by Eric Smith
Away from a home.
Back to the group home.
Disappointed faces and tears.
“No, no,” Leila muttered to herself, pushing back. “It won’t happen again.” She bolted towards the stairs. This was a good home. It felt right. The two of them, they were trying so hard. She could try harder. She could be what they wanted. “I’ll be upstairs. I’ll just grab a Band-Aid. I’ll grab a Band-Aid and—”
“Damn it, Leila!” Jon shouted, walking in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders again. She tried to stop herself from shaking but the tears still poured down her face. She was going to mess it all up. Again. She pushed against Jon, and then pulled, trying to go upstairs. Get to the bathroom. Find a towel.
Push these feelings away. Push it all away. She could do it. She just needed to be left alone. She didn’t have to let it take over.
“I know I-I’m not perfect, I know I’m broken, I can do better and, and—”
“Stop it, please!” Jon pleaded. “Just stop it. Look at me.” He pointed at Leila and then at himself. “Look at her.” He did the same with Lisabeth, who now wore a quizzical expression. “We are taking you to get your hand fixed. Not because we have to, or because we’re annoyed about it, or disappointed in some way. It’s because we want to. We need to. If anything, I’m disappointed in myself for letting you use that knife in the sink.”
“I’m not going. I can take care of myself—” Leila started.
“Leila. Leila, listen to me.”
She stared. Jon’s eyes glassed over. He looked on the brink of tears. But not the sort she’d seen so many times before in the eyes of other families who’d brought her in and changed their minds. Not the frustration or the anger that often brewed behind the eyes of those that had given up. Not the rage that surfaced when things weren’t easy. It was a look of someone on the verge of heartbreak.
“We aren’t leaving,” he said, looking at her intently. “Well, we are, we’re taking you to the hospital, and then we’re coming back home. And maybe we’ll stop by Sonic or Wawa on the way home. Whatever you want. Milkshakes. Hoagies. Hoagie milkshakes. Whatever. And we’ll talk. And we’ll laugh about this whole mess. And we’ll think of a way to save your tree, even if it’s just with the little cloned branches and—”
“It’s not about the fucking tree!” Leila shouted through the tears.
“The metaphorical tree then!” Jon exclaimed, the tears now escaping from his eyes as he let out an awkward laugh. “We’re in it to win it, darling. You’re stuck with us. We’re a family now. We are your parents. And we’ll get through this.”
“O-okay,” Leila said, as Jon turned to walk her towards the car. He opened the passenger-side door, and gestured for her to get in. Leila got into the car clutching her hand, and Lisabeth reached over and fastened her seatbelt. Her braids tickled against Leila’s face as Lisabeth got her secured.
“You alright?” Lisabeth asked, smiling gently.
“I think so,” Leila said, wincing as the seatbelt pressed against her arm, pushing softly against her hand. She wriggled it free so she could keep applying pressure with her other hand. “It’ll be okay, for the drive.”
Jon popped back over to the passenger-side window.
“Hey Leila, fun fact,” he said.
“Jon, come on,” muttered Lisabeth. “Now is not the time.”
“Now is precisely the time,” Jon said. “Fun fact, Leila.”
He smiled.
“We’re here for you, and we aren’t going anywhere.”
THREAD: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
SUBFORUM: GARDENING
Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 24th, 2017 | 4:07PM
Hey forum! Anyone have solid advice on relocating a sapling? I’ve got a small one that’s just starting to sprout roots, afraid I might shock it if I move it too fast.
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 24th, 2017 | 4:09PM
Oh! I should add that it’s a weeping willow. And it means a lot to me, so don’t give me any business about leaving it where it is or that it’s an invasive species yada yada thanks.
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
JULY 24th, 2017 | 4:27PM
Hey. Tomorrow. You. Me. The usual place. Text me.
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 24th, 2017 | 4:30PM
;-)
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by Toothless
JULY 27th, 2017 | 4:57PM
Actually, I did this once with a birch tree in my yard, my favorite kind of tree. But I believe you mean transplanting, not relocating.
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
JULY 27th, 2017 | 5:09PM
Did you seriously just “well, actually” her? Seriously?!
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 27th, 2017 | 5:10PM
Hey thaaaaaaaaaanks for the condescending and unhelpful post there, Toothy.
RE: Relocating (EDIT: TRANSPLANTING) Year-Old Sapling
JULY 27th, 2017 | 5:27PM
Posted by Toothless
*shrug* that’s what I’m here for.
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by The Professor of Pruning
JULY 28th, 2017 | 6:27PM
Depends on how deep the roots go, really. As long as it small enough to dig up the entire root system, you should be fine. Luckily willow trees will basically bloom from anything, including branches that just happen to fall on the ground.
Resilient, those trees are. (Note: This should be read in a Yoda voice.)
But, for the purposes of anyone else finding this post, make sure you take enough soil with the root system, go for at least a foot around. If there’s too much resistance, you might have a large root in there. Take your time, you don’t want to damage anything.
