Dying Magnolia

The garden is totally different now. Josie blinks at it- once, twice- in the harsh afternoon sunlight, trying to make sense of it. Gradually, the similarities between the way she left it and this jarringly overgrown weed patch begin to stand out. The magnolia tree, which was in bloom when she last saw it, is still there, though the flowers are shriveled or gone entirely. It still casts a patch of shade over part of the garden, where she planted the hydrangeas. Her rosebush, which she was so proud of, is turning brown and needs pruning; but it's still rooted in place. Josie limps forward to examine the messy flowerbeds. There's so much in need of doing. Still, there would be more if the whole garden was dead.

She settles into place on the soft earth, gripping a shovel in her right hand, and bends over a large patch of chickweed. The leafy clumps have spread to conquer anything they can, crowding her flowers and carpeting the ground, and- she gives an experimental tug with her free hand- are deeply rooted in it. This will take a while.

Angling her shovel into the soil, Josie pushes in, only to drop it immediately. She grabs at her wrist, muttering, "No!" Glaring up at the sky in search of some kind of sympathy from above- even a single cloud taking pity on her and covering the sun would make her feel a little better- she growls at nothing in particular, and switches the shovel to her good hand. Her movements are clumsy, unaccustomed to using her left hand, but she manages to yank the weeds free by alternation between pulling and digging.

The sun beams on her back, forcing her to find shade beneath the magnolia. She works for some time in upset silence. She'd never given a thought to the effortless rhythm of gardening- dig with one hand, pull with the other, fish out worms and move them to a safer spot in between movements- but now she sees how easily spoiled that rhythm is. All it takes is one little crash... and the broken wrist, broken ribs, broken life that come after it.

The leaves on every plant are dry, wilted, depressed. She understands the feeling. Her little sister promised to water the garden; that was almost the first thing Josie asked about after the accident; but she doesn't know anything about plants. Josie's the only one in the family who doesn't have a black thumb. Her mom can't keep houseplants alive for more than a week. How are the weeds still green and perky? Weeds are magic, Mr. Kirsch, the former neighbor who got her hooked on gardening, used to tell her. Black magic, he would add, with a dirty scowl at the dandelions or bittercress he was weeding out at the time. Josie always laughed, and then he would laugh, too. That was three years ago. She isn't laughing now.

The back door squeaks open behind her, and though she doesn't turn, she recognizes the footsteps crossing the patio as her mother's. She keeps working, trying to make this stupid arrangement seem normal. As if she always digs with her left hand; always holds the other almost motionless by her side; always turns her entire body to toss weeds on the compost pile instead of twisting, a motion that hurts her mostly-healed ribs. She tries not to show the frustration in every weed she rips out of the earth, but it can't be working.

Her mom coughs once. Josie ignores it, and soon she tries again. "You aren't supposed to work this long, Josie. Or this hard, either. You know, Heather would love to help you..."

"No!" Josie hears the annoyance in her tone, and attempts to correct it. "No, that's okay. I'm fine." When her mother hesitates, she adds, "I'll be in soon. I'm fine," she repeats. Her mother sighs and disappears inside. She doesn't want her black-thumbed sister to do more damage, even if she were up for talking, which she isn't. Besides, this is her problem. She can fix it, and she doesn't want or need help.

It's another half-hour before Josie's forced to admit that she can't go on. Her wrist aches, her ribs ache, and the rest of her does, too- right down to her fingertips, sore from pulling up weeds. They never used to mind, but she hasn't worked in the garden for a long time. She moves slowly as she puts away the gardening tools in the garage, rusted from lack of use just like she is. The garden is dying, whether she likes it or not. She's one person; she can't do everything. Then she starts to walk inside, but stops- her eyes have fallen on her bike. It's in no condition for riding, of course. Her parents never got around to having it fixed after the crash, so the bicycle is still bent and scratched. It hurts to see the damage it received, and to know that she got it worse. Then her eyes travel to her mother's bike, waiting a few feet away. Josie smiles.

The bike is a little too big. She's bumped around on the cracks in the sidewalk, making her ribs scream with pain, and keeping the wide handlebars under control takes both hands, with no way to ease the stress on her bad wrist. She wobbles around, struggling to tame the bike but determined to succeed.

The road drops into a steep hill. Josie switches to the road to have a smoother ride down, glances forward and back, her throat tight, and then flies down the hill. Her stomach drops. Her hair whips around beneath her helmet, individual strands tickle her face and float into her watery eyes. She must be white with fear, but she loves it-

A car, suddenly behind her. The fun evaporates, and the terror dominates, the car on her tail, might hit her any second. She squeezes the handbrakes, veering to the side, waiting for the crash-

The car keeps going, past her and then gone. Josie comes to a full stop and tries to focus, taking on shaky breaths until she can resume her ride. It's just a car. This is a road. Not every car you see is going to hit you, she repeats, over and over, a mantra she can't quite believe. She shakes her head firmly and begins to pedal again.

