The Island of Missing Trees(12)

Her eyes filled with tears as she concluded that she would have to change schools now. There was no other way. In the meantime, would the headmaster issue her a detention or something? If he did, it would be the least of Ada’s worries. No punishment he could come up with would be as horrifying as the looks the other students were sure to give her when the new term started. From now on, no boy would ever want to date her. No girl would invite her to her birthday party or shopping trip. From now on, the labels weirdo and psycho would stick to her, tattooed on her skin, and every time she walked into the classroom, that’s what everyone would see first. Even the thought of it made her feel sick, a weight inside her gut like damp sand.

Having worked herself up into a frenzy, Ada couldn’t stay alone in her room any longer. She walked out, passing down the hall, the walls decorated with framed sketches and family photos of holidays, birthdays, picnics, wedding anniversaries … snapshots of blissful moments, bright and glowing but long gone, like dead stars pulsing the last of their light.

Crossing the living room, Ada opened the sliding door that led into the back garden. Instantly, the wind charged in, ruffling the pages of the books on the table, scattering sheets of paper across the floor. She picked them up and glanced at the one on top of the pile, recognizing her father’s neat handwriting: How to Bury a Fig Tree in Ten Steps. It was a list with detailed instructions and rudimentary images. Her father – unlike her mother – had never been good at drawing.

As soon as Ada stepped out into the garden, the bitterness of the cold made her wince. Immersed in her own concerns, she hadn’t given Storm Hera much thought, but now it felt all too real. A musty, sour smell hovered in the air – of rotting leaves, damp stone and wet wood burning.

She trod purposefully along the stony path, the gravel crunching under her slippers – fluffy fur, open back, cream-white. She should have changed into her boots, but it was too late for that. Her eyes were fixed on her father, merely a few feet ahead. Many a night Ada had watched him from her bedroom window, in the same spot by the fig tree, as darkness gathered around him like crows about carrion. A slumped outline against the inky sky, stricken with grief. Not even once had she gone outside, sensing that he would not want to be seen by her in that state.

‘Dad?’ Her voice sounded shaky to her ears.

He did not hear her. Ada drew closer, only now noticing there was something different about the garden, a change she couldn’t immediately grasp. As she scanned the area, she drew breath, realizing what it was: the fig tree wasn’t there.

‘Dad!’

Kostas spun round. His face lit up upon seeing her. ‘Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have come out without a jacket.’ His gaze slid to her feet. ‘No boots? Ada mou, you’re going to catch cold.’

‘I’m okay. Where did the fig go?’

‘Oh, she’s here, underneath.’ Kostas gestured down towards some sheets of plywood he had laid carefully over the ground by his feet.

Ada came closer, staring at the partly covered trench with curious eyes. When this morning at breakfast her father had mentioned he was planning to bury the fig tree, she hadn’t really paid attention, not quite understanding what he meant by that. Now she muttered, ‘Wow, so you really did it!’

‘I had to. I was worried she might suffer dieback.’

‘What is that?’

‘It’s how trees die in an extreme climate. Sometimes it’s the frost that does the damage or the repeated freezing and thawing. Then they are gone.’ Kostas crouched and tossed an armful of mulch over the plywood, patting it down with his bare hands.

‘Dad?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Why do you always talk about the tree as if it were a woman?’

‘Well, she’s … it’s a female.’

‘How do you know that?’

Kostas stood up, taking a moment to respond. ‘Some species are dioecious – that means each tree is distinctly female or male. Willow, poplar, yew, mulberry, aspen, juniper, holly … they are all like that. But many others are monoecious, they bear both male and female flowers on the same tree. Oak, cypress, pine, birch, hazel, cedar, chestnut …’

‘And figs are female?’

‘Figs are complicated,’ said Kostas. ‘About half of them are monoecious, the other half dioecious. There are cultivated varieties of fig and then there is the “wild caprifig” in the Mediterranean that produces inedible fruit, which is usually fed to goats. Our Ficus carica is female, and she’s a parthenocarpic variety – that means she can make fruit on her own, without needing a male tree nearby.’

He stopped, conscious of having said more than he had intended, worried that he might have lost her, the way he always seemed to be doing these days. The wind picked up, rustling the shrubs. ‘I don’t want you to catch cold, love. Go back inside. I’ll join you in a few minutes.’

‘That’s what you said an hour ago,’ Ada said with a shrug. ‘I’m fine. Can’t I stay and give you a hand?’

‘Sure, if you want to.’

He tried not to show his surprise at her offer of help. Ever since Defne’s death, it seemed to him, father and daughter had been stuck on a pendulum of emotions. Whenever he asked her about school and her friends, she shut down, and only opened up a little when he retreated into his work. More and more he noticed that in order to have her move a step closer, he had to take a step away first. It reminded him of how, when she was little, they would go to the playground every weekend, holding hands. It was a charming place with obstacle courses and lots of wooden equipment, though Ada barely paid them any attention – she was only interested in the swing. Each time Kostas pushed her on the swing, watching her fly away from him, up into the air, laughing and kicking her legs, Ada would shout, ‘Higher, Daddy, higher!’ Struggling with the fear that she might flip over or the metal chains might break off, he would push her harder, and then, as the swing came back, he would have to move out of the way to make space for her. And so it still was, this back and forth, with the father ceding space to his daughter so she could have her freedom. Except, in those earlier days, they’d had so much to tell each other that they would talk constantly; this awkward, painful silence had not yet lodged itself between them.