She squinted as they spoke up, trying to focus on them while at the same time wishing they would just go away. The speech was soft and delicate, dancing around her ears like ghosts.
When it came to the voices, every now and again she could make out a word or two, sometimes the broken part of a sentence. The voices had been louder back at the group home, and sometimes they came back stronger when she took the local train into Philadelphia to visit Sarika at the cafe; but out here in the suburbs of the city, they were weak and muttering, pieces that made little sense. Even when they had roared as the tree was struck by lightning, the phrases still came out in hard-to-figure-out bits.
Thi . . . saf . . . whe . . . than . . .
Leila shut her eyes and shook her head, trying to push the voices away, push back the growing darkness brewing in her chest, the swirling mass of anxiety and panic. Not here. Not now, with Jon hovering over her like this, trying to do his way-too-perfect parent thing. Helicoptering, she’d heard Lisabeth call it. She didn’t need him to ask what was wrong so she’d have to make up lie after lie to cover it up. She didn’t need him figuring this out.
Sending her back.
Not after she’d gotten this far.
The voices called, whispering. It was the sound of a number of people talking all at once, quietly, like a crowd muttering in a movie theater before the previews.
She whispered softly to herself, so Jon wouldn’t hear.
“Kitchen. Jar. Floor. Sink—”
And then the voices spoke loudly, in one clear sentence, like the roar of the wind in the storm.
Thank you.
Leila’s eyes opened wide and she fumbled with one of the jars, catching it before it slipped and crashed onto the hard kitchen floor.
“Whoa there!” Jon laughed, reaching down to pluck the jar from her hands. “Careful now.”
“Thanks,” Leila said, willing her heart to stop racing, taking deep, long breaths. The voices seldom got a real word or phrase in, and when they occasionally did, it felt like the volume had been turned up to ten. She picked up the last jar to move it to the windowsill, noticing a stick that still needed to be trimmed a bit.
“Tsk.” She sucked at her teeth and pulled out the Leatherman again. The knife made gentle schickt schickt schickt sounds against the wood. “Can you get some twine or something, to secure the little branches in place, in the jars? With this one I just need to fix the edges so—”
“Jon!” Lisabeth gasped, storming into the kitchen. Leila stopped cutting and looked up at Liz. She was wearing a bathrobe, her dark-black braids curled up around her head, one rebellious red braid tucked behind her ear and peeking out around the rest. Her soft, dark skin glowed as if she hadn’t just rolled out of bed, and her effortlessness at being pretty cast a strong contrast with Jon’s rugged, practically leather, weathered-skin look. Even though she and Jon were in their early fifties, Liz could easily pass for thirty.
“Oh! Leila, you’re awake!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly, her light-brown eyes sparkling and happy at the sight of her.
Lisabeth rushed over to the two of them, kissing Leila on the forehead and Jon on the cheek, and then pulled them close. Leila tried to squirm away, but failed. Jon’s hand accidentally brushed against Leila's hair. Lisabeth let go, adjusted her braids, and observed the windowsill before looking back over at Jon and Leila.
“What’s going on here? You’re all wet, and what is all this?” she asked, taking a step back and pointing at the sink before resting her hands on her hips. Leila shrugged and went back to cutting the small branch, almost done.
“The branches are from the—” Leila started, staring down at the sink.
“Oh hell! Jon, the willow tree!” Lisabeth exclaimed, dashing over to the large window.
“Yeah, about that,” Leila continued. “I took some twigs off the remaining branch just in case she doesn’t make it—”
“Ugh. Damaged beyond repair,” Lisabeth said, sounding crushed. “That other half could fall at any time. You know we’re going to have to cut that thing down immediately.”
Leila’s heart wrenched itself in her chest, as the voices came crashing through.
NO.
Leila’s knife slipped.
And sliced right into her hand.
“Fuck!” Leila screamed, pulling her hand back, whipping it through the air. She balled it into a fist, and when she unclenched it, saw the clean, straight line cutting into her palm, the meaty part right below her thumb.
“Leila, watch your lang—” Jon started, before gasping. “Oh God, Lizzie, get the car, before the storm comes back.”
Leila slowly stretched out her hand and watched as the clean line opened and turned red. Blood poured down her hand and onto her forearm, and she shrieked, stepping back from the sink, covering her hand with the other.
Lisabeth rushed over to Leila, her eyes wide.
“It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” she said quickly, and then muttered an array of swears as she darted towards the front of the house. Leila could hear the jingle of keys before the front door opened and shut.
“Water, here, let’s get that under the tap,” Jon said, bringing Leila closer to the sink. “Here, clean it under there and let me grab some paper towels. Put pressure on it.”
Leila pressed down hard on her hand after the warm water coursed over it, and glanced out the window towards the willow tree in the yard. The sound of Lisabeth’s car starting in front of the house and the angry beeping of the horn cut its way through the storm’s momentary calm. It likely awoke the entire neighborhood.
“Here,” Jon said, pulling her hand out from under the water. Droplets of blood spattered the perfect, white-tiled kitchen floor. “Here, let’s wrap your hand up with these and . . . Leila? Leila!”
Everything around her zeroed out and felt as though it had grown farther away.
She breathed in, slowly, her heart hammering in her chest. Anxiety blossomed in her, hot and panicked.
Something broke.
She stared at that tree, the jagged cut that tore deep into the trunk, the bolt of lightning that had angrily torn half of it away for absolutely no reason. The other half, sprawled out on the earth, was probably food for the mulch machine stashed away in the garden shed, like Jon’s neglected patch of vegetables along the side of the house. The mason jars were tiny in comparison, with their small branches protruding from the inch or two of water.
Maybe one would make it out of the ten.
Maybe none.
Lisabeth said they’d have to tear down the tree.
Damaged beyond repair.
Would Jon fight for the tree? Or would he just let her go, give in like so many others do when one person disagrees with the other?
Leila crumpled to the floor clutching her hand, and tears poured out of her eyes, a torrent the hurricane would have been envious of. She felt dizzy, her chest heavy.
“Leila?” Jon whispered. He squatted down and reached for her face, looking intently at her. “Sweetheart? Are you okay? Are you woozy? Is it . . . wait, the anxiety? Lizzie is better at that stuff than me, I’ll get her, I . . . did you lose too much blood, what is happen—”
“You guys are j-just gonna cut her down,” Leila said, sniffling. “You’re just going to give up on her.”
“What? No, no, only if we have to,” Jon said, settling down on the floor next to her. He wrapped her up in his strong arms and hugged her tightly. “We’ll do everything we can to make it work.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Leila said, choking back a sob, the emotions swelling in her chest. She resisted the urge to push Jon away.
“You’ve heard . . .?” Jon said before growing quiet. “Oh. Oh, Leila.” The car horn honked outside, faster and angrier this time. “Bad timing, Lizzie,” Jon muttered. Leila breathed in and out, still pressing one hand against the other, as Jon held her tightly.
“I’m going to take a wild guess here,” Jon said, letting Leila go, his hands on her shoulders. He reached out and pushed her chin up, looking at her in the eyes. “And assume this is about more than just the tree?”