The first month, by myself, working under and around the weeping willow, the gardener meets me. Like he is waiting for me there each day. Little by little, he pours hope into the crevices of my broken lips. And heart. And little by little, for the first time in my life, my dreams change.
The majority of my off-road daydreaming while weeding and grafting leads me to Lagan. Recklessly, I veer toward an imaginary future of wedding bells, kisses, and babies. Of pretty lips, flowing gowns, and flowers in my hair. Of dancing toe-to-toe, sailing oceans, and watching sunsets.
Laboring under a blue canopy unleashes a momentum I cannot contain, because no one can hear my thoughts in the garden. And Dad hasn’t shown up since the first week, when he arrived unannounced every other day just to “check in.” The dirt under my fingernails and tan on my shoulders seems assurance enough that I clearly work during my shifts. He isn’t a fan of dirt of any sort. The simple fact that flowers grow in dirt deters his return. Making me love the dirt all the more.
A month into the job, and I am in love with mud. Springtime in Chicago blooms all around me, the broken willow blossoms soft tiny yellow petals, and the scent of lilacs fills the air. But it’s the earth that beckons me. During each of my twenty-minute breaks, I sit on the floor under the willow, burying my fingers into the ground. The aroma of the moist black soil caffeinates my senses. My gardening boots and socks set nearby, I spread the dirt over my legs, working my way up from my toes to my ankles to my knees. And as I massage the dark grains into my skin, I’m back on the beach at Benton Harbor. The dirt transforms into sand. Lost in my world of sand castles and seashell hunting, I don’t hear the approaching footsteps.
“Starting an earth therapy clinic?” Lagan’s voice startles me.
I shake off the dirt quickly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“How long have you been standing there watching me?”?” I ask while frantically putting my socks and shoes on. “
“Oh...” Lagan looks up to his right. “Like ten minutes.”
My jaw drops.
“Kidding. More like thirty seconds. But I have to admit, I’ve never seen you so...so...”
“Chillax?” I rescue his search for the perfect word.
“Yes.” Lagan approves of my choice.
“What are you doing here? How did you know I worked today?”
“I missed you.” Lagan makes a goofy, pouting face.
“I just saw you yesterday in school.”
“Exactly.” He points his index finger upward and continues. “Twelve hours away from you feel like two hundred. So I took a chance and biked over here, hoping that you might be working today. If wrong, I’d have a long bike ride back to work off my disappointment. Instead, I have a picture of you, more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you, to think about as I pedal back.”
My giggle turns to laughter as I rise and slap my hands together to shake off the excess dirt. “Did you say beautiful?” I can’t stop laughing. “Are we on the same planet?”
“You have laughed more in these few minutes than the entire time I’ve known you.”
I shake my head, impossible, but even as I look down at my legs covered with dark brown specks, I know he’s right. I realize he doesn’t know. I haven’t told him.
“Are you jealous?” I tease.
“Only if some guy is the reason for the smile on your face.” Lagan speaks steadily without smiling.
“Not exactly.”
Lagan’s eyebrows raise and he backs up to lean against a thick branch that has rooted into the ground.
Taking a deep breath, he snorts a nervous chuckle. “Okay. What’s his name?”
I debate prolonging the torture. Never seen Lagan squirm before. Satisfied, I erase any doubt in his mind with two words.
“The gardener.”
“What about the gardener?” Lagan’s wrinkled forehead smoothes out.
“He’s the reason I’m smiling.” I put it simply.
Lagan’s grin reaches for his ears, and then turns to a playful frown. “So, I guess you don’t need me anymore?”
How do I answer that? Isn’t it obvious that...“I like you.” I surprise myself when I speak these three little words.
He’s speechless. Dimple in full effect, he moves closer to me and makes a funny request. “Can you say that again?”
“Seriously?” You’re lucky I said it once.
“Please. This time I’ll empty my mind so I can hear every sound, syllable, and word pronounced. I just want to hear it one more time, so I can remember how you say it. And to know for sure that you did say it. Come on! Cut this guy a break and grant him one tiny wish.”
