The cycle of seasons

“Why do you have to be such a bitch?” Sofia shouts at her mother. She slams her plate down so hard that her sandwich flies up, deconstructs mid-air, then lands in a mess all over the gazebo table.

Isabella stares at her daughter. I imagine for a moment that if she were to direct that look on the path between the gazebo and the house, the stones would immediately level themselves, knit their cracks and rid themselves of their weeds. But it seems that a teenage daughter is stronger than stone and wood, because Sofia doesn’t even blink.

“Selfish girl.” Isabella seethes, rising to her feet. “You have no idea what I do for you. You can’t think of anyone except yourself.”

Sofia pulls a blanket close around her and I don’t know if it’s because of the cold. It could equally be a shield against this fight, another of the same argument they seem to have more often these days. Sofia’s glare would suggest the former, but it’s hard to be sure. “What, because I don’t want to be your slave, doing chores and shit that only you care about? Get a life.”

Isabella’s jaw is set firm and she doesn’t say anything. She simply turns and walks away. I’ve seen this look before and I know that it is not one of defeat. It heralds a hardness for days to come, her face will remain a rigid mask and her presence an impervious quiet. “Pick up your mess before you come back inside.” She says over her shoulder as she disappears into the house.

Sofia maintains her glare at her mother’s back, not flinching even a little when the door slams shut. She remains still like this for the longest time, her eyes fixed on the brick house and her lips pursed. Then, after a time, her shoulders begin to sag. Tears swell in her eyes. She sits back into her seat and pulls the blanket around her knees and arms.

If I could shield her from the bitter winter wind and the anguish of being a teenager, I would. But during these cold months with precious little sun, I barely have the energy for anything. It’s all I can do to stay awake.

It occurs to me that Sofia must be about the same age that Isabella was when she moved into this house. Isabella’s mother Carmen had dragged her away from Buenos Aires, halfway across the world. Isabella had been so furious back then to be taken from her friends and brought to this foreign place. And those bully children… She would come out into the yard and kick the ground or use a stick to strike at one of the trees. Her rage just as quickly giving way to helpless sobbing.

Silent tears creep down Sofia’s cheeks where Isabella had once sat, panting and out of breath after the effort of lashing out. Sofia stares vacantly at the plate in front of her, as though she is too exhausted and empty to feel anything more. Finally, she takes a deep breath. She stands up, picks up the plate, and follows her mother inside, leaving me behind.

I have long since stopped yearning for the ability to follow people when they leave.

I do wish I knew where everyone goes, though.

*

Sofia plays with a blossoming flower between her fingers with one hand, while holding her phone to an ear with the other. Winter has kept her mostly indoors, so it’s been a few months since I’ve seen her, and I’m surprised by how much she has changed in such a short time. Her once frizzy dark hair has been tamed to a smooth, glossy finish. Her nails are lacquered with a colour which sparkles like frost in the morning sunlight. And her face has become less round. More shapely.

But I think maybe her skin is more pale than usual, too. Her fingers thin.

Spring is an intense time of year. I have more energy, but I get distracted by the whole new array of sensations it brings. It’s still cold enough for wood smoke from distant fireplaces staving off the last of the cool nights, but this is mixed with the thick, sweet smell of pollen. My favourite smell, though, is when the sunlight warms up the crisp, dewy grass and draws moisture out from the earth. I do love spring.

Of course, Sofia doesn’t know this. I don’t know what her favourite smell is, either. But I do know that the most important thing to her in this moment is someone called ‘Elliot’.

She speaks to him with her phone pressed against her cheek. “Oh, yeah, I’m on the swim team, I didn’t realise you knew?” Is she blushing just a little as she listens intently for a response?

“Huh, yeah, um…” I can’t quite make out what she mumbles.

She plays with a small twig, rolling it between her fingers.

“What do I like about it? I dunno, do you swim much?”

She stares at nothing with a smile creeping across her lips, then laughs. Not like how she used to laugh when she was a girl playing with toys with her mother. This laugh is more restrained, clipped. But it is also accompanied by a glint in her eyes that I haven’t seen before.

“Okay, okay, you’re right – you asked me first.” She sighs and leans back into the gazebo seat, her eyes looking somewhere far away. “What I like about swimming is the freedom. I love going to the bay, swimming as far out as I can and then turning to look back at the shore. The world sounds so different from far away, you know? Everything is just so distant.”

As she listens, I wonder what the sea is that she talks about so often. It sounds wonderful. I wonder if trees grow next to the sea, and whether their branches get heavy when their leaves and flowers grow in the spring. I wonder what it smells like at the sea.

“No way, I love that the sea moves!” Sofia’s voice sings out across the courtyard. “Rivers and pools and whatever are boring and… like, dead somehow? The sea swells and heaves and moves around me, like it’s alive. Like it’s the world breathing and I’m just this tiny speck being carried along, like I’m connected to something bigger. I feel part of the world and separate at the same time. Things matter differently out there.” Her eyes refocus on the twig, still held idle between her fingers. “You know what I mean?”

Another pause and now I am sure that her face is going red.

