Wishtree(20)

“So that’s what it’s for,” Samar said.

“Where is it?” Stephen. “The journal?”

“Attic, maybe. Or, no. It’s probably in the shed behind Samar’s house. Got a lot of old family stuff stashed away in there.” She gave a wry smile. “Unless it all floated away. Backyard’s pretty wet right now. Which, by the way, is one of the reasons it’s time for this tree to say good-bye.”

Samar wiped away tears. “You don’t understand. This tree … It’s almost like it’s human.”

“That’s sweet.” Francesca patted Samar’s head. “But honey, it’s just a tree.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, I must go feed Lewis and Clark. I can hear them complaining from all the way over here. And I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

As she moved to leave, Stephen stepped in front of her. “Before you go,” he said, his voice firm, “just listen.”

He turned to me. “Say something,” he instructed.

“Please, tree,” Samar pleaded.

I kept silent.

What more was there to say?

Francesca looked from Stephen to Samar and back again. “Children,” she said, “perhaps those video games you like to play have addled your brains.”

“Talk, tree,” Stephen said.

Silence.

“It can talk,” Samar told Francesca. “Real words. It told us a story about Maeve.”

Francesca, for just a moment, hesitated. She looked at me. “You mean metaphorically, of course. The tree seemed to talk to you. The leaves whispered and so on.”

“It told us about the hollow. And the baby.”

Francesca blinked. “The baby.”

“Yes,” Samar said. “The abandoned baby.”

Again Francesca paused. “Of course, I’ve told that family story before. You probably heard it from a neighbor.”

Stephen shook his head. “We heard it from the tree.”

“Oh, my,” said Francesca. She waved a hand in front of her face. “You’re wearing me out, you two. I am so very glad my parenting days are behind me. Listen here. You get a good night’s sleep. Understand? Or maybe some counseling.”

As quickly as she could, Francesca made her way across the lawn, her shoes caked with mud.

“Francesca?” Stephen called.

“It’s just a tree, dears. Repeat after me: It’s just a tree.”

“I was wondering if we could look for that diary.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Maeve’s journal? Be my guest. If it’s not underwater by now.” She held up her palms. “Just … no more tree craziness. You hear?”

When Francesca was back in her house, Stephen and Samar looked at me accusingly. “Why didn’t you talk?” Samar demanded.

Because it was foolish.

Because I wasn’t supposed to.

Because.

Looking defeated, Stephen and Samar trudged away. They hadn’t gone far when Samar paused and turned to Stephen.

“Something happened today,” she said. “People at school were being … weird. Talking about me, whispering. Passing notes, even.” She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About what happened last night?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I wonder what was going on.”

“You’re probably imagining things.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m used to people talking about me. Being mean. But this was different.”

“Things aren’t always what they seem.” Stephen smiled sympathetically. “Come on. Let’s go check out that shed.”

I watched the two of them head toward Samar’s backyard. They were talking. Laughing. Becoming friends, perhaps.

Maybe I hadn’t been so foolish, after all.





45


Trees don’t sleep, not like people do, or animals.

But we do rest.

Unfortunately, that night rest eluded me.

I was filled with questions about the coming day, of course.

But most of all, I didn’t want to miss a moment of what little life I had left.

I wanted to drink in the stars.

I wanted to feel the fuzzy wings of the owlets.

I wanted to stretch my roots just a tiny bit farther before the night was through.

I wanted to indulge in some quiet contemplation about life and love and what it all meant.

I wanted to philosophize.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said to Bongo. “There’s no point in my worrying about tomorrow. It will come soon enough.”

“Red,” Bongo said.

“Too much Wise Old Tree?”

Bongo paused. She looked at me for a long time.

“Never,” she said. “Never, ever too much Wise Old Tree.”

Bongo settled onto Home Plate. The world was quiet and calm.

“Want to hear a tree joke?” I asked.

“Is it funny?”

“Probably not,” I admitted.

“Then probably no.”

“What’s a tree’s least favorite month?”

“I dunno. What month?”

“Sep-timber.” I paused. “Because, you see—”