His face inches closer to mine, only his clasped hands in a childish begging gesture linger between us. I can feel his breath on my face. Sweet peppermint intoxication.
I take a deep breath. Another. Then another. I turn to look through the branches to the green expanse between the main gardens and us. No one. Nothing but manicured emerald blades sparkling in the sun. I turn back. Lagan’s eyes are waiting.
“I. Like. You.” I blink. And then look down at my boots.
“So....” Lagan tries to cash in while the jackpot cha-chings with unusual generosity. “You’ll come to my graduation party?”
My heart sinks. I fall backward to plop down on a nearby limb, Lagan’s request anchoring me back to my reality. A reality with a dad that forbids normalcy. I’m a little ticked that he keeps asking. I don’t answer.
“Just try.” He fills the silence. “If you can, just try. Okay?”
“Okay.” I can accept that. My version of trying, of course. “I’ll try.”
***
May begins and the days whirl by. Within weeks, Lagan and I will no longer see each other daily. Summer vacation will start. My hours at the garden will increase. Lagan will leave for his summer internship overseas. Something about a water well-digging project in some remote village. He plans to study International Justice and dreams of the day he can represent those without a voice. Becoming a lawyer is just a means to give him access to his ultimate dreams: to change the world, for the better. Impending change threatens and entices me. Perhaps a month will be enough to get over him. To say goodbye. To adjust back to life alone. Minus the loneliness.
***
“My break is over.” I remind us both one Saturday afternoon in May when Lagan turns up at the garden during my first short rest. Dad happens to be working today, but I can’t guarantee that will be the case every time he decides to pop in. I tell him he has to stop with the spontaneous visits. If we get caught... “Plus, I have work to do.”
“Of course.” He makes to leave. “Hey, when is your next break?”
“I have a thirty minute break for lunch in two hours. Around 12:30. Why?” I know exactly why.
“No reason. I’ll let you get back.” He leans into my space and whispers in my ear. “Can I take you out to lunch?”
“You know I can’t leave the grounds.” I make a fist and playfully punch his arm nearest me. Which moves him back. Breathe. Now I can breathe again.
“Who said anything about leaving?” He shrugs his shoulders. “This here is as out as out gets. I’m talking simple, private dining under a weeping willow that needs a new name.”
“New name?” I lower my fist. Did we just change the subject?
“Definitely. How about ‘Waterfall Willow’? Weeping is just too sad for the new, happy you that I’ve only seen under here. Under this...” He motions around us with his arms. “This broken mess of a tree.”
I nod, tickled by Lagan’s naming quirk. “Waterfall Willow it is.”
“Okay then.” He makes to really leave this time and finishes his thought as he spreads branches to exit. “I’ll meet you under the waterfall for lunch. I’ll bring the food. If you bring your smile?”
If I agree, I know I am inviting him. Back here. Again and again. Opening up a gate with the posts that read unknown and risk all over them.
&n
bsp; “Say yes.” Lagan slowly stretches out an open palm toward me.
I swallow. Knowing I gave up choice when I repeated the three words I like you the first time Lagan and I stood here under the willow.
I pick up my rake as I silently promise myself to be super careful. “I’ll see you at lunchtime.” Avoiding his eyes, I wonder if Lagan can hear my heart pounding in this quiet place.
“Yes, you will.” Lagan rides off across the field. I watch him bike away leisurely as I rake slowly at first, when he halts, and turns around to yell one last thing. Go figure. “Oh, and don’t worry! I’ll bring plenty of wipes!”
“Thanks!” I shout back, just as he turns and disappears past the field.
I rake and rake until my arms ache all over. All the while thinking of two firsts and a last.
The first time a boy asked me on a date.
The first time I ever told a boy that I like him.
And the last time I rake under a weeping willow.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jason arrives five minutes before my lunch break to dismiss me. Okay, Gale, I think to myself, half expecting him to pull out his bow and arrow.
