“This,” I say, waving my hand at the gate. “This is an arboretum.”
It’s like he’s asked us if we’ve ever seen an amusement park while we’re standing across from an amusement park. But I know he means well, so I work to keep my tone as even as possible.
“Yes,” Bill says with a chuckle. I notice that he’s cut his face shaving. There are a few large dots of dried blood near his new sideburns. Poor guy.
“But do you know why we have arboretums?”
Bill really wants to give me some answers here.
“No, Bill,” I say. “Why do we have arboretums?”
“It’s not just any old trees,” he says. “Most arboretums are for study—so scientists can watch them. I looked up the Arnold Arboretum this morning, and it’s run by Harvard.”
Bill says Harvard like it’s the most impressive word he’s ever uttered.
“There are thousands of plants and trees here, and many of them are native to other countries,” he says. “It’s like a museum of trees—you don’t have to travel, because it’s all right here. More than two hundred acres of flora from all over the world!”
Bill has made the arboretum sound majestic, but I can’t ignore that there’s a car being parallel parked behind ours, and that the kid in the back seat is licking the window.
“That’s really cool,” I tell him, and I suppose it is. I like the idea of a tree museum. This is one of those moments when I appreciate Bill’s kindness and simplicity. He did not tell me about the arboretum to lecture me or prove that he’s wise. He just wanted to share a cool thing. Most of mom’s boyfriends have pretended that they know everything, or they’ve ignored me, but Bill wants to communicate. I can’t imagine he’ll be around forever, but I have to admit he’s the best she’s found so far.
Mom pops open the trunk of the car, and when she walks around back and lifts the lid, I hold my breath. I think we all do. When she slams it shut, we all look and see that she’s holding a shopping bag from Chico’s, a store in the mall where they sell big, shapeless dresses that make up most of my mom’s wardrobe. I’m sure Chico’s sells other stuff too, but whenever I pass the one in the Natick Mall and see a mannequin wearing a massive burlap sack with a belt around it, I think of my mother. She loves a formless garment.
“Where are the craisins?” Seth asks her, and then we lock eyes and grin.
“In here,” Mom says, lifting the Chico’s bag and giving it a shake.
We’re all stunned. Even Bill looks appalled.
“You put Grandma in a Chico’s bag?” I ask, and let out a sharp laugh. Chris drops his water bottle, which is probably his brother’s because it has tiny Miles Moraleses on it, and scrambles to pick it up. My mom doesn’t seem to understand why this is off-putting.
“The craisins are still in their own box,” she says in a loud whisper. “We can’t walk around an arboretum with a bag that says Walsh’s Funeral Home on it, can we? I had this stray Chico’s bag in the trunk. I figured it would make the process a little more inconspicuous.”
“But Chico’s—” I say. “Who wants to be caught dead in a Chico’s bag?”
“Lori!” my mom says, and this is where our senses of humor diverge. She does not like to joke about things like death—but I can see that Bill is laughing. Chris has turned his entire body away from us, pretending to look at a tree, so I know he’s losing it, too.
“The bag has sturdy handles, which is something we need right now,” she says. “Apart from that,” she snaps, “there is nothing wrong with Chico’s. Half of my closet is Chico’s.”
“Well, we know that’s true, Becca,” Seth says.
“Sick burn,” I say, and we high-five.
My mom storms ahead of us, down the path, into the thick of this tree museum.
“I guess we should be nice,” Seth groans, and we follow.
* * *
As we walk up the paved path through what’s labeled the Bussey Gate, I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of this place. The wildness of it all. Every tree is different from the next, and the farther in we get, the more the arboretum feels never-ending. I smell pine and grass. It’s a clear day. I’m going to get a sunburn, but it feels good. It’s a dry heat.
We’ve come from the suburbs to the city, but the air smells cleaner here.
“How will you guys pick a location?” Chris asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess we just go with something that looks pretty, but permanent. I don’t want her to, like, get blown away by a lawn mower or anything.”
“Yikes, I hadn’t thought of that,” Chris says.
“Why have we never come here together?” I ask Chris. “This is a good fantasy setting—if you removed all the people. It’d be good for stories. Witches could live here.”
“I don’t know,” he says, and when I look at him, his eyes are on the tallest trees. “I can see why Sheryl picked it, though.”
We wander off the paved path, weaving in and out of this mismatching forest, and we all start slowing down to stop and look at the signs in front of each tree to learn their names. There are so many trees with fancy names.
“That’s so perfect,” Chris says, pointing to a narrow creek that runs next to the path. “Lor, look,” he says, pointing to a small wooden bridge that takes you over the water to more open space and growing things. He walks over, and I follow. I sense the rest of the family behind us.
We wander until we stop under the shade of a circle of trees. It’s peaceful here.
“Oh, this is beautiful, honey,” my mom says. “What a great spot.”
She is walking up to us, smiling, looking determined, and it’s clear she believes that after ten minutes of wandering around a three-hundred-acre arboretum, we’re going to put Grandma Sheryl under the first mildly attractive tree.
“We’re not stopping here,” I say. “This isn’t the right place. These trees are too basic.”
