The Magic of Melwick Orchard

by Rebecca Caprara

  To revive a dormant or under-producing tree, follow these steps:

  Aerate soil.

  Water roots.

  Prune branches.

  Nourish and protect.

  “Okay, we’ll start at the beginning. Aeration. I can’t strap one of those hospital breathing machines to you, but I think this will do the trick.” I reached into the rusty wheelbarrow and removed a rake. I consulted the book again. A small note at the bottom of the page said:

  Aeration can be a laborious process. Allowing chickens to feed around the base of your trees can expedite this work. Their claws and beaks do an excellent job loosening topsoil, saving you time and energy.

  I shivered. “Don’t worry. I would never let Mrs. Tolson’s flock near you. I’ll do this job myself.” I gripped the rake and began scratching the hard-packed earth, pulling up little clods of dirt and clumps of weeds and grass. I leveled out the pockmarks my frantic digging had caused when I’d tried to recover the watch.

  When I finished aerating the soil, the ground was smooth and loose. I wiped sweat from my brow and leaned against the tree. Its warm bark cooled to a refreshing temperature. A breeze wound through the boughs. The apple trees along the edge of the clearing stirred, their own branches perking up.

  “You must be thirsty,” I said. “Time for step two.” I hauled two sloshing buckets from the wheelbarrow. I poured the fresh water in a spiral pattern around the tree, watching as the earth soaked up every drop. When I was done, the tree’s leaves seemed plumper.

  “Okay, step three. Time to cut.” My stomach turned. My foot tapped. I wasn’t feeling particularly confident about this part. I lifted a pair of loppers from the wheelbarrow. I propped up a metal ladder and inspected the tree’s structure, visually marking a cut plan. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I think we need to do this.” I knelt down and studied the book once more, just to be sure.

  Ample pruning is necessary for sunlight to reach a tree’s inner leaves. Removing limbs also helps focus a tree’s energy on fruit production. Do not be afraid to prune aggressively. Your orchard will thank you.

  I eyed the branches and took a deep breath. “Here it goes. I’ll be quick. Lickety-split. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

  I opened the loppers and clamped down. I cringed as I felt the sharp metal bite through the branch. Instead of making a snapping or cracking sound like regular wood, this branch sang out. Not a cry or a screech, but a single, clear note: Do!

  I clipped another branch. Re! And another. Mi! Each limb sang, then fell noiselessly to the ground, as if even the thickest limb weighed no more than a feather. Moments after they struck the damp earth, they dissolved, just like the shoefruits and bells had before. Everywhere a branch landed, the soil flushed green as blades of fresh grass sprouted up.

  Faaaa! Sol!

  I continued to prune.

  Laaaa! Ti! Do!

  Soon a lush carpet of grass covered the ground and the canopy was open and bright. Streams of sunshine poured over the translucent leaves, dappling the ground with rainbows.

  The book said the prune wounds may need some extra attention to prevent infection or decay. Miraculously, the tree appeared to be providing its own bandages. At the site of each cut, a milky substance oozed out. It was shimmery and sticky to the touch. Using the softest part of my fingertips, I smoothed the sap across the surface of a large cut. When I finished, a scab of silver bark hardened. I worked my way from cut to cut, tenderly dressing each wound like a pajama-clad nurse in Junie’s hospital.

  The final step called for nourishment and protection. I didn’t have any fancy fertilizers, and I was pretty sure trees didn’t eat jam sandwiches, so I tried a different approach. I wrapped my arms around the massive trunk, in as much of a squg as I could manage. I whispered encouraging words. The kinds of things my own heart ached to hear.

  I reached up and held a branch in my hand. I squeezed.

  One. Two. Three. I. Love. You.

  I let go. The leaves fluttered gratefully.

