a real help,” Mom said from the doorway, drying her hands with a kitchen towel. “She's been here almost every day, even with that new job of hers.”

I took a deep breath and blinked slowly to calm myself. Dad squeezed my hand and smiled.

“Go help your mother finish up the table,” he said. He leaned closer and added in a whisper, “And don't rise to her bait.”

The kitchen had not changed in the year since I had last seen it. I quietly counted out the napkins and spoons and placed one of each in its proper spot on the table. Mom stood at the stove, ladling tomato soup into bowls. Dad appeared in the doorway, steadying himself against the jamb. Without a word, Mom put down the ladle and took Dad by the elbow, guiding him gently into his seat at the table.

Lunch was a stilted affair, with Dad asking me about my research and playing with his soup, rarely taking a bite. I tried to answer without going over his head. Mom didn't speak except to ask if anyone needed anything at different points in the conversation. Finally, Dad sighed and pushed back his chair.

“Good lunch, Martha,” he said. With that, he struggled to his feet and slowly left the room. I stood to follow when Mom stopped me.

“He'll need his rest now,” she said. “After you finish the dishes, you can go upstairs and settle in. There's fresh sheets on your bed.”

Without a word, I picked up Dad's unfinished bowl and carried it to the sink. As I rinsed it, I looked out the kitchen window. The tree stood in the side lawn, its trunk harshly pale in the afternoon light.

Mom carried over her bowl and stood next to me. “You used to just stay out there,” she said quietly. “I just didn't get it. You had a perfectly good room, but you were never in it. The second you got your chores done, you made a beeline for that tree. You never brought friends over. I never understood why.”

I turned to her to explain, to try to make her understand the loneliness I felt in the house as a child -- how Tommy ignored me, how the constant sound of the TV grated my nerves, how reading books out in that soft, green light beneath the boughs of pine needles felt more like home than my bedroom.

The pain in her eyes stopped me. I saw it all – her loneliness at her only daughter abandoning her to hide under a tree, her son leaving her to make a new family, her husband's illness creating its own emptiness.

Slowly, I took her in my arms. “I'm here now,” I whispered.

Word Card: 984