“But it’s so lovely,” she says, motioning to, yes, what is probably the most scenic landscape I’ve ever seen. “These are beautiful trees.”
“There are a zillion gorgeous spots in this arboretum, and we’re not stopping at the first one just because you’re ready to drive home with Bill.”
“Lori,” she says sharply. “I’m not trying to rush this. I’m only saying you’ve found a very lovely, private-looking spot. I don’t see why we wouldn’t take advantage of it.”
“Lori’s not wrong, Becca,” Seth tells her. “This place is huge. Can you give us a chance to walk a little bit? I’d like to see if other parts of the arboretum call to us. This isn’t the time for efficiency.”
Chris takes two steps away from the family and pretends to be focused on a tag identifying another tree. I know how much he hates conflict, how listening to all this ugliness probably makes him want to disappear into whatever shrubbery he can find.
“I’m not trying to be efficient,” Mom says. “It just happens that this is an incredibly gorgeous spot. We’re not far from that babbling brook!”
She points in the direction of the bridge we took.
“That was just water. A stream,” Seth says. “I don’t think it qualifies as babbling.”
“Oh, I can hear some babbling,” Mom says to her brother, and Bill looks at her as if she’s grown fangs or something. My mom is usually so self-helpish, so touchy-feely, but Seth brings out the sibling in her.
“Let’s just keep walking,” I say. “Seth and I will know the right spot when we see it.”
I pass them and set out farther into the wooded area, snaking through patches of grass under sagging branches. I can hear my mom, Seth, Bill, and Chris following behind, which makes me feel like the Pied Piper of death.
I stop abruptly because I can sense her shadow. “Jesus, Mom, I almost feel your feet on the back of my heels. It’s like you’re chasing me,” I say.
She looks like I’ve struck her. “You are not the only person who is grieving, Lori,” she snaps. “It’s not just you and S
eth here.”
But it is, I think.
The thing Seth and I keep thinking but not saying is that he was much closer to Grandma than my mom was. I was much closer to Grandma Sheryl even before I moved in with her. Seth and Grandma could talk for hours on the phone about books and whatever else they were interested in. Seth asked about her life, whereas my mom always “checked in.” Their conversations and visits were a series of obligatory questions about money, health, the usual. It does feel as if Seth and I have more invested in where Grandma will be put to rest.
“Fine. Just forget it,” I say. I’m frustrated that she doesn’t seem to understand this, and I’m about to march away from her when I hear someone mutter, “Excuse me.”
Mom and I freeze—and then look down. There is a very old man on the ground, only inches from our feet, and he appears to have been sitting there for a while. There is a bottle of water on a tray in front of him.
I think he might be a hundred and fifty years old, and he’s wearing tan cargo shorts with many pockets and a dark green T-shirt that says ENERGY.
His nose is sunburned, and it makes me think of what a wizard would look like if he fell asleep on the beach. His white hair goes down to his waist, and the branches of the tree he’s leaning against are peppered with white petals, so he’s basically in camouflage, which is probably why we didn’t notice him. He’s wearing glasses that look like goggles. There are twigs stuck to the sleeve of his shirt and a pack of sunflower seeds tucked into his sock.
“Well, hello there,” my mother says, and her voice, now light and airy, suggests that she thinks she has found a magical gnome. She bends over to continue. “I’m so sorry we didn’t see you there.”
The man, who I am very much hoping is a certifiable spell-caster, does not return my mother’s smile, and that makes me like him.
“I understand we’re in a public space,” he says, his voice reminding me of the texture of granola, “and that there are no specific rules about conversation in the arboretum, but we’re in the middle of a forest bathing activity, and we’re hoping you can respect the quiet, at least in this immediate area.”
“Forest bathing,” I say, testing the words.
Seth, who has Chris and Bill behind him, asks before I can.
“What’s forest bathing?”
“Oh, hey there! Watch your step, everybody,” Bill says, and then we look at our feet and realize that this Gandalf-esque man by the tree is not alone.
To my left there’s a young man leaning against another tree, a backpack in his lap. The bark looks rough, but he seems comfortable, not quite asleep, but resting.
A few feet from him, two women are on their backs, side by side in the grass. They’re holding hands. One is humming.
Now that we’re looking around, we can see that there are probably twenty people here, draped all over the landscape as if they live here.
“What is this?” Seth whispers to me. “Is it a cult?”
He moves his head in the direction of the backpack guy, who, actually, seems like he might be sleeping, to make sure I’ve noticed. “Is he dead?” Seth whispers.
“He’s taking a forest shower,” I whisper back. It’s the only explanation we’ve been given.
Hearing me, the Gandalf man says, “Forest bathing. It’s the Japanese practice of shinrin-yoku.”
He stands up and motions for us to walk with him so we’re a few feet away from where the others are lounging.
“I’m Kel. I’m a part-time forest therapy guide, and I’m guiding today’s forest bathing exercise. You’re welcome to join the group, but if not, I ask that you try to be respectful of the others who are working in partnership with the forest.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. Kel clearly cares about whatever this spiritual practice is, and my family has basically stepped on all of it.