  The book’s advice seemed to be working. The entire tree looked healthier. Surprisingly, a single acorn-shaped bud began to sprout on one of the lower branches. It started off green, then slowly darkened to a deep indigo blue. I hadn’t planted anything since the watch, and I’d given up on the idea of the jewelry harvest. But maybe there was still hope. The bud pulsed and faded, glowing pale yellow, bright orange, and eventually iridescent blue again. I reached upward, but the tree lifted its branches, pulling the new bud out of my reach. Telling me to be patient.

  “Message received,” I said.

  Junie’s wishing pin was still nestled in my pocket. I rubbed my thumb across the pin’s crooked wings. I pressed my other hand to my chest, trying to figure out the wish inside.

  Chapter 32

  The next morning, I slipped out of the house at dawn. The tree had continued to improve overnight. The bark was returning to that watercolor mix of marbled greens and grays. The blue veins in the leaves shined. The single bud was still small and tight, not yet ripe. I checked each prune wound. I poured a bucket of water at the base of the trunk and gave all the branches I could reach gentle squeezes in sets of three. Eventually, my watch beeped. I needed to get back home.

  Dad was waiting by the station wagon, ready to return to the hospital. He and Mom had switched off last night, making sure Junie was never alone.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. Nerves and lack of sleep made him grumpier than usual.

  “Just getting some fresh air.”

  “The bus should be here soon.”

  “I know. I’m pretty good at keeping track of time, remember?”

  He looked at his wrist, but of course his watch wasn’t there.

  “Could I skip school today and come with you?” I asked. “Just this once?”

  “You’ll see Junie this evening,” he assured me. “In the meantime, it’s best if you—”

  “Maintain my routine, right?” I kicked the ground, scuffing my sneakers and sending a miniature avalanche of gravel skittering down the driveway.

  “Exactly.” Dad stared at me. “Besides, don’t you have softball practice? I bet Junie would want her star-pitcher sister to stay in peak form.” He reached out and gave my left arm a gentle bump. “Big game on Friday, right?”

  I lifted my chin. He hadn’t forgotten. I felt happy, but also uneasy. I had a good shot at making the starting lineup, but it wasn’t guaranteed yet. I really didn’t want to let him down.

  ***

  The rest of the day I felt numb one minute, then overwhelmed—or overwilmed—the next. It was like a roller coaster ride, but not a fun one. I was so tired of the constant ups and downs. I just wanted to get off and walk on flat, solid ground for a while.

  “How’s your project coming?” Ms. Perdilla asked Kira and me after class.

  Even though the question had been directed to both of us, Kira seemed to understand that I needed a little time alone with our teacher. She nodded and said she’d save me a seat at lunch while I hung back to talk to Ms. Perdilla.

  “We might need an extension,” I replied, not wanting to describe all the reasons I was feeling one hundred percent crumbuckets.

  “Of course. Don’t worry. We’ll arrange something. You’ve been occupied with other issues lately. How is Junie?”

  “Better, but still in unfittian mode.”

  “I see. That must be difficult.” I was relieved when Ms. Perdilla changed the subject. “How’s that orchard book working out?” she asked.

  “Pretty handy, actually,” I said, which was a total understatement. The book had literally helped me bring the seedling back to life.

  “I’m so pleased to hear that.” I was about to leave when Ms. Perdilla said, “You know, Isabel, you’ve inspired me.”

  “I’ve inspired you?” I wheeled around. “How?”

  “In many ways.” She smiled. “Each and every student inspires me. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, ‘The creation of a thousand f
orests is in one acorn.’ I think of you and your classmates like that.”

  “Like acorns?” I scratched my head. The idea felt almost too immense to fit inside.

  She laughed softly. “An acorn represents tremendous potential. It is quite literally a seed of possibility. So are you.” Her words were warm as sunshine. “Speaking of seeds,” she continued, “did you know that a two-thousand-year-old seed from a date palm was recently discovered during an archeological dig in Israel?”

  “I didn’t know that. But it sounds cool.”

  “I agree. What’s even cooler is that some scientists decided to plant it. To their shock and delight, it sprouted! That single seed revived a species otherwise believed to be extinct. Isn’t that astonishing?”

