The Lightning Tree, page 3
“Hi, Ms. Mayfair,” I call out.
She flinches and smiles. “Hello sweetie. Such a beautiful day.” She waves as I walk past, then I head down the hall until I reach the room at the end.
The door is open a crack. Bright sunlight seeps out into the hallway and touches the toes of my sneakers. I knock softly before entering.
Fauna sits by the window, her ginger hair glowing, facing the garden in her wheelchair. I hesitate. Maybe she’s sleeping? I’ll never get used to how thin she is; her knees sharp under her gray sweatpants make her look younger than the fourteen-year-old she is.
I hear footsteps behind me, and then the cheery voice of Abigail, one of Fauna’s nurses. “That’s her favorite place to sit.”
I turn to her and nod. “Looking out to the sky.”
Abigail’s bright eyes wander between me and Fauna as she shakes her head, her graying blond hair brushing against her shoulders. “I came to start the physiotherapy.” She leans in close, putting a warm hand on my arm. A whiff of bleach rises from her white scrubs. “But it can wait a while, dear.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.” I pull up a chair and sit next to Fauna.
“Just holler if you need me.” Abigail says, leaving a gap in the door so I can hear her puttering in the hallway.
“Hi, Fauna,” I say. I search her pale face for a reaction, something to tell me she recognizes my voice. Her forget-me-not blue eyes are resting on the maple tree in the garden, but I can’t tell if she’s actually looking at it. Her gaze seems to have that special softness it gets when resting on nature. It pains me to see her like this. She used to be a chatterbox, never running out of things to say. I used to be the quiet one.
“Today was the last day of school,” I tell her. I pull a shimmering strand of hair from her cheek. “Nothing much happened, we pretty much just watched movies.”
I don’t want to tell her about my catastrophic science presentation, so I look around the room instead—at the neatly made hospital bed, the pink geraniums on top of the chest of drawers, the wall covered with photos and get-well cards from back when people thought she would get better. Some of them hang crookedly, the tape starting to come loose. She doesn’t get cards anymore and it’s been a long time since she got visits from her friends.
“We had to sit in the auditorium for an hour,” I say. “You would have hated it.” I have the yearbook in my lap, my index finger tracing the embossed block letters spelling out DERWYN HIGH SCHOOL.
Unable to wait any longer, I flip it open and search through the last pages until I see it.
HAVE A WHOPPING SUMMER, FLOWER-GIRL!
DON’T GET LOST IN THE BOOK NOOK . AND
CHARGE YOUR PHONE, SLEEPYHEAD.
YOUR DEVOTED ALARM CLOCK, CARL.
That boy, he’s nearly made me cry again. It is perfect, the words are perfect, the drawing of a smiley-faced clock with stick arms and legs next to his name—it’s all perfect.
I look up at Fauna. “There’s this end-of-year party tonight.” I sigh and reach for her hand. It’s dry and warm, but there’s no movement to indicate if she can feel my touch. “I’d rather stay here with you, but Carl is totally set on me coming.” I follow her gaze to the garden and squeeze her hand. “So, I guess I’m going.”
Slowly—so slowly I almost can’t believe it’s happening—Fauna turns her head and looks directly at me. I hold my breath; she has never done this before, not once in the year since the accident. I don’t dare move or say anything. I just let the wide-open blue sky of her eyes envelop me. She begins to utter the letter n over and over, like she wants to say something. “N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n—”
“What is it, Fauna?” I nod, like I could draw words from her, but it’s just the same stuttering, every n like an exhale.
“Noh-noh-noh-noh.”
Her voice is different than how I remember it, deeper, urgent, like it hurts to speak.
I don’t know what to do, what to say, and now she arches her back and starts to tremble all over, throwing her head from side to side against the neck rest on her wheelchair.
“Abigail!” I run to the door. “Abigail!” I can’t see her anywhere. Where is she? “Something is wrong!” I call out.
Abigail comes running from someone’s room. “What’s happening, dear?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen . . .”
We hurry back into Fauna’s room and Abigail rushes to my sister, who’s throwing herself back and forth and making the wheelchair wobble from side to side.