I want to make it right.
“My grandma just died, and we’re here honoring her today—in partnership with the land too, I guess—and it’s really hot out and we probably are tired and cranky, but we will absolutely stop yelling at each other and get out of your way,” I say, probably in one breath.
Kel’s face softens, and then he looks at the Chico’s bag in my mother’s hands. He’s probably judging it, too. Kel is pretty stylish for his age.
“I would be happy to have you join us in forest bathing in honor of your grandmother.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think we—”
“Yes!” my mom says, because forest bathing is exactly the kind of thing she’d be into. “I’d love to learn more.”
I’m about to protest, but Seth leans into my ear. “Always say yes to seemingly weird activities. It’s good material.”
And with that, I am no longer annoyed. Let Mom lead us into some mindless mindfulness activity. Seth has now made it a writing project.
Maybe Chris and I can write something about a man who talks to trees.
“Take a seat wherever you can find space,” Kel says.
We all plop down in the same general area, trying to spread out. Chris is on his back, many feet away, not nearly as close as I’d like.
“Everyone lie back,” Kel says, so I do.
“We’re going to do some exercises to keep us present in this space,” Kel tells the entire group.
He asks us to notice what it feels like to breathe. Sometimes he “invites us” to open our eyes and focus on one point. Other times he tells us to keep our eyes closed so we can listen to the sounds of the arboretum. I hear some planes overhead, but mostly it’s just the breeze rustling the leaves and the rhythm of my own breathing. I do feel more relaxed. There probably is something to this.
But then Kel invites us to communicate with one of the trees, to see if we can get support from a tree, and I squirm a little.
I want to make fun of this exercise. I want to sit up and look at Chris to see if he feels the same.
But when I take a second and force myself to try, I find myself imagining communication with the trees overhead. I picture myself admitting to these trees—all the green, willowing giants surrounding me right now—that I never did come to see them with Grandma. She asked me to do so many things with her, and I guess I did a lot of them. I went with her to the symphony, even though classical music isn’t my thing. I went grocery shopping with her every week and carried all the bags from the car. I watched so much television with her, so many British mystery shows, because I knew she needed someone to talk to about who might be the murderer.
I let her tell me everything about her reading, about the books that shaped her life. She was an English teacher—the world’s best, from what I know. She taught one town over, at the high school, for most of her life. I grew up knowing the big family story about how she challenged the school district about reading requirements for students, why there were so many mandatory reading list books by white men rather than women—specifically women of color. It was a whole thing, and there’s a Boston Globe newspaper article about it framed on her wall.
Grandma Sheryl could read anything for pleasure, she used to say, but she did have favorite authors who she imagined might be friends if she had met them in real life. Her favorite was Dorothy Parker, who she said became an imaginary best friend after Grandpa died. She was living in Natick with two young twins, long before the internet, she told me once. She taught all day, leaving the kids with her own mother until they were old enough for school, and then, as the world got more expensive and her house became more difficult to afford, she began tutoring after hours. She prepared students for standardized tests and AP exams and used the extra money to keep the family afloat. She didn’t have time for friends, but late at night, she could read.
That’s when she’d hang out with Dorothy and Edith Wharton and Zora Neale Hurston and Tillie Olsen. I’ve tried to read them, the ones she said were her BFFs, and I’ve desperately tried to like their work, but it’s all too real.
“There is an astounding absence of dragons and time tra
vel in this book,” I’d told her during my only attempt at reading The Age of Innocence. “I’m not this kind of reader. Unless these characters are stuck in a time loop or something.”
“There’s no shame in your favorites,” she told me. She was never a snob about reading preferences. “Go back to your fairies.”
For her, reading was company. It felt like hanging out.
I wish I’d known more about this, though—this arboretum, why she liked these things that grow. She got something important from all the plants in the house, but I never asked about it.
I feel someone lie down next to me and wonder if it’s Chris moving closer, but when I open my eyes, I see Kel, and he is smiling at me. He’s also like three inches from my face and smells like dried fruit.
“Did you know,” he says quietly, “that trees release chemicals when they feel they are in danger?”
I don’t say anything. I stay silent and let him be weird. This is excellent material.
“It’s been scientifically proven,” he continues. “They release volatile organic compounds.”
“Oh,” I say, because I don’t know how else to respond.
And then I get it. He wants to tell me something about me—about my family. He wants to liken me to a tree because I yelled at my mom. Because when we stumbled upon Kel, we were releasing some volatility ourselves.
“Sometimes we have to release our negative energy when we’re scared and upset,” he continues, hammering home the metaphor, and I do my best to nod, my head lolling toward him on the ground. “It can feel good to let out the toxins and breathe in something pure.
“Forest bathing isn’t just meditation or rest or communing with nature. It’s proven to be good for your health. They’ve done tests on people before and after this kind of exercise, and over time, after those people were finished forest bathing, their immune function was stronger. I believe that when we commune with the trees, they give us this gift. Inhaling their phytoncides—what the trees release to protect themselves—can be good for our own bodies.”
Things That Grow Page 7
