Eccentric Elderly Wisdom

The memory of her guffawing classmates still followed Shari down the sidewalk where she skipped a grinning path around early dinner diners and off-duty nine-to-fivers. Her brown boots clomped with victory to the tune of crawling traffic. 

The homework had been, “Write about your thoughts on predetermined futures or the results of karma.” Shari’s definite high mark was exhibited in the shared exuberance filling that literature hall as she proudly expounded on the absurdity of any such superstitions.

Humor was her jam—her fruitiest, most succulent jam...made of peaches and pineapple syrup.

A folded pencil draft of her final paper was pulled from her jacket pocket. She slipped into an empty iron bench to giggle over her opening paragraph once more. The fading light had her squinting through her strawberry bangs, but she didn’t even care to brush them aside.

“Predetermined futures? What point would there be for me to stand here and enlighten you all with my thoughts if I was set to fail this class anyway? Or, say I was meant to have a catastrophic accident involving an oak tree that would ultimately lead to a brighter future I couldn’t carve on my own. Would I heed my grandmother’s foresight and purposely locate myself as far from any such flora as I could? Or would I jump into the branches of every water oak hoping the resulting injury would reveal my true calling in life?”

Laughter had erupted, even from her teacher’s direction. They didn’t have to know it was all true; that oak trees had been synonymous with the devil as far back as she could remember.

Shari crumpled the paper to her cheeks, snickering into those words. The ridiculous prophecy had followed her all her life; babbled first by her eccentric grandmother upon sight of the squealing pink bundle in her daughter’s arms. Superstition caught hold from day one, and Shari was forever warned by her mother to steer clear of forests.

Why, though? She hadn’t mentioned death. If getting conked on the head by an oak tree branch would lead to eternal happiness, wasn’t it worth a few stitches or a concussion? If it were true, maybe.

Shari was convinced it was all BS. It simply had to be—no matter how much her mother believed it.

A rushing wind crinkled the paper as she continued reading. The shadow of a falling leaf had her heart skipping a beat. The dried remnant of maple alighted directly over the next sentence. 

When Shari’s nerves settled, she smacked the pointy leaf away. Her eyes shot upward where pleasant rustles sounded in the boughs overhead. Several more leaves drifted to the ground.

“Nice try, but you’re lacking acorns.”

A hint of uncertainty traveled beneath her laughter. 

Even if it was inane, Shari could picture her mother suspiciously eyeing every towering tree on rare picnics; gauging the trajectory should it decide to spontaneously fall without the aid of so much as a whispering breeze. 

“It’s not an oak, mom.”

“Well, maybe gran was mistaken about the variety.”

Exactly...she could be mistaken about the whole dang thing.

Shari was shocked she didn’t have permanent indentations on her arms where her mother pulled her away from every indeterminate plant large enough to injure if it toppled over. The superstitious woman had insisted Shari memorize every variety of tree known to man. From birches to baobabs, she could spit back names and even native climates of the majority since age six.

Sure, most kids grew up on “A is for apple”, and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, but Shari learned phonics by way of silhouetted arbors and genus names most adults had trouble pronouncing. The fact that she still gasped awake at two a.m. with songs about willows floating through her mind—and even a few words slipping out—had been mortifying on more than one sleepover.

It was anything but normal. Try as she may, it was still disconcerting to be taught that oak trees are evil when most people regard them as little more than nests for squirrels.

Had it been child abuse? Shari had to battle to understand other children who spoke of ice cream and playgrounds, only able to interject knowledge of Eastern Persimmon trees on the edge of the school parking lot. And it always floored her how quickly other children knew of her odd upbringing even if she kept her mouth shut.

But today, her classmates had laughed at her behest. Locate the humor in your own crazy past, and it stays as ridiculous as it should be—just as she had written in her—

“Awesome paper!” A man’s voice called from behind her.

Shari squeaked and folded her paper to tuck it away. She didn’t have to turn to know that her ex-boyfriend, Brant, was behind her.

“Thanks, but go away, please,” she said without looking.

“I mean it, though. But hey…do you know where you’re sitting?”

Shari couldn’t help tilting her head in his direction. He was staring his midnight blues at the tree above, grinning wide.

“I said, bugger off. Never should have told you about that.”

“My bad. Hey, wait!” Brant shadowed Shari when she took off down the street at a decent clip; boots stomping her frustration. “Sorry, okay? I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

“Well, you were. Stop following, will ya?”

He caught up to her side. “I forgot how funny you can be, and how cute you are when you’re mad.”

Shari swore under her breath. Those thick lashes and empty compliments always poured molasses over her better judgment. Not today. She started running.

