DOGWOOD ✔︎

5 | Holding Back

|photo by Johannes Plenio from Pexels|

I use my forearm to swipe a sweaty strand of hair off my face. Then shove my gloved hand into the tangled-limb center of yet another shrub. I've gotten into a rhythm. Last year's tree leaves crunch in my fist. And when I pull them out, a waft of dirt and decay comes with the shooshing sound of my arm brushing against the evergreen's leaves.

There's a quote in the journal about nature being soothing—and I get that. I feel calmer. And I'm happy with my progress. But the sun is getting low. Dad will be home from work soon, and I have no idea how I'm going to explain my half-day.

Goodbye, calm. Hello, anxiety knot.

I drop the crinkly leaves in the pile at my feet. Maybe it's not too late to call my aunt and ask what she told him—because I'm sure she called Dad the second she backed out of our...

"Uh oh."

His work truck putters around our circular driveway. The garage door is already open, but he stops anyway. Probably because he spotted my wheelbarrow on the patio and he's sitting there wondering if I lied to his sister when she picked me up from school.

He drives into the garage and closes the door behind him. Either he didn't see me—which is possible, I guess, because I am sort of hunched over. Or he's giving himself time to cool down before he confronts me.

I finish de-leafing the azalea, keeping half an eye on the screened porch. Then I take my time raking up all the little piles I've made and dumping them in the wooded part of our yard.

Dad doesn't come outside.

So I guess that's it. Our spring break truce is officially over.

I brace myself as I open the back door, but the kitchen is empty. Dad's laptop case is on the table and his work shoes are parked in front of the chair closest to the window—like maybe he sat there and watched me.

The microwave beeps. But it's only halfway through the defrost cycle. I open the door, transfer the frozen lump of spaghetti sauce into a microwave-safe glass bowl and put it back in to finish. Heavy footfall on wooden stairs announces Dad's arrival. His hair is damp and his blue-green eyes are troubled. "You must be feeling better," he says.

I give him a "Yes sir," because of the edge in his tone.

He hobbles into the kitchen, favoring the knee injury that ended his college soccer career. "I thought we were past this, Ginna." He swipes a hand toward the window, indicating our backyard, then turns to me and frowns.

What, exactly, does he think we're past? I haven't changed my mind—I still want to restore Mom's vegetable garden. Does he think twelve days of not talking about it means I just automatically forgive him for yelling at me?

It doesn't, but I won't have this argument again. I can't.

"You told Becky you were tired from the trip," he says. "I can relate to that. I wouldn't have minded leaving work a little early myself. But now I understand why I didn't get the nurse's phone call—why you chose instead to put your aunt in the awkward position of having to ask her new boss for an extended lunch break."

"It wasn't like that," I say. "I didn't plan to come home and work in the garden. I was just...I needed..." I shake my head. "It was stupid and I'm sorry."

The microwave beeps again. I grab a fork out of the top drawer, jerk the door open and stab at the brownish-red lump until it's a pulverized glob of semi-frozen mush.