She doesn't remember her old neighborhood being so far away from the new one. Just like she did in the garden, she studies every house she passes, finding similarities to how it used to be. It's been three years since she's been here, but not much has changed. Most of the houses are the same color, same trees and bushes out front, even the same cars parked outside. Now and then she sees someone who she recognizes, but no one seems to notice her. That shouldn't come as a surprise; they aren't expecting her to be here, not after three years.

A house more familiar than most flashes past. She brakes and stares at it, noting the new car (of course it's new), the new curtains in the windows (again, not a surprise. The old ones are hanging in the living room back home), and newly painted garage door. Josie wonders if the new owners like the tiny backyard, with no room for a garden. Then she keeps riding, only to stop ten feet away, at the curb of the next house over. This one is all the same colors. The curtains are still the same, too. She doesn't see the old car, but there's no new one parked outside, either. She dismounts and strides up the walk.

The doorbell doesn't work- a sticky note on the door says so. Josie raises a fist and raps on the door, hoping Mr. Kirsch will answer. Knock. Knock. Kn-knock.

He doesn't. A grey-haired woman, who takes Josie a moment to recognize as Mrs. Kirsch, opens the door after fifteen seconds of waiting. "Yes?" She looks down at Josie, and after another fifteen seconds, blinks in recognition. "Oh, honey."

Josie smiles at her, but it's a confused frown inside her head. They weren't close enough for honey- they never really spoke, in fact. "Hi. Could I talk to Mr. Kirsch?" She can't wait to tell him everything about the garden she's grown- he'll love to know about the magnolia tree, and the rosebush, and the hydrangeas, too. And he'll know just what to do for the dying plants. It's already lifting her mood a bit.

The strange look on Mrs. Kirsch's face gets even stranger. She seems to visibly sag. "Well, sweetie, I don't-"

She never called her sweetie, either. "It won't take long, I promise. I just wanted to tell him about my garden- at my new house, you know. Only a few minutes."

"Honey... Julie? Was that it? He isn't here right now." Mrs. Kirsch steps away from the doorway, as though considering shutting it in her face. "Heart attack."

It feels like Josie's thoughts are plodding through mud; that's how long it takes for Mrs. Kirsch's meaning to sink in. "You mean... he's dead?"

The sweet old lady's face freezes. "Yes. I'm afraid so..." She starts blinking rapidly, and Josie knows she's not welcome right now. "Thank you for coming over, Julie- goodbye-" The door closes, ruffling Josie's hair with its quick motion. Only now do the questions she wants to ask start flowing.

How long ago did he die?

Right after she moved, or only this year?

Did he still remember her, and how he taught her to care for flowers?

She won't ever know the answers, at least not to the last one. Why didn't she visit him after they moved? Why did it take such a terrible accident and a dying garden for her to finally do it- and only after it was too late? Maybe she thought she didn't need his help. Now she wishes that she did.

Josie turns around and straddles her bike, beginning the long ride home. She doesn't think about much of anything; hardly knows where she's going or what she's doing. A few especially close cars catch her attention, but she's too numb to panic much. And then she's home.

She can smell the half-dead flowers in the garden- he'll never know about the magnolia tree, how it flowers every spring. He would have loved a tree in his flowerbeds, to give shade while he worked. The thought brings tears to her eyes. Through the mist, she puts away the bike and opens the door, finally noticing how sore she is.

The door hasn't shut behind her before her mother's upon her. "Josie! Where were you? I-" She notices the look on her daughter's face and pauses. "What?"

Josie stares at her, thinking, and then says, "Nothing." She doesn't hear the rest of the rant, crossing to the living room and looking out at the garden. She wishes she could plant some of his favorite flowers in the dying- or maybe just recovering- garden, but she doesn't know what those are. He never told her.

Her mother runs out of breath, hugs her, and leaves the room. Josie can hear her muttering to her father about what a senseless decision she's made. It doesn't disturb her. She can almost hear Mr. Kirsch's hoarse voice telling her, I like them all! Who doesn't? That's exactly what he'd say, she decides, heading back to the garage to look through her seed packets. She'll plant some of everything. Then she turns around, and calls, "Heather? If you help me choose some seeds, you can plant some of them tomorrow." Running feet come from downstairs, and she pushes her own feet back into her shoes, wondering if the garden and its magnolia tree will be all right. If not, she's already decided, she'll grow another.