“She’s having a seizure.” Abigail cradles Fauna’s face with her hands, holding tightly to keep her from banging her head. “Can you please press the alarm button?”
I press the red button on the control panel by Fauna’s bed and a distant beeping goes off somewhere.
Abigail pulls the swaying wheelchair to the bed as Fauna continues stuttering, “Noh-noh-noh-noh.”
Dr. Singh comes rushing through the door and then Rhonda, wheeling in a cart full of boxes and bottles. Everything happens so quickly. They lift Fauna to her bed, and I pull back, trying to stay out of the way. I watch them hold her down while Dr. Singh gives Abigail instructions on what injections and drugs to give. I feel helpless until I think of texting Mom. Maybe she’ll be able to comfort Fauna, make her feel safe. I pull my phone from my pocket and there is just enough power to type a message.
Mom you better come Fauna
is having a seizure
Fauna is still throwing herself sideways and bending her legs like she’s trying to run away lying down. Please, Mom, check your phone. I want to ask what’s wrong with Fauna, but they seem too busy. Dr. Singh and Rhonda hold Fauna’s hands and arms, while Abigail puts away the syringe.
Please, Mom, check your messages. My mouth tastes like blood; I realize I’ve been biting my lip. Suddenly I feel nauseous and fall back into the chair I’d pulled to the window. Was it only fifteen minutes ago? Please, Mom, can you come?
And then, Mom’s voice echoes in the corridor. “I’m Ava Reed. I need to see my daughter.” She rushes in, panting for air. She must have run all the way from the Book Nook. “What happened?” she asks.
Dr. Singh turns to Mom with a frown. “Mrs. Reed, your daughter had a seizure. We’ve given her a sedative and expect her to calm down promptly.”
Mom gasps and dashes to Fauna’s side. “My baby, what happened to you?” And then she spots me in the corner. “What did you do?” Her eyes are wild, I barely recognize her.
“I didn’t—” I struggle to find the words. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You must have done something!” Mom shouts something like a curse word, like something might make you fall out of a tree.
“I just talked to her,” I whisper, but Mom isn’t listening. She’s leaning over Fauna who’s breathing calmly now, eyes closed, her head resting on the pillow.
Abigail takes me gently by the arm, pulling me to the door. “Come on, dear, there’s nothing more we can do at the moment.”
I pivot in the doorway. “Mom?”
She reaches into her purse. “Here,” she snaps, holding out the keys to the Book Nook. “You might as well start your summer job today.” Her voice is sharp, cutting the words at the edges.
I take the keys and glance over at Fauna, lying motionless in her bed, then follow Abigail down the corridor to reception. I barely listen to Abigail’s reassurances. In my head, I can only hear, What did you do? What did you do?
“I don’t know,” I whisper. I open the heavy black door, trading the cool shade of White Oak Manor for the heat rising off the sidewalk. “I don’t know.”
8
FAUNA
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
I can sense it, the undercurrent pulsating in my heart, in my burning veins.
The arrows of time pulling me closer, closer, no matter how I recoil, leaves trembling, roots resisting.
Like I am cut in two: half girl, half tree, half crown, half roots, sunshine and darkness all at once.
There’s nothing I can do.
I can already sense the sharp axe, the smell of gasoline, the taste of blood.
9
FLORA
IT’S ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK.
I sigh, my arms resting against the worn wooden counter. The tingling in my skin is back, but so faint it’s barely noticeable. I must be imagining it.
Hopefully Fauna is doing better. I check my phone for the hundredth time. No messages, but it’s finally fully charged. I unplug it and let the cord fall to the floor. Turning it over and over, I make the phone do somersaults, bouncing against the counter, a stiff acrobat in a cherry blossom dress. Mom gave me the floral phone case, along with so many other flowery things—notebooks, bracelets, pencils—like offerings, as if I were an ancient Roman goddess. She once told me that Dad, ever the botanist, chose our names.
The phone against the wood is the only sound. Clonk, clock, clonk.
What did you do?