“Um, thank you. That’s really nice of you to say.”

She leans forward and flicks the twig away. Her eyes darken a little, but a soft smile remains.

“Yeah, it’s been ages. Whatever this shit is that’s going on with my body, I haven’t been able to go back. I miss it so much. Doc says they need to do more tr—”

Isabella interrupts with a call from the house and Sofia’s head snaps up. Her lips purse and her shoulders tense.

“Sorry, gotta go, the dragon needs me.”

She stands up.

“I know. See you tomorrow at school, yeah?”

A small, tight smile, then she puts the phone away, sighs and goes inside.

I get back to basking in the sun’s glow.

*

Sofia is crying in the gazebo and I wonder if gazebos are meant for private emotions, for tears and rage. I don’t think so, though. I have seen many happy events in that place. I saw a wedding once when I was very small and the plants and trees around us were also young. I saw Isabella giggling at images in a magazine with her school friends and I saw Sofia make the same sound not so many years later.

But Sofia is not giggling today. She looks weak and grey, which makes no sense to me because summer is the most energising time. There’s so much sun! It’s true that during the middle part of the day, my leaves can burn, and I crave the relief from any breeze. On those days, even the tiniest of draughts created by birds flapping their wings as they land on me is cherished reprieve. But overall, summer feels like the peak of my existence. I am lush and the world is alive with energy, especially in the mornings and evenings.

In contrast, hearing Sofia sob doesn’t feel right. I spread my leaves a little to dapple the light next to her. Usually she likes it when I do that, but today she doesn’t notice, and she doesn’t stop hugging her knees.

The back door opens and Sofia quickly wipes her face with her sleeve.

Isabella steps out of the house and walks down the steps with scissors in hand. Oblivious to Sofia’s presence, she stoops low and cuts some basil from a pot.

Sofia is as still as a mouse watching a cat, but it doesn’t help – Isabella notices Sofia and takes an impulsive step towards her daughter, then stops.

Sofia is a silent statue, all grey except for her red-rimmed eyes.

Isabella stands still a moment, then her furrowed brow disappears, and she walks up the gazebo steps to sit beside Sofia. “My love, what’s wrong?” Isabella is radiating so much love that I can feel it through the ground nourishing my roots as well as any fertilizer could.

Sofia sniffs and Isabella waits patiently for a response.

Eventually, Sofia speaks. “I’m just so sick of it all.” Her voice is high-pitched and she barely has her words out before a new flood of tears erupts from deep inside her.

“Oh, mi querida…” Isabella puts an arm around Sofia’s shoulder and draws her close. “I know. I know.”

“I’m sick of feeling sick and tired all the time.” Sofia’s voice is muffled in Isabella’s shoulder. “I’m sick of not knowing what’s wrong and all the tests and just everything.”

“I know.” Isabella strokes Sofia’s hair. “Me too.”

They sit there for a time and I try to fan them of the summer heat.

“Mum…” Sofia sits up and sniffs.

“Yes, my love?”

“Do you think Elliot only likes me because I’m sick?” Sofia’s eyes are big. “Do you think he only likes me because he feels sorry for me. I feel like everyone apparently likes me right now because I’m this charity case. What if he is like them, or only likes me because I’m popular?”

I think I see Isabella stiffen, but I can’t be sure. “Never mind Elliot or the boys in your school.” Isabella’s words are short and pinched. “Who knows what they want from you. You should just concentrate on what the doctors say and on your schooling.”

Sofia’s tears stop and her hair flicks as she turns to face her mother.

They stare at each other with identical stubborn ferocity.

“You have no idea, do you?” Sofia’s voice rings with new clarity.

“What? You don’t have time for boys and working out what they’re thinking.” Isabella pulls her arm back from Sofia and the girl who is becoming a woman stands up.

“You call me selfish but all you can see are your own mistakes. Elliot is nothing like dad! Fuck!” She spins around and marches back to the house, shouting behind her. “I share with you how I’m feeling but you just can’t help yourself!”

I don’t know if it’s because Isabella doesn’t understand her daughters’ sudden rage, if she’s frustrated or if Sofia has hit a nerve, but Isabella looks like she has just been hit in the face.

Isabella picks up the scissors and looks around the garden, but I can tell that she doesn’t really see us. She puts the scissors back down again, stands up and walks over to me. She places a palm of her hand on my trunk and pushes her dark and greying waves of hair from her face with her other hand. She stays there for a time, just looking at me. I sway gently in the breeze.

“I wish you were here, mamá.” She whispers.

With a sigh, she pulls away and returns to moving about the garden.

I watch as she pulls out some weeds from the path and toss them aside. She picks up a watering can, looks around as if searching for something, then waters some herbs. Normally she waters the lemon tree before she waters the herbs. She starts shifting a bit of fallen fence paling, then stops to pull some branches aside. It still won’t budge, so she gives up and goes back to watering. It’s almost like she has forgotten how to do something she has done over and over for years and years. She seems lost to me.

My branches sag.