Instead he says, “Get yourself cleaned up and get some grub.” He takes the trash bag from my hands and tells me the work will be right here waiting for me after lunch.
“Okay.” My tired body agrees easily. “Is it okay to eat out here?”
“Eat wherever you like.” Jason shrugs. “Just remember to throw out your trash.”
I walk back toward the closest ladies room to wash up. I can’t help but gasp when I see the mirror above the sink. I look like a three-year-old with smudge marks up and down. I am one muddy mess. I grab a handful of paper towels, wet them, and go to work giving myself a sponge bath of sorts. Too bad I don’t have a hairbrush. My wet fingertips will have to do. Pleased with the results of warm water, I move close to the mirror to examine my lips. As I run two fingers along the scabs, I silently vow not to kiss anyone until my lips are healed. Fully. Not even certain that Lagan is thinking along those lines, I giggle to myself as I mosey on back to the weeping—I mean waterfall—willow.
I see Lagan’s bike from a distance. Of course he’d come back. Still have to get used to this guy who keeps his word. The sun peeks above, burning my cheeks, forehead, and eyelids. Sheesh. I forgot my shades in the restroom. I debate running back to retrieve them. Then decide three extra minutes with Lagan warrant a little squinting. I’ll get them on my next break.
Lagan empties a medium-sized paper bag as I enter the welcoming shade of the willow.
“Hey!” I announce my arrival. “What’s cooking?”
“You forgot to say, ‘good-looking.’” Lagan turns his palms open like he’s waiting to catch a beach ball. “You know... ‘What’s cookin’, good lookin’?’”
Not following, so I just say, “Sure,” and leave it at that.
I sit down on a nearby nice-sized branch to survey the spread atop the brown paper bag. Saran-wrapped croissants filled with cold cuts. Two clear plastic tins: one with fruit salad and the other with sliced cucumbers. He’s also brought two iced coffees. Yummy.
I like this place. Sitting closer. Sharing words. Face-to-face. “Thanks for bringing lunch.”
“Thank you.” Lagan looks over his sunglasses to correct me. “For letting me come back with lunch. And, of course, for bringing your smile. Sit here.” He points to the spot next to him. “Dig in.”
We munch for a bit in silence, and I love this place. Our waterfall willow away from the world.
“Can I ask you a question?” Lagan pops his last bite in. I haven’t made it through half my sandwich. “What is it about the gardener that makes you smile?” Lagan is all about my smile these days.
I want to show him rather than tell him. So I pop the cucumber container open and munch away at four slices. Lagan stares at me, but waits patiently. When I’m done, I lay my four reshaped cucumber slices down on the paper bag. Each piece is now a light-green, wet letter.
L I S T
Lagan’s eyes sadden as I explain how my whole life I’ve had lists from Dad that I fearfully complete with the clock ticking like a horse rider’s switch. I don’t want to stay in this place of sadness. We no longer dine under a weeping willow, after all. I rearrange the cucumber slices. Now they spell a new word.
S T I L
“I know there’s an L missing.” I move us from weeping to a waterfall. “This is what the gardener tells me he wants to give me in exchange. He has no lists for me to complete. When I’m still, he moves me. Well, more like he moves me out of the way. The part of me that forgot how to search for...hmmm?” I’m searching for the right word. “Hope. It’s all very new. But...I like this place. This place of still. More and more.” A sweet calm runs over me. Still.
Lagan’s hands reach to cup my chin. As I blink, tiny droplets escape, roll down my cheeks, and disappear into his palms. Just a waterfall kinda day.
“You better eat up.” Lagan starts to gather up and organize the spoils after wiping my tears. “It’s already one. Only fifteen minutes before our date is over!”
“So this is our first date?” I want to hear him affirm it. “What does that make us? Are we...,” and I’m not sure I want to finish my thought.
“Eat up, I said.” Lagan ignores me. He’s munching on cucumbers now. Facing slightly away so I can’t see what he’s spelling with the slices.