It’s been a slow afternoon, the sole customer a thirty-something guy who browsed the poetry section for half an hour before deciding on T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. My phone goes ping, and it’s finally a message from Mom.
Fauna is stable, still sleeping,
but I need to stay and discuss
her treatment with Abigail.
Can you lock up?
Will do, I write back, and then I add:
No problem
I cram my phone into my pocket and push the register open. We always lock the cash away in the antique safe that Mom found at a flea market in Philadelphia. I have been helping Mom for so long, I feel like I know every corner of this little shop, every shelf and rickety table propped up with books that lost their covers. I know every creaking step of the narrow stairs to the second floor, which is filled with more books—floor to ceiling—and the small kitchenette next to the old floral couch where we have instant noodles for lunch. There is only a tea-stained mug that reads World’s Best Mom in the sink. Has she not eaten anything all day? I wash it and put it on the shelf next to our mismatched garage sale china.
Back downstairs I stop to inhale the musky, woody smell that I can trace all the way back to my childhood. Shimmering sunbeams find their way through the shop windows, throwing ribbons of sunlight across the floorboards.
Sometimes I think Fauna is here, quietly running from bookcase to bookcase, playing hide and seek like when we were little, calling out from just around the corner of this shelf or that one, always out of reach, always Come find me. But it’s just me.
I close the emerald front door and press my shoulder against its flaking paint so the key will turn. The afternoon is melting into evening, the shadows reaching for the row of shops across Main Street, but the golden air is still warm and sweet-smelling.
Ping. I pull out my phone. It’s a message from Carl.
Where R U?
At the Book Nook, I answer. He texts back immediately.
U R coming, right?
I sigh and press the phone to my chest, leaning against the brick wall, rough against my elbows. The cars are passing by on Main Street, and a family carrying ice cream cones walks by me, the kids’ faces all messy. The mom and dad are holding hands, and I smile. Mom and Dad used to hold hands too. Fauna and I used to have ice cream. We used to be a family like them.
I look down Main Street to the huge white oak tree by the town hall, its crown gilded by the sinking sun, and to the spot on the sidewalk where Mom would appear if she left White Oak Manor right now. Or now. Or now. But she doesn’t come. I look down at the screen of my phone.
OK, I’ll just go home and
change first, I text Carl.
He answers with three smiley faces, a party cracker, and a bunch of random animal emojis. I have to smile. Right, I am such a party animal.
I TUG AT my t-shirt, which barely reaches the waist of my denim skirt. My belly shows when I raise my arm to pull my hand through my hair, but I don’t care. This was Fauna’s favorite shirt, saying I am here in black cursive letters across my chest.
The cars are starting to line the street a block from the Dunnes’, and I can hear the beat of the music even before I walk up the driveway of the modern architectural wonder that is the Dunnes’ residence. The brightly lit floor-to-ceiling windows show the people inside, like an aquarium, and I stop for a moment to see if I can spot Carl, but there’s no sign of him.
I wonder how Fauna is doing, if there’s any change. Mom wasn’t back yet when I was leaving, so I left her a note on the kitchen table.
I’m at the end-of-year party at the Dunne’s
place. I won’t be late.
Out on the porch, I ran back inside.
Don’t worry, I added to the note, perhaps as much for my own sake as for Mom’s.
I try to shake off thoughts of Mom and Fauna and turn into someone carefree, someone fun—a party cat or panda or chicken or whatever other animal Carl texted me.
As I start up the walkway, a dark-haired man and a blond woman step out of the house and wave at the guests inside. “Don’t get any ideas, kids,” the man shouts, “we’ll be right next door.” The woman laughs, and then we nearly stumble into each other.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble. “I’m Flora.” I stretch out my hand.
“Hey, there.” Mr. Dunne grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. “Don’t make a mess of my house.”
“She won’t, silly.” Mrs. Dunne slaps her husband’s arm and sends me a smile, her eyes so narrow they’re like happy cracks in her perfectly made-up face. “You won’t, right?”
