Her Garden
by Hillary McDonald
Content Warning: References to Domestic Violence
Her toenails are painted the color of moss. “I’m a witch, don’t you know,” she chants to her children as she spins them around in circles, their blond hair flying.
The children giggle and shriek until they are near hysterics. The idea of their mom in black robes on a broom is unfathomable. But when they wake late at night, they remember the dark sheen of her eyes, and they cry themselves silently back to sleep. In the morning, she pats their cheeks and runs a thumb under their puffy eyes.
“My little babies,” she croons, buttering their toast and pouring tall glasses of orange juice.
🝊
Her garden makes the neighbors talk. A collection, a jumble of plants and trees intertwined into an uncanny balance of perfection. English rose garden meets Amazon jungle. Delicate pink blossoms wreathe drooping birds of paradise. Green ferns border winding paths of smooth grey river rocks. Young maples and birches wave their branches while bright dahlias nod their colourful heads in the breeze. In the center of her garden, surrounded by thick grass, is an oak tree. Broad branches support a tree house and a rope swing. Her children often rest against its wide trunk, listening to the murmuring of its leaves.
🝊
Her children sometimes ask where their father is. “Here and there,” she replies, gesturing broadly. She glances at the garden and then smiles widely. “Let’s go play a game.” And soon, they are all laughing, running barefoot on the soft grass under the oak tree. When they finally all collapse in giggles and exhaustion, she tickles their noses with long blades of grass and tells them stories of fairies that live amongst the flower petals. Only after they are asleep does she look broodily around her. She stalks through her garden, whispering, breaking a branch here, pulling up a plant there.
🝊
Her sisters come to visit once a month. One is a year older, one is a year younger. They all look the same. Shiny black hair and eyes the color of night. Long arms and dancers’ legs. They rarely wear shoes and flit through the house on the tips of their toes. The sisters always bring plants with them, seedlings in trays and pots. Hours are spent in the garden, planting and pruning. They never water anything.
“If it’s meant to survive, the earth will make sure it does,” their mother always says.
Her sisters leave when their last plant is in the soil. “Until next time,” they wave, bracelets clinking.
🝊
“Her taste in men leaves something to be desired,” the old lady from across the street sometimes whispers to the children.
She babysits them when their mother goes out, trading her time for plant cuttings from their mother’s garden. The children usually ignore her, eating dinner and going straight to bed, just as their mother asked them to. But sometimes, the eldest daughter listens, hoping for words of their father.
“Easy on the eyes, he was, your dad. Tall as a tree, and those shoulders, whew. He would pick your mother up, toss her over his back, made her laugh, let me tell you.”
“But those nights, oh dear. The shouting. I heard glass breaking one time.” The old lady scratches her whiskery chin. “And then he just disappeared.” She wrinkles her nose. “Best not think of him, dear; your mom is better off without him.”
🝊
Her eldest, her beautiful daughter, brings her first boyfriend home when she is fifteen. He struts into the garden, ignoring her mother as she is digging up a flax.
“Bit of a mess, isn’t it?” he says, pulling the daughter in for a kiss.
The eldest smiles up at him, her hand on his broad chest. The mother’s mouth tightens.
🝊
Her phone rings at midnight, and she picks it up on the first ring. “I’ll be right there,” she answers. Her hands are steady as she pulls on her boots and buttons her jacket. She tucks a small trowel in her pocket.
🝊
Her daughter’s fingernails are rimmed with blood and dirt. The hole in the garden bed is finally deep enough.
“You can plant him now,” her mother reassures. “Fill the dirt around the roots and pat it down.” Her daughter lifts the oak sapling from its blood-soaked wrappings and settles it in the earth. A tear drips down her bruised face. “But,” she starts, then falters.
Her mother reaches across to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. She gently traces a finger down her daughter’s cheek. “He has another chance now, a chance to do better.”
Together, they break up the last clods of dirt and scatter them on the ground.
🜁🜄🜂🜃
Hillary McDonald (she/her) lives in the South Island of New Zealand Aotearoa, where she teaches secondary students outdoor skills. She spends her free time exploring the outdoors with her family, as well as reading and writing.
She has had short stories published in takahē magazine, Inglenook, Penelle Magazine, Emerald City Ghosts, Hollow and Sky, and Folklore Review.