I scarf down the yumilicious sandwich, washing down every bite with big gulps of watery ice coffee. I pick at the fruit salad while looking around the grounds, determining realistic goals for the remainder of my shift. If I can bag my piles and tie heavier branches that hang too low back upward, the weaker ones will support their weight with the strength of stronger more stable branches nearby.
It’s 1:15 p.m. Lunch break is over. I rise up and Lagan hands me the container of cucumbers while gathering up the rest of the garbage.
His instructions surprise me. “Read this after I’m gone, okay?”
“K.” I can’t help but giggle. This is a first. I initiate a non-verbal communication game, and Lagan plays along.
“Best get back home before my mom starts wondering if I biked to Alaska. See ya Monday.”
I’m holding a rake in one hand and a plastic box of munched cucumber letters in the other.
“How will I know the order of the letters?” I panic. What if it’s a puzzle I can’t solve?
He leans forward and hugs me carefully, so as not to knock the contents out of my hands.
A smile. A wave. And off he disappears, his tires leaving a temporary crease in his grassy trail.
I lean the rake against a branch and open up the container. There are only three cucumber slices in there. Two letters and one shape: I ♥ U.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday arrives not soon enough. I anxiously count down the minutes till lunchtime to tell Lagan that I ate his cucumber slices up. That they were yummy. That he can’t take the letters back. The letter. Really. The letter to me telling me that he hearts me.
We still sit seats apart. The end of the school year has enough days that I’m not willing to risk being pulled out of school and missing precious time with my prince. Gosh. That sounds so girly. I still have to watch myself. Limiting my smiles around Jesse. Don’t want to gloat. Keeping my poker face on when Dad is around.
Saturday streamed into Sunday, like any normal weekend. Chores. More chores. Homework. More work. And broken eggshells everywhere as Jess and I tiptoed around Dad’s cancerous anger. Well, I walked. Jess just lays there, a charade that has to be getting old. Then Sunday evening brought about the most unusual moment. As I carefully walked past Dad’s office to make my way up to bed, I could have sworn I heard a muffled sound, coming from his desk. I know that sound like I know the back of dad’s hand. He was crying.
I witnessed a similar incident a couple years back, but I dismissed it as a fluke. About three months after Mom passed away when packing our hou
se up became top priority, I approached Dad in his office to ask whether to save or donate several books from his college days. He looked through them quickly, and after removing one from the stack, told me to toss the rest in the donation bin. I left the room to continue sorting when I realized I forgot to ask him about some jackets I found in the basement closet. As I turned the corner toward the den, I stopped in my tracks. Dad gazed at the saved book and turned page after page, one at a time. His eyes looked more tenderly at the words than I’d ever seen him look at anything or anyone. I nearly choked as I gulped back disbelief when I saw Dad’s hand wipe a tear from his cheek. He was crying? Over a skinny book called The Foundling?
I didn’t think to pay attention to the author’s name, but I looked up the word in a dictionary that night before I went to bed. Webster’s defined foundling as “an abandoned infant, a stray, an outcast.” I will never know if the tears were for Mom or for himself. That day marked the first and last time I ever saw my father cry. Until yesterday. Last night. But I just moved from a weeping to a waterfall willow. I can’t allow myself to dwell on Dad. I’d rather sleep and dream of days past and days to come, with a boy who says, “I heart you!”
School staff shortens lunch fifteen minutes early for a Monday afternoon assembly. Seniors shuffle into the auditorium, Lagan walking behind me. We both feel shafted. The talk is titled “Power Hour” by Principal Jenners. She wants seniors to powerfully transition from high school to their next stages in life, whether that includes college or employment. About ninety-five per cent of us will attend some type of continued education. That’s what the stats suggest. Lagan comes prepared with two pens and two Sticky notepads. He hands me one and writes me the first message.
Cucumber slice for your thoughts?
I write back:
You know we can’t eat in here.
He responds:
Lol. Just wanted to know what you thought of my cucumber message, actually?
I scribble:
Oh that! Refresh my brain. What letters did you munch out?
Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) Page 11