Under the Oak Tree

I stare at the photo held between my thumb and pointer. It’s of her. Face on. As if she’s looking right at me. With those eyes. Swirly pools of green with flecks of brown. Those eyes I used to know.

I glance at the little brown suitcase, its open lid marked with the initials ‘EJM’ in scrawly black marker. I tap the photo repeatedly against my other palm, as if in time with the ticking clock on the bedside table. Willing myself to recall. You’d think I’d know when this was taken. And yet, the answer escapes me. As if my memories are held back beyond a heavy curtain and I can’t find the opening. I turn the photo over; the back is blank.

What happened to her? That girl I knew so well. I study the photo’s background, trying to place it. She’s kneeling in a garden, in overalls and donning gloves. A little seedling, with four green, lobed leaves pointing skyward, freshly planted. A mound of soil around it. She holds one hand out, palm up, as if a game show hostess presenting a prize. A pearly white smile. So familiar.

I sigh, turning my head. Beside the bed, fuchsia pink flowers stand on long verdant stalks, drooping at the lip of the vase. Gerberas? I feel my cheeks lift, realising I’m smiling. I push myself off the bed and cross the room towards the sliding door, grasping the armchair by the window with both hands as my legs threaten to buckle beneath me. I stop, taking in a deep breath. I need some air. I unlatch the lock and slide the glass door open. It’s heavier than I remember. I cross the threshold into the sunshine.

My bare soles savour the soft, cool grass with every step. Grass blades slot neatly between my toes with each pause. A warm breeze blows strands of hair across my cheeks as I move towards the tree with its broad branches.

I make it to the empty bench seat with its glossy wooden slats. It appears freshly varnished. I can almost smell it. I run my fingers over the golden plaque and the indentation of the letters engraved. I can’t make out the words. I frown, realising the letters are all jumbled. Someone has messed them up. Slowly, I trace the big words in the middle of the plaque with my pointer finger, sounding out each letter like a child… ‘E…, R…, I…,’. A bird chirps from a branch above me, and I look up. Startled, it flies away. My eyes return to the plaque, I play with the letters on my tongue. It’s familiar but, yet again, I can’t put my finger on why. My chest aches. I turn and sit heavily on the solid slats of the bench. Placing a hand on my breastbone as I sit. My wrist brushes against my necklace. I run the smooth woven cord between my fingers. I realise I’m still clutching the photo in one hand. It’s so shiny out here. A gloss finish, I think you’d call it? I look at the face again. There’s a smile but it’s her eyes that are telling. If you didn’t know her perhaps you couldn’t tell. But I know her. I’m sure of it. I peer down as rain droplets splatter onto the back of my hand. I gaze upwards. The sky is blue with tufts of clouds like cotton balls.  

    ‘Mrs Rees, there you are!’ says a voice. I look up and see a woman walking towards me with purpose, her dark trousers swishing with her strides. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

    ‘And you are?’

She scrunches her face on one side. ‘I’m Deidre’, she says, pointing to her embroidered shirt. ‘One of the nurses.’, adding a smile. It fails to reach her eyes. ‘There’s someone to see you.’

I make my way back to my room, brushing off Deidre’s ice-cold hands, when she tries to guide me. As if I’m an invalid.

‘Good morning, Lizzie.’, says another woman, tanned muscular arms crossed over her chest, as I walk through the open door. ‘Found your way into Erica’s things again, I see.’ pointing to the bed and open suitcase.

I narrow my eyes while I digest her words. Her hair, cut into a short grey bob, covers her ears. I place one hand on my hip, hoping to hide the tremors unfolding down my arm. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

She stares at me then shakes her head. ‘Nevermind. It’s rehab time. Come on through.’, motioning for me to follow her through the door into the hallway.

    My feet are heavy, as if encased in concrete blocks as I step forwards. And yet, my legs are gelatinous, unwilling to cooperate. Then, I see her from the corner of my eye. The woman in the photo. I blink, my vision blurring. ‘I don’t feel so-’ I whisper, then I feel the cool, linoleum floor beneath me and the stench of pine-scented antiseptic.

  ***

I awaken in bed trying, in vain, to sit up. One wrist is tender beneath my weight. I look around, trying to get my bearings. It must be late afternoon, the sun low behind the oak tree’s sprawling branches outside. The gerberas beside my bed are gone. The suitcase nowhere to be seen. This can’t be my room. My heart races as I gingerly slide my legs off the bed.

‘Hi Aunt Lizzie.’ says a man’s voice. I turn, still sat on the bed. He’s in an armchair in the corner. I hadn’t even noticed. ‘It’s me, Jimmy.’ he stands, putting a hand across his chest, as if making an oath, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I just… wanted to be here for you today.’.

I want to leap off the bed, but my energy is all gone. My batteries drained. I take a deep breath in as I study him. And then, exhaling, a calmness falls over me. Something tells me I can trust him. His eyes are kind. Green with flecks of brown.

‘I need to go outside.’, I say.

    ‘Yes, of course.’ he says, nodding. As if he understands.

    ‘Where are those…’ I pause, waving my hand in the air as if to conjure the words ‘others?’ I ask.

‘They’ve gone home for the day. I offered to stay tonight.’ he says, smiling.

He has her smile.

‘Do you want to bring this?’ he asks, holding out a photo. The photo.

He offers his arm and I take it. He smells of oranges and sandalwood. As we walk together towards the tree he says ‘I’m glad you like the bench. Mum thought it might help…’ he trails off. He holds my arm as I sit then he takes a seat beside me, placing his hands over his knees. He looks up at the oak tree’s branches above us. Brown leaves crackle at our feet as they collide on the autumn breeze.

‘Happy birthday, Aunt Lizzie.’ he says, as he turns to me.

It’s my birthday?

‘I like to think Mum’s here too.’ He says, placing a warm hand over mine.

My arms prickle with goosebumps. I close my eyes. I see her now. Erica. My sister stands, smiling, under the oak tree. All grown up. The tree that grew from a seedling into this. In our parent’s garden that then became mine. I look down at the photo. Erica had laughed as I took my time. Kneeling on damp grass, I had positioning the camera on a makeshift stand - her little brown suitcase, identical to mine. I’d snapped just one photo before the film had finished.

I cry because I remember. I cry because I hate myself for forgetting. I cry because now, I know, she’s gone.