  I nodded. The prisms hanging from the classroom windows cast flecks of colored light across the tiled floor, just like my tree’s crystal leaves. “Where did you learn about that date palm?” I asked.

  “After I found the orchard book for you, I went back to the library.” She gestured to a stack of books and magazines on her desk. “Trees are fascinating. We depend on them for the very air we breathe. Not to mention food and shelter and warmth.” She flipped through the crinkly pages of a book with a faded brown cover. “Even this paper was made from wood pulp.”

  She picked up a glossy science magazine. “Some of the oldest living organisms on earth are trees.” She seemed to crave information the way my parents craved caffeine. Cracking open those word-filled pages gave her a jolt. “There’s a single bristlecone pine tree in California that’s over five-thousand years old. And scientists believe a group of quaking aspen trees in Utah could be close to eighty-thousand years old.”

  “Whoa.” Even my time-counting brain could barely compute a number that high.

  Ms. Perdilla grinned. “Whoa, indeed!” She held up another book. “This one explains how trees experience pain, help each other, and converse.”

  “Are you telling me there’s a scientific explanation for a talking tree?” I could barely get the words out.

  “Oh, yes! Trees don’t speak with words, obviously. But they certainly communicate with each other.”

  “How?”

  “By intertwining their roots, releasing chemicals from their leaves, and growing fungal networks underground.” Ms. Perdilla showed me a photograph of massive acacia trees in Africa. “See these? If a giraffe starts eating the leaves of an acacia, the tree will emit a warning scent. In response, neighboring trees will produce a substance that makes their leaves taste unpleasant, forcing the hungry giraffe to find food elsewhere.”

  “So you’re saying some trees protect each other?”

  “Precisely.” She added, “Did you know that other trees have incredible healing properties?”

  I knew my tree calmed me. It distracted and entertained me. It reminded me to smile and laugh and dream and hope. It lifted me up, sometimes quite literally right off the ground.

  “There’s even a compound found in the ancient yew tree that’s used to make cancer medicine,” Ms. Perdilla said delicately.

  The word cancer sort of took the wind out of my sails. But curiosity filled me back up again. “Do you have to cut the tree down to make the medicine?” I asked.

  “Initially researchers stripped the trees of their bark, which, sadly, did end up killing them. Later they discovered they could make the drug using the tree’s needles instead, which caused less harm.”

  I fidgeted, thinking. “I wonder if there are any yews on my property.”

  Ms. Perdilla grimaced. “Hmm, I hope not.”

  “Why? You just explained how wonderful they are.”

  “When used properly, yes, but they are also extremely poisonous. The leaves and berries are lethal if eaten.”

  “Yikes! And . . . yuck.”

  Ms. Perdilla straightened up. “The yew is an example of a life-saving plant, but one that must be handled with care. Does that make sense?”

  “Mmhmm.” I gave a knowing sigh. Without reading any of the books on her table, I had learned that very important lesson all on my own.

  The lunch bell rang. “Can I take a few of these with me?” I asked, pointing at the stack of books. An idea was blossoming.

  “Certainly!” She smiled broadly, as if I’d just made her day. When, in fact, she’d actually made mine.

  Chapter 33

  The sky was bright and cheery during softball practice. Coach Naron dodged my question about the starting lineup, but that was probably because she still needed to work out the other field positions and batting order. I was feeling confident. I’d been hustling, and I’d thrown strike after strike during our scrimmage.

  Earlier that afternoon, legions of dandelions had begun releasing their fluffy seeds into the air. I knew there was probably a scientific explanation for what was going on, but the little white puffs looked surreal, floating across the playing fields like springtime snowflakes.

  Yellow pollen dusted the sidewalks, making Kira sneeze nonstop. “Something weird is happening in Bridgebury,” she snuffled. “My allergies have never been this bad before.” She pulled a package of tissues from her pocket and dabbed her nose. “It’s a little out of control. And I’ve never seen so many bugs.”