It’s actually the best idea to transplant when the trees are dormant, in the winter or the fall, but I’m guessing that’s not an option here. Once you’ve done the transplant, make sure you stake the sapling, as the roots won’t have taken hold just yet.
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 28th, 2017 | 7:39PM
Oh wow! Thank you so much for taking the time to write all that. Thank you!
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by The Professor of Pruning
JULY 28th, 2017 | 8:15PM
Good luck! Be sure to share some photos of the sapling in its new habitat!
RE: Relocating Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 28th, 2017 | 8:39PM
Totally!
RE: Relocating (EDIT: Transplanting Is What It’s Called) Year-Old Sapling
Posted by Toothless
JULY 29th, 2017 | 9:07AM
Also make sure you fill the hole where you removed the tree, so no one falls in it. ¯_(:/)_/¯
RE: Relocating (Shut Up I Don’t Care) Year-Old Sapling
Posted by WithouttheY
JULY 29th, 2017 | 10:02AM
OMG TOOTH GTFO YOU ARE THE ACTUAL WORST.
II
Leila held the medium-sized terracotta pot tightly and stared at the little tree. The baby willow was practically bursting out of it, small branches consumed by thick, green leaves. It looked nothing like the old willow, with its great branches and low, drooping foliage. It looked more like a brown stick with a giant, dirty, green cotton ball on top. Like green cotton candy, or maybe a Muppet.
&nb
sp; Still, she loved it, odd as it looked.
Though it did give her pause.
It had only been, what, two weeks since the storm had torn through her family’s yard? And here was the lone survivor of the yard, a small branch plucked from the downed willow, already growing a fairly strong, thin trunk and blooming with wispy leaves.
And whenever she was close to it, she swore—though she knew it was outrageous—she could hear the little tree growing. Little rustles and snaps, like it was stretching, reaching towards the sky right in front of her.
The rapid growth made no sense, but Jon and Liz both just shrugged about it. Leila left out the part where she thought she could hear it growing. “You’ve got a natural way with plants,” Jon said, though his amazed eyes betrayed him.
Leila placed the potted tree on the floor, the ceramic hitting the wood with a light plink, and searched around in the pantry for her gardening tools. Eventually her eyes settled on a new-looking plastic bin labeled Leila’s Toys with a little smiley face. She opened the plastic lid and caught a glimpse of small shovels and other gardening tools.
“Toys? Jon, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes as she picked up the box.
“I’ll be right back,” she said to the willow tree, and made her way to the backyard. The house was narrow, and she had to weave in and out of the thin hallways to get to the back of the home. But it was cozy in that way. The old group home had been so big, all sprawled out, so many rooms everywhere. It was easy to avoid people. But here, it was kind of hard not to see her new parents at all times. She couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into one of them, or sit in her room without hearing them talk.
It was strangely comforting. Nice, even.
She opened the door to the yard, a heavy weight in her chest at the sight of the place where the willow once stood. It’d been two weeks, sure, but the loss of the tree still scarred her, the same way it scarred the earth where it had stood. Heaps of dirt and piles of mulch covered the spot where Jon and Liz had the remaining tree uprooted, after one of the Urban Ecovist board members determined the tree wasn’t going to make it.
But she had this little one now. A sapling of hope.
Jon stressed she’d need to keep it trimmed and maintained. She could see it now, the entire yard becoming just her willow tree, the branches and thick, leafy strands taking over everything, which didn’t seem like such a bad thing. But she understood the damage a large tree could do to these old Philadelphia homes. Especially a young one, with new roots digging into untouched places.
Earlier in the spring she’d attended a protest with Sarika near Fairmount Park, where trees hundreds of years old grew tall and strong, an almost-forest tucked away in the center of a giant metropolis. One of the oldest trees in the city was set to be cut down because the roots had taken hold of some water pipes. They’d made it a full two days at the protest, their parents coming by and dropping off snacks and blankets later in the evening with their gentle suggestions to come home. People who didn’t have to go to school or work hung around for the remaining week and, thankfully, saved the ancient tree.
Leila chuckled, the memory sweet, but her laugh cut short when she picked up the sound of something on the wind. She listened, intently, and slowly placed the box down on the soft ground.
Whispering.
A laugh.
Th . . . wood . . . whe . . . hou . . .
She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth.
Sa . . . on . . . you . . .
“No, no, no,” she muttered, placing her hands over her ears, the unintelligible whispering growing louder but still vague. “Not now, not right now.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, visualizing the yard around her.
“Grass. Sky. Sun. Wind,” she whispered, breathing slowly, and the voices faded.
She patted her pockets for her phone, and, finding nothing, went back inside, closing the back door behind her. She wanted to shut the voices out. Since the storm, the voices had taken on a new tone, with the hint of something strange that Leila couldn’t quite figure out. Urgency, maybe? She hurried back into the living room, dipping in and out of the narrow hallways of the century-old rowhome, and dug around in her tattered messenger bag for her cell phone. Jon and Liz were out, collecting supplies for the yard and paint to touch up the house. She turned the phone’s screen on, her hands shaking, and despite how her heart was racing in her chest, smiled to see a bunch of notifications waiting for her. Some alerts on the message board, the usual social media silliness, and most notably, a bunch of texts from Sarika.