I’m just about to answer, but they have already strolled off. In their wake, a bunch of giggling sophomore girls stride past me. They don’t ring the doorbell, just walk right in, and I follow them into the bright aquarium.
To the left is a large room where a couple of seniors are setting up for beer pong, but I don’t see Carl anywhere. A group of kids files in behind me and I get pushed into a corner of the crowded hallway. I’m suddenly staring into a cabinet lit by spotlights. Inside is a row of hunting rifles, their polished muzzles pointing up to the ceiling. On the wall is a photograph of Mr. Dunne and his son, Jack, who’s even taller than his dad, out on a hunting trip. Between them on the ground lies a large animal—a bear, a moose?
I need to get out of here. I squeeze myself between two laughing girls and head up the stairs.
It’s less crowded on the second floor, but loud and hot. The rhythmic hip-hop music seems to pour from the ceiling, over kids lounging on a black leather sectional in the living room. The sun is setting, turning the tall, slightly opened windows into pink-orange-indigo impressionist paintings.
Leaning against the window frame, I inhale the cool air and exhale slowly. The view is breathtaking: I can see all over Derwyn—the spire of the town hall, the crown of the huge white oak tree. Somewhere in the dark shadows are White Oak Manor, Mom, and Fauna. Then the shadows move and change. It’s the reflection in the glass of someone walking up to me.
“Hey, flower-girl, you came!”
And that’s all it takes for a sudden warmth to spread through my chest. I twirl around and point to my t-shirt, smiling. I am here.
“Yes!” Carl pounds the air with his fist like he just won the grand prize at the Chester County Fair. “I knew I could lure you into coming.” He chuckles and motions to the guy next to him. “You know Aaron, right? He’s also volunteering at Math Wizards this summer.”
Nodding, I take in Aaron’s wavy brown hair, his wide smile. We have been orbiting around each other since middle school, in and out of the same classes, but have never really spoken to each other. “Hi, I’m Flora.”
“Ouch.” Aaron staggers back, his hand over his heart like I stabbed him. “You don’t think I know your name?”
I laugh, and he seems to recuperate, imaginary dagger and all.
“But seriously,” he adds, “it’s crazy that we haven’t hung out.”
I don’t know what to say, but Carl comes to the rescue.
“You want something to drink?” Then he hears how it sounds. “I mean, it’s so whopping hot in here.”
I laugh again, and before I can answer he says, “I’ll get it for you.” He turns and walks toward what must be the kitchen, and I have to suppress an urge to reach out for him and say don’t go.
Now it’s just me and Aaron, and even though the room is full of people talking, we seem to be standing in our own awkward bubble of silence.
“So, you—” Aaron shouts, but someone must have turned up the music because I can barely hear him. It’s some sort of club dance music. I can feel the bass vibrate through the floor.
I shake my head at Aaron, and he motions for me to follow him. We push between people screaming to each other until we reach the kitchen, gleaming with marble and stainless steel. It’s filled with people, but I don’t see Carl.
Aaron pulls me to the island, where a bunch of guys are gathered around a mess of liquor bottles and beer cans. The center of attention is Jack Dunne, balancing a beer bottle on his chin. He is still wearing his varsity jacket, even though the kitchen is hot and stuffy. Next to him are Seth and Tyke, cheering him on as if he’s about to score a touchdown.
“How about that?” Jack laughs and lets the bottle fall, catching it with one smooth movement. “Hey, Aaron, how’s it going, man?” Jack grabs Aaron’s hand and they bump shoulders the way boys do, and then Jack turns to me. “Hey, you’re that girl—” He stops himself and lets the rest of the sentence hang between us, unspoken. But I know what he means: I am that girl.
His bloodshot gaze wanders up my arms to my neck.
“But really, what are those marks?”
I swallow. “Do you mean. . . ?” I hold out my scarred arms.
“Yes, your marks. What is that?” He grabs my arms and holds them up. I try to pull back, but his large hands have me locked like a bear trap.
I struggle to keep my voice cheerful. “They’re called lightning trees, or lightning flowers.” I wiggle to get free, but he doesn’t let go. “Or Lichtenberg figures.”