  It was true. An unusual number of bees and butterflies buzzed and flitted through the air. Even the birds in the orchard seemed to be chirping louder than normal lately, like they could sense change coming. I wondered what the apple trees and chance seedling might be saying to each other in that silent language of trees Ms. Perdilla had described.

  As I walked to the parking lot with Kira, the books in my backpack felt as heavy as bricks, but my heart felt lighter than it had in days.

  ***

  Mom was wearing her bathrobe when I came home, but at least she was downstairs. I was relieved to find her cleaning. When Junie was around, we kept the house as spic-and-span as possible. But in the last few days, it had become a total mess. Now, hampers of unfolded laundry sat on the couch. Vases and frames had been taken off the mantel, probably for a much-needed dusting. I hoped this was a sign that my sister would be returning home soon. If that was the case, I’d even volunteer to scrub the toilets.

  “So? Would you like to tell us what you’ve been up to, young lady?” Mom said, pursing her lips.

  “Uh, school and softball. Maintaining the old routine. That’s my job. Remember?”

  “That’s not what she means.” Dad stepped into the living room. He was wearing a suit and tie, which meant he had probably been interviewing for a new job. I sensed trouble in his tone. I began tallying up the secrets and truth-stretchings of the past few weeks. Where to begin?

  Mom lifted a crumpled piece of paper from the laundry pile. “What is this?” she asked.

  I took it from her and smoothed it across my palm. It had been through the wash and the ink was smudged, but still legible.

  A bus ticket. If only I had stuffed it into one of my holey pockets!

  “Garbage?” I offered, trying to play dumb.

  “I might have believed you, Isabel, if I hadn’t found this one too.” She held up another crumpled bus ticket. Heck. Sometimes the smallest things get you in the biggest trouble.

  “Would you like to explain what this is all about?”

  “No,” I said truthfully.

  “Where have you been going?” Dad asked.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Mom’s face was pinched. “We already have one child to worry about. The last thing we need is another.”

  Translation: Go back to being invisible.

  Her words dredged up all the hurt and anger that had been building inside me for months. I felt like I’d been injected with a dose of Junie’s feisty juice. “Right,” I sneered, refusing to be quiet anymore. “Better to forget I’m here at all! Just like the trees in our orchard, huh?” If I couldn’t escape, I might as well fight. “Where did I go? I’ll tell you. I went to the hospital to see Junie. I took the bus by myself
because neither of you would take me. Is that really so bad? I went because I love her. And I wanted her to know that.” I was done being invisible. I planted my hands on my hips. “Because when you love someone, you show up! When someone needs you, you show up!”

  The floorboards didn’t creak, the curtains were still. Only a pot of soup on the stove in the kitchen dared make a sound, burbling away obliviously.

  “Is this about your softball game? Because I promised you we’d be there, and we will,” Dad said.

  “We’re doing our best.” Mom looked out the window, unable to meet my eyes. “Don’t punish us, Isabel.”

  “Punish you? What about me?”

  “We just wish you’d been truthful with us.”

  “Truthful? Have you and Dad been truthful? Junie might be getting better, but I can see the bills on the counter and the looks on your faces. You pretend like everything’s okay.”

  “Isabel.” Mom came to my side. “We didn’t say anything because we didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Too late for that.”

  Dad paced back and forth, then came to a stop. “While we’re being forthright, your mother and I have something to tell you.” He loosened the tie around his neck. “We found a way to pay for Junie’s hospital bills.”

  I inhaled a sharp breath. “You did?” I glanced cautiously around the room. I noticed several cardboard boxes stacked around the living room.

  Mom wasn’t cleaning. She was packing. Which meant we were moving.

  “No.” Two little letters. Small but big. “No!” I cried so loudly the windowpanes shook. The room spun. From molasses slow to warp speed.

  “We have to sell the house. Without the health insurance from Dad’s company, we have no other choice.” Mom shook her head. “It’s a tricky sort of property, but Helen Ritter helped us arrange a special sale through the bank. We’re closing in a few days.”