*

The best thing about being a tree in autumn is, when your leaves are just about ready to drop off, you can flick your branches and make a whole flurry of them fall to the ground. I will miss them, though, and I feel sad knowing that this means that the dreary slog of winter is drawing closer. But that’s the cycle of seasons and life. And it’s also a relief, in a way, because by the end of summer, my leaves are dry and itchy. Besides, it’s a liberating feeling having the wind sweep through the space between my naked limbs. And my leaves will be back when spring comes around again.

Isabella comes out of the house with large trays of food and utensils. I stop jiggling my branches and try to hold on to my leaves so that they don’t fall on her.

I watch as she pulls items from her pile and begins setting up a barbecue. She fills the garden with chairs, a trestle table and the rich smell of cooking. I hold my breath when a gust of wind is about to take a tablecloth away, but Isabella catches it just in time. Platters of food adorn the tables, and by the time she is done, there is enough feed a small army.

She hovers her hand just above the hot plate of the barbeque to see if it’s ready, and I wonder if she needs those tweezer things people use to cook on the barbeque. She looks up and says to no one “Ah, I need the tongs!” Then races back inside and returns a moment later.

When she returns, she takes stock of her empire of deliciousness. She gives a tiny, sharp nod, then goes back inside.

Everything is still once again, but it’s the sort of quiet that is more like when someone is holding their breath. Everything waits in anticipation, and I try to make sure none of my leaves fall on the extravaganza.

Not long later, Sofia comes hobbling out of the house, a blanket draped over her bony shoulders, looking like it weighs as much as the earth. Isabella helps Sofia to a chair, and a tear comes to Sofia’s eye. This time, I can tell that it’s not a sad tear because she is smiling. Her eyes are wide as she takes in all the chorizo, morcilla, lamb, cheeses, rockmelon with jamon, cheese croquetas, empanadas, salad, crusty bread, olives, stuffed peppers, and a huge pan of bright yellow paella.

“Mum…” Sofia’s voice is soft. There is nothing of the pain and anger they have shared over the last months. Or has it been years? I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I can’t see any of that in this moment. This is different.

“Shush, it’s your birthday, what did you think I would do?”

“It’s wonderful, mum. Thank you so much.”

“When do your friends arrive?”

“Any minute, Jessie said she’s coming with a group of them now.”

They don’t say anything for a time, they just look out over the spread of food.

Finally, Isabella speaks. “Did I ever tell you about how much your grandmother, how much Carmen liked to cook?”

“I don’t think so.” Sofia replies, her expression one of hunger for something other than food. A hunger to be filled and nourished with a deepened sense of identity and belonging.

“She loved it. Her mother was not a very good cook, I think, but Carmen was a true natural.” Her eyes are distant and shiny. “Carmen would make me rice pudding when I was sick and give me spoons of dulce de leche when I was feeling sad. She could whip up the most delicious omelette in a moment.” She goes quiet and Sofia doesn’t say anything, waiting patiently. “She just always knew what food to make for every situation.”

“How come you only started cooking this Argie stuff after she died?”

Isabella doesn’t say anything for a long while, then finally says “I was embarrassed to be different.” Sofia looks like she’s searching for the right thing to say, but before she can decide, Isabella continues. “I’m ashamed of that now.”

Sofia reaches out to grasp Isabella’s hand.

“I didn’t realise, mum.” Sofia whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, thank you.” Isabella takes a breath. “I suppose I’m trying to make up for it, bit by bit. Including today.”

“Mum…”

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” Isabella dismisses Sofia’s tone with the shake of her head. But when she looks at her daughter’s face, that sympathy is reflected back. “What do you think the doctor will say tomorrow?” She asks, caution gripping her voice.

Sofia slumps. “I’m not sure. Honestly…” She pauses. “Honestly, I just wish they would just say I have cancer this time.”

Isabella stares with an open mouth at Sofia.

Sofia looks back up at her mother, her face somehow both hard and soft at once. This is a defiance I have seen in her before. I have seen it in both women.

But as I watch, the corners of Isabella’s lips lift and turn into about the biggest smile I have seen her wear in a very long time. I wonder if I have missed something obvious.

“I’m serious!” Sofia proclaims defensively, and she and her mother both start giggling.

“I know! I agree!” Isabella slows and her voice drops to something more serious, though her smile remains. “I get it, I do. If they say it’s cancer, then at least we know what to do next. We have a direction. We know that all the tests, uncertainty and waiting were worth it.”

Sofia’s expression warps from defiant laughter into something new. Something raw and exposed. “Exactly.” She whispers.

A leaf escapes my grasp and I desperately watch as it drifts down and lands on Isabella’s head, breaking the silence. Isabella plucks the leaf from her hair, bringing it down in front of her.

“Maybe your mum is listening to us.” Sofia says softly, looking up at me. “That’s the tree you spread her ashes under, right?”

Carmen and I both hold our breath as one, our separate spirits entwined together. Isabella’s smile curls with a hint of pain mixed with joy. “That’s right, it is.” She answers and carefully places the leave in Sofia’s lap, as though it is something precious. “And if she was here, watching over what happens in this garden, no doubt she would be telling us to get this party going and to enjoy all this food!”

Carmen and I quiver in agreement.