Next thing she knew, a bus honked and swerved to miss a drunk pedestrian in the crosswalk ahead. Several screams...tons of metal careened straight for her—

Nothing.

***

What was that rhythmic beeping? And why was thinking or even feeling an almost impossible task? It was too dark. Someone moved near her; a pen scratching on a clipboard? Writing?

Shari opened her eyes.

The room was plain with low lighting. A muted television was turned on the nature channel in the corner. Next to it, a man in seafoam green scrubs averted his eyes from his papers.

“Finally awake? That’s a relief. How do you feel?”

Feel? Shari tried to move, but her hand ached. An IV was inserted into it. Her head felt like it floated somewhere near the ceiling instead of gracing the area in between her shoulders.

“Stiff…”

Raspy was too meager a description for the sound coming out of her.

“I imagine so,” the doctor said, moving closer to inspect a screen. “You’ve been out of it for a while. Take it easy, alright?”

“What happened to me?”

The doctor flipped a few pages back, puffing out a breath before saying, “Hit by a tour bus and hurtled into a light post. Head trauma, dislocated shoulder, internal bleeding, and...well, you’re a lucky one. I expect you to make a one hundred percent recovery.”

Shari was about to be overwhelmed by the doctor’s words, but she instead focused on the amused crinkles by his eyes.

She said, “Was there anything else weird about the accident?”

“A tree didn’t fall on you if that’s what you mean.”

All Shari could do was stare in bewilderment. How could he possibly know about that? Had she sung her tree songs to this man while drugged up, and now she was his favorite patient to visit for random laughs? She inched the cover over her pinkened cheeks.

“Hey now,” he said, pulling a stool over and taking a seat. “I read your paper. It was just the lift I needed to get through a stressful day. You’ve got a talent for humor.”

Shari exposed only her eyes. The look in his was genuine, grateful.

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

“Your mother sat here and read it every time she visited. She told me you’re trying to become a writer?”

Shari nodded, picturing how her mother must have fallen to pieces. How long had she been here, watching over her unresponsive daughter? The woman was likely half-mad by now.

“I think you should,” the doctor said. Shari watched as thick, dark lashes leaned closer. She could read his nametag now; Dr. Burgess. His smile was crinkled by kindness and regard for his work—not the typical rush in and out of everyday medical personnel. She almost missed his lowered words. “You can write the tale of how my grandfather always said I would one day care for a woman with an irresistible sense of humor and bad luck with trees.”

Shari’s eyes widened.

Dr. Burgess snorted and pulled back before loosing melodious laughter and slapping a leg. “Only kidding, of course!”

Soon, she was laughing along. The tune of it faded when she recalled some hazy pieces of the past.

An announcement over the PA for Dr. Burgess…

Rushing feet outside her door…

Her mother turning toward the commotion…

Dr. Burgess coming into her empty room with slumped shoulders…

Moving to the table…

Unwrapping a paper…

Reading, smiling…

A wrinkle creased between Shari’s eyes as she said, “How long have I been here?”

Dr. Burgess calmed his humor, retaining a ghost of a smile. “A little over three weeks. I’m glad to finally meet you, Shari.”

And she was happy to meet him, too. Few people had a sense of humor like her own. Though laughing with him had pressure building in her head, her mood was lighter.

“Laughter is effective medicine, isn’t it?”

He grinned, showing a dimple in the right side of his cheek. “You bet it is. Not enough of it around here.”

“You can keep my paper if you want.”

Dr. Burgess slid his eyes to the table next to the bed. He brought the folded paper to him and tucked it into his breast pocket, patting it once.

“I would. And we’re always in need of volunteers to read to the children in the cancer wing. Your humor would be a light for them if you’re interested.”

Behind his eyes was an unvoiced inquiry that made Shari’s heart flutter. Did he ask her on behalf of the children, or was it also that he liked the idea of having her around? Surely the drugs in her system were making her read too much into it.

Shari smiled. “I would love to.”

Dr. Burgess was beaming with his own boyish delight. “Couldn’t be happier to hear you say that.” He rose and checked his watch. “Too late for your mother to visit, but I’ll notify her of your progress.”

“Thanks. Tell her she doesn’t have to rush.”

He chuckled low. “A bit overwhelming at times? I could see that about her.”

Shari’s eyes caught his as he paused by the open door. His mouth hung open, and he finally said, “By the way, the bus that hit you was Oakhurst Crossway. Goodnight, Shari.”

Shari’s jaw plummeted to the ground floor. When normal breathing returned, she muttered, “Thanks for that, Gran.” She puffed out a scoffing breath and added, "You too, Brant."