[title subtitle=”WORDS Sarah Phillips-Burger
IMAGE Walter Bilotta/Shutterstock”][/title]
“I’m going to take Tilly to your mother’s for the morning,” Jacob announced before kissing Lana on the forehead. Lana, lying in bed, simply nodded in reply.
“Is there anything you want me to pick up after my game?” he asked as he pushed pieces of her blonde hair away from her eyes. “Some Sprite, or maybe some more crackers?”
She shook her head. “I’ll feel better this afternoon.”
“I don’t remember the morning sickness being this bad with Tilly,” he offered with a small pout.
“It was,” she started, pausing to think back. “I was just younger, then.”
Lana lay in bed for an hour, occasionally sipping from the glass of water Jacob had brought her, until she felt it was safe to get up. After a quick, warm shower, she dressed in leggings and a blue sweatshirt, her typical Saturday outfit, and headed to the kitchen for some toast.
Walking down the hall, she passed photographs displayed on the wall in chronological order. At one end of the hall, their wedding; at the other, a portrait of Lana, Jacob, and ten-year-old Tilly surrounded by sunflowers, taken earlier that summer. Every picture in between documented the years and the growth of their little family.
On the refrigerator, held with colorful magnetic letters that spelled BABY, was the first and only picture they had of their little surprise. She touched the small white blob the shape of a kidney bean on the ultrasound and smiled, feeling her spirits lift.
Lana sat at the breakfast nook, surrounded by windows that gave her a view of their tidy backyard, the sun filtering in through the yellow gingham curtains. This small area was one of her favorite parts of their home. Sitting there now, she could picture her daughter on the bench in the corner, eating pancakes on Sunday mornings. She could hear her friends laughing over coffee while their kids played on the swing set. She could feel her husband reach across and touch her hand after an argument. This room she would miss the most.
Lana sighed. She still couldn’t believe they were in the process of selling their cottage. But it was true, they would need more room with the addition to their family. She just couldn’t imagine finding a home that she would love as much as this one, one that seemed to have loved them back over the past twelve years.
Lana took her dishes to the sink, her eyes catching the view outside the window, and felt her mood sink. Over the privacy fence, she could see her neighbor, Mr. Martin, in his front yard. “There’s something I won’t miss about living here,” she thought as she rinsed off the last coffee mug. Her eyes followed the fence line until it abruptly stopped at the thing that had caused so much animosity between the two neighbors, an Eastern Redbud growing through and pushing down their barrier.
Two years into living in their home, the fence had started to bow under the pressure of the growing limbs. Concerned, Jacob had taken a look and figured that the problem would not be easily solved on their side.
She never forgot the reaction their old neighbor had as they stood on his front step to resolve the issue, her husband politely suggested trimming the branches to relieve the burden against the fence. Mr. Martin looked over his bifocals, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows sticking up like the hair on a mad dog, and said, his voice full of indignation, “No.” He slammed his door, leaving them startled and wondering what to do next.
Jacob tried to place metal support beams along that part of the fence, but over the years, the wooden pickets next to the tree rotted and gave way, leaving gaps that reminded Lana of Tilly’s missing teeth. Soon, the branches worked their way through, taking space in their driveway. Then, this past year, the concrete driveway started to crack from the roots growing along the edge.
Jacob returned, again and again, pleading for the tree to be dealt with, but each time he was met with the same irrational refusal and a door slammed in his face. They had talked multiple times about getting a lawyer to force their neighbor to cut the tree, but Lana could not justify taking an old man to court. “I just wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” she decided, imagining Mr. Martin walking into a courtroom.
It wasn’t until they met with a realtor that she reconsidered her stance.
“People might not want to buy if they know that they will have to replace the fence and the driveway sometime soon. You will probably get more money for your house if you fix that beforehand,” he cautioned.
Shaking his head, Jacob grumbled, “Easier said than done.”
The realtor gave them the name of a lawyer who specialized in property disagreements, and they were due to meet with him on Monday to try and put the matter to rest. They would need every penny that they could get for their home to be able to afford something bigger for their growing family.
Lana saw something move by the fence and was brought back from her memories. Through the heart-shaped leaves, she saw something bright yellow which then disappeared. Then, between the gaps of the warped fence, she saw Mr. Martin bend down to his knees and the yellow reappeared. Lana finally recognized the source of the color, a bouquet of roses. Curious, she watched the old man, even standing on the tips of her toes to get a better look.
After a few minutes, a strange feeling began to develop deep inside Lana, telling her that she must go outside and try once more to convince Mr. Martin of the inevitable. This feeling pulled her like a magnet as she opened the sliding glass door and stepped out into the sunlight.
When she reached the place where the tree joined their yards, she found him still on his knees. He picked weeds from the ground, his light blue shirt rolled at the sleeves, oblivious to the dirt accumulating on the knees of his khaki pants. The bouquet of roses, held together with brown twine, lay beside him on the ground.
A sense of unease radiated from him as he became aware of her presence, hesitating for a moment before placing his hands on his lap. He looked up at her through a missing picket, his eyes peering over his bifocals before returning to the tree in front of him. His forehead creased as if considering what to do, then he let out a sigh of resignation.
“She planted this tree,” he explained in a calm voice. “She had looked forward to seeing it bloom one day, but…”
Lana knelt on her side of the fence, joining the old man beneath his wife’s tree, unsure of what to say. Her hands unconsciously traced the cracks in the broken concrete as Mr. Martin continued.
“Every year, I see those blooms and it reminds me of how beautiful she was,” he said, a hint of marvel in his voice, the corners of his mouth rising slightly.
Lana took a deep breath, pushing down the urge to cry.
Mr. Martin looked at Lana. “You must think I’m a senile old man. And maybe I am,” he said shaking his head. “But I just can’t bring myself to cut this tree.”
Lana looked down at the tree root that had found its way into their yard, breaking through concrete, determined to grow no matter what it faced. Now, more than ever, she understood that force of life.
“You won’t have to,” she decided. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The following spring, Lana walked around their now-empty house, reliving every special memory that it held. Finally, she exited through the sliding glass door, her baby bump taking the lead.
She walked down the new pathway that led to the garden that was beginning to bloom. The fence that had once separated the two yards was gone, as was the broken concrete. Under the tree, between the two neighbors, sat a bench. She often found Mr. Martin quietly sitting there, but not today.
Before getting in her car, she stopped and looked one last time at the cottage, saying a last farewell, finally ready to set down new roots. That was when she saw Mr. Martin standing at his front door. She smiled and brought her hand up, waving goodbye, to which he simply nodded.
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