I knocked my head against the window, glaring at the treasonous pear tree. Months of waiting for the foliage to thicken. Days of praying for honeybees to pollinate the teeny blossoms. Wondering if the season was wrong or the heavy downpours too much.
All I wanted was a sweet, juicy pear. Not the canned monstrosities from the local store that Mom bought in bulk. A real pear from a real tree from nature itself.
Not a peep echoed through the house.
Hopping off the window seat, I grabbed my worn hoodie. The creaky stairs heightened my annoyance with this rickety cottage.
Mom had spent a year adding a bit of zhuzh to all the wrong things. Paint on wobbly railings. Silver handles to hinge-less cabinets. 80’s furniture lined the walls while modern couches and seats filled the living room, foyer, and dining. The fan in the kitchen whirred, blowing dust off the chandelier every other pass.
Covering my nose, I darted through the minefield of dust bunnies and out the back to the horrid tree. I reached for the zipper pull, only to remember that I’d broken it. The pieces might still litter the floor of our downtown apartment.
Shoving the thoughts into an imaginary vault, I gripped the jacket around me and approached the only patch of green in this garden. Apparently Dad had loved to garden, the backyard filled with rows of flowers, tomatoes, peas, carrots, and the like. But after he disappeared, the garden rotted.
All but this tree.
Rounding the pear tree’s base, everything seemed fine. I’d pruned all the bad branches, triple-checked for hungry caterpillars. I adjusted the little scarecrow at the base, his wide-brim hat askew and stuffing spilling out. The birds must have gone after the poor little guy. But he did his duty, protecting the tree.
So why weren’t there pears? What’d I do wrong?
Dropping to the ground, I crossed my legs and clenched my shoulders against the fall breeze. I kept to the edge of the perfect circle of green, fearing I’d turn it gray like the rest of the garden. My gaze circled the perimeter, ideas sputtering about magical rings or portals to worlds. If there was a secret door, I’d love to find it.
Anywhere was better than this grave.
“Pauline.”
My eyes clenched. Tuning out her voice, I prayed for the ground to swallow me and spit me out on the other side of the globe. Perhaps that’s what happened to Dad.
“Sweetheart, get back inside.”
“I’m not running away. Not even moving.”
“Pauline.”
Grunting with extra emphasis, I worked my way to my feet and marched back to the house. Her blond bangs brushed just above her worried glance, wrinkles forming from constant stress.
Pushing past her, I returned to my room, the only sane place in this prison. I flopped onto my bed and turned on my little pink tv, resigned to another night of nothingness. School books littered the floor, playing cards and index cards intermixed. No point in organizing them when I wasn’t going to school.
Or living.
My only friends were the comedic hosts and tv characters, my world barred by four walls. I’d tried to be like Sherlock, following the clues as to why life was like this. But like the pear tree, I produced no fruit for my labor.
We left because Dad disappeared. Whether he ran away or got killed was unknown, all I needed to know was that he wasn’t around. We bounced from place to place, usually big cities teeming with people. Then last year, we moved back to where I’d been born. Didn’t realize the house was still in our name or that the local news considered it haunted.
Whatever the case, Mom had gotten spooked and now lived with perpetual worry. And none of her busy work gave her piece.
The day faded without warning. Rather than go to dinner, I stayed upstairs. Maybe that was harsh, but I couldn’t get over this stupid tree. The one thing Dad left behind, the one thing I could fix. And it wouldn’t do its job.
I blinked and the room was dark. The tv was off, my covers wrapped around me. The clock said midnight, but I’m pretty sure it was seven a minute ago. I do tend to nod off during home reno shows.
Rolling out of bed, I skulked to the window. Stars blanketed the sky. Crickets squeaked out their evening song. The pear tree stood quietly in a sea of green.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The patch of green grass glowed in the night, silhouetting the tree.
Weird.
Tiptoeing out of my room and carefully down the stairs, I peered through the dining room window. Fireflies danced on the blades of iridescent grass. They flitted away when the scarecrow passed with his rake.
Eyes widening, I wondered if I was still asleep. Had to be. I should just wander back to my room.
Or keep dreaming.
I grabbed the doorknob and let myself out into the cool air. The little scarecrow hacked at the ground with the rake until he could yank a weed from the bed of glowing grass. Stepping to the edge of the circle, I watched as he tossed the weed beyond his border and returned to working the ground.
Maybe I shouldn’t have skipped dinner. This could be a hunger nightmare.
The scarecrow paused, pushing his brim. His black eyes rolled, threaded mouth curling. He jumped and ran toward me.
I shuffled away.
He stopped, features twisting and curling strangely. Without warning, he returned to his rake and dug into the ground. Roots tore up with the grass.
“Hey!”
The scarecrow waved his arm before returning to the task. The upturned dirt mounded in letters.
D. A. D.
He dropped the rake, spreading his arms in usual scarecrow fashion.
Blinking rapidly, I stared at the letters. Stared at the scarecrow.
I backed to the house, fumbling for the door. Once inside, I returned to bed.
Maybe the next dream would be less weird.