What are you doing?
Why aren’t you with me drinking coffee right now?!
GIRL WHERE ARE YOU?
Leila smiled. Sarika was precisely the person she had planned to reach out to. Not that there was anyone else she’d talk to about it. With trembling hands, Leila responded:
Having a moment. Can you come over? Like now?
Please. Dropping everything.
Leila’s finger hovered over the “depression” hashtag on Tumblr for a few second before she clicked it. A warning immediately appeared, filling her tablet’s screen with a dark-blue background and bright-white text.
Everything Okay?
If you or someone you know are experiencing some kind of crisis, there are people who care about you and are here to help. Consider chatting with a volunteer trained in crisis intervention or an anonymous listener at the following link.
It might also help to fill your blog with inspirational and supportive posts from—
She clicked “continue” to view the search results, pushing by the warning and the large “Go Back” button. She appreciated the friendly nudge, one that she’d given to other people in her group home countless times. She could be a person who listened, or refer them to someone else who could. As for Leila, she kept her secret with Sarika, the voices and the whispers and the soft laughter that edged its way into the corners of her mind. But here, on the Internet, she could look for others dealing with the same thing she was, see what they wrote, and sometimes, feel a little less alone.
A soft knock on the door shook Leila out of her mindless, hashtag-browsing trance. Nearly half an hour had gone by without her noticing. She leapt off the couch, and had barely turned the knob on the front door when it burst open and Sarika stormed in, a ball of concerned, worried energy.
“Leila!” Sarika exclaimed, running into her, giving her an enormous hug. “What’s going on? How bad is it?” Sarika let go and stepped away from Leila, her big, brown eyes full and focused on her.
Leila smiled. There was a time when Sarika had been quiet and sheltered, arriving in the group home when she and Leila were a year short of being teenagers. Her hair had been matted, and those wide eyes of hers dark and sunken. She had looked as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks, and shied away from everyone like a scared mouse until Leila had shared those books.
She grabbed Leila’s hand.
“What’s the deal?”
“Outside,” Leila said, shaking her head as Sarika squeezed her hand. “I was going to go plant Major Willow.” She nodded at the sapling, and Sarika followed her gaze, looking back at her with a smile. “That’s a good name and you know it.”
“Yeah, I do. Go on.”
“It’s just the usual voices, but . . .” Leila said, drifting off as though everything was just knocked out of her. Her shoulders sunk and she wanted to disappear into the folds in the couch. “This time, though,” she squinted, thinking. “I heard a laugh, I think? And the whispers, they were . . . Sarika, I swear I almost understood them. I don’t know. Something about woods? A house, maybe? It’s like, in the back of my head somewhere, and I just can’t pluck it out.”
“Did you tell Jon or Liz yet?” Sarika asked, a warning in her voice.
“No,” Leila said, sternly. “Hell no, of course not. Not when everything is
going so well. I like it here. What if they send me back or something? Can they do that? Now that, you know, all this is a thing?” She motioned at herself and the house, and found herself struggling over saying the word adopted, just as difficult to push out of her mouth as words like mom and dad. “And this time, the thing is, I think . . . I think it wants me to follow it. The voices.”
“Leila—” Sarika started, that warning tone returning.
“No, really, it’s not like back at the group home or the other times in the coffee shop,” Leila said, taking a deep breath. Back then, the voices were soft, distant, but still strangely welcoming. A curiosity, almost. Sometimes she welcomed the company, standing outside, listening to the muttering as she let the sun wash over her. Other times, she found herself holed up in the closet with Sarika, shaking, wanting them to go away, muttering words that she thought might keep her grounded, keep her safe. The voices came and went with the seasons, it seemed. They faded and disappeared with the winter, and rampaged back loudly in the spring.
“I mean, I’m not going to. Follow them.” Leila stressed. “I’m not. But it feels, it felt . . . real this time.”
“Listen,” Sarika said, squeezing her hand even tighter. “You’ve pulled through it before. You’ll get through it again. We’ll just keep it between us, okay? Always.”
“Yeah, always,” Leila said, squeezing her hand back.
Although she wasn’t so sure about that anymore. These new labels, the whole mom and dad thing, it made things feel different. Complicated.
But Jon and Liz didn’t seem like the types to drop her because something was wrong. It had nagged at Leila, ever since that day with the willow tree, the day of the hurricane. She’d cried the whole way to the hospital, and not because of the gash in her hand. If she could tell anyone about the voices, she would tell them. There was medicine for all this, wasn’t there? They had money, at least it seemed like they did. They could make it all go away. They wouldn’t send her back like others had, when they caught her sitting up in her bed, trying to speak to whoever was on the other line of those whispers, half-awake, half-asleep.
