If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(112)

“Dorothy . . . I’m hearing a man say the name Dorothy . . . ,” Nancy said.

“My sister’s name is Dorothy!” Mom’s hands went up with another hopeful smile.

“Why would Dad bring up Aunt Dodo? She made him crazy,” I said. More to the point, finding the name of my mother’s siblings would take almost no skill at all. So far, Nancy was batting a big fat zero. I’d give her credit for not quitting, though.

Kevin’s mask started to slip. He stole another glance at his watch and shot me a “spare me” look. Nancy closed her eyes again, so I made a silly face. From the corner of my eye, I saw Amanda scowl at me.

“Buttonwood . . . ,” Nancy said, eyes opening. “The base of the sycamore tree.”

My heart stopped as my mouth fell open.

“What?” Amanda asked, yanking me from the memory. “You look spooked.”

“Dad and I planted that sycamore in the backyard.”

My mother clapped her hands together. “He’s here.”

“Why would he show up to talk about a tree?” Kevin asked, all lawyerly.

“I’m not sure.” And then I thought about red shoes and Dorothy and I leaped from my chair. “I know! I know!”

I ran to the garage for a shovel and then raced out the kitchen door to the tree trunk.

Within a minute or two, my family had gathered around me as I paced, trying to figure out where to dig. “It’s so big now . . . I don’t think I can get to the doll.”

“What doll?” Kevin probed.

“From The Wizard of Oz. Remember the little action figures? I buried Dorothy when we planted this tree.” I continued walking around the tree trunk, trying to remember where it might be.

My mother waved her hands and gazed at the clouds as if spirits circled overhead. “William, what kind of nonsense is this? I need answers, not toys.”

“Erin,” Kevin called, stopping me in my tracks. He reached for the shovel. “You’ll never get to that doll now. This trunk is massive. How about you try to think about whether there’s actually any significance to this memory? Why did you two bury the doll with the tree?”

I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to recall every detail, reenacting the scene aloud.

“Why can’t we plant an apple tree so we have fresh apples for Mom’s pies?” I’d said to my dad, hands on my hips. “Or a cherry tree—I love cherries.”

“So do I, but this sycamore will grow to be huge and provide lots of shade for us.” He dug up the first shovelful of dirt.

“Whoop-de-do!” I sank onto the bag of fertilized soil I’d dragged back there and crossed my legs.

He patted my knee. “Come on now. This buttonwood will be here for generations, like a piece of Turner family history. You and me—we’re putting something in the ground that will outlive us.”

I opened my eyes, staring up at the massive canopy of leaves now shading us all. “He went on and on about how deep its roots grew. I’d said, ‘Who cares? You can’t see the roots, unlike the apples or pink flowers of the other trees.’”

Amanda stared at me, wide-eyed and accepting, as if she’d known that if Dad did show himself, it would be to me. That wouldn’t help us mend fences.

I turned to Mom. “Dad said that roots were more important than the pretty flowers. At first I thought he’d said that because he knew it hurt my feelings that everyone always complimented Amanda’s looks but no one ever called me pretty.” I avoided my sister’s gaze and glanced instead at Kevin. “But then he talked about how roots kept the tree safe, and that it was like that with a family, too. That all the people in a family could stretch in different directions like branches, but the roots would always bind them together and keep them strong. And then I said that must be why people called it a family tree. And then he said something about how there is never anyplace as important as home . . . and that’s when I ran inside to get Dorothy and bury her with our tree, ’cause, you know, that’s what she said.”

Kevin laughed at me, head shaking. “Sounds exactly like something you and Dad would do. Good metaphor, too.”

“Except sometimes branches get diseased and need to be pruned,” Amanda quipped and turned to go back inside.

I bit my tongue and followed her, as did the others.

“None of this helps us with the gossip or selling the boat,” Mom groused as we filed in through the kitchen door.

We returned to the dining room but didn’t take our seats. “Maybe the point is that none of that matters as much as this right here.” I circled our little group with my index finger. “Instead of focusing our energy on everything out there, we should be grateful for and help each other.”

“Works for me.” Kev scratched his head. “I was dreading coming today, and had no idea what to expect, but I actually feel better. It’s been an interesting way to mark our loss.”

“I’d think you’d be happier, Mom,” I said when faced with her befuddled expression.

“Is that all?” She looked at Nancy with an air of desperation. “Is he saying anything else? A special message just for me?”

My heart squeezed. I’d grown up believing I was his favorite person, and maybe I was—who knows for sure? But he’d been my mother’s favorite, and her raw longing made my eyes sting. For the first time, I wanted Nancy to make up some loving message to make my mother feel better.