The Orchard of Buried Secrets

When I was two years old, my father broke. He just lay there on the floor, perfectly still.

That same night, under the cover of darkness, my mother took me by the hand and we buried him in the apple orchard behind our house.

She told me that once Dad was ripe, he would fall from the branches just like the autumn apples. He would come back to me.

"This is our secret, sweetie," she had whispered, her fingers cold against my cheek. "If you tell anyone, Daddy will never get ripe."

From that day on, the orchard behind our house became my sanctuary. I guarded our secret fiercely, waiting beneath the canopy of leaves, year after year.

Until the afternoon the men in sharp suits arrived, offering a million dollars to buy the land.

"No! You can't!" I screamed at them, my eyes stinging with hot tears.

But my mother just yanked me behind her and, without a second of hesitation, signed her name on the dotted line.

Sobbing, I tore myself from her grip and ran as fast as my legs could carry me toward the orchard.

...

"Hazel! Stop right there!"

My mothers voice chased after me, breathless and jagged with anger.

I ignored her, pushing my legs to run faster. But it only took her a few strides to catch up. She grabbed the back of my collar, jerking me backward so hard I stumbled. I hit the dirt, muddying my clothes and scraping my knees until they bled.

She didn't care. She just towered over me, a dark silhouette against the sun.

"What is wrong with you? Get up and come inside!"

"No!" I twisted my body away, crying so hard my chest physically ached. "How could you let them tear down the orchard? Dad isn't ripe yet!"

She hauled me up from the dirt by my waist, pinning me to her side like a sack of flour as she marched us back toward the house, cursing under her breath.

"Swear to God, Hazel, you are going to be the death of me." Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a manic kind of exhaustion. "You ungrateful little brat. I break my back to feed you and put a roof over your head, and all you ever think about is your deadbeat father."

I thrashed against her, kicking and squirming until I slipped from her grasp and hit the ground again. Ignoring the sting in my scraped knees, I yelled back, "Don't you talk about Dad like that!"

That was the breaking point. She dragged me across her lap right there in the yard, her hand coming down hard.

Every slap was fueled by a desperate, terrifying strength.

I cried until I couldn't catch my breath, my skin burning with the stinging red marks of her palm. As she hit me, she spat out the words, "Do you understand me? Are you going to keep looking for your father?"

I wanted to find him. I really did. But it hurt so much.

And then, looking up through my blurry vision, I saw it. A single tear rolling down my mother's cheek.

She was crying. I hated seeing her cry.

So I screamed a lie. "Mom, I'm sorry! I know I was wrong, just please don't cry! I won't look for Dad anymore!"

Only then did she stop. She wiped her face, scooped me up, and carried me the rest of the way home.

I huddled against her chest, but my eyes were locked on the orchard, growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

My mind was flooded with the memory of the night Dad broke.

It had been raining so hard. A clap of thunder had woken me up. I had padded out of my room to find him, only to see Dad lying completely motionless on the living room floor.

My mother was crying, but she wasn't making a sound. Only her shoulders shook. She stood over him, clutching her heavy wooden rolling pin.

One end of the wood was stained a deep, wet red.

When she saw me, she gasped and dropped the rolling pin.

Thud.

It was louder than the thunder.

Dads eyes were closed. No matter how many times I called his name, he wouldn't answer.

Mom had rushed over, dropping to her knees to pull me into a tight hug. "Daddy's fine, baby. Daddy just broke."

Like my toy train when the batteries died.

She told me that if we planted him in the dirt, gave him water, and let the sun warm him, he would grow back from the trees. When he was fully ripe, he would fall from the branches and come back to hug me.

So, since that night, I had lived in the orchard, waiting for him to ripen.

Now, staring out at the trees from the window of our house, I made a silent vow.

I was going to save my dad.

That night, after the house went completely quiet and I knew Mom was asleep, I slipped out of bed.

I grabbed the heavy iron shovel from the shed and snuck out to the orchard.

The night wind howled, biting through my thin pajamas, but I wasn't scared. All I could think about was my dad.

I remembered the rain from that night perfectly. Mom dragging Dad by his arms, me following behind with a smaller shovel, my rain boots slipping in the mud. We had walked all the way to the back acreage.

We buried him under the oldest, largest apple tree.

"This is our secret," Mom had said. "If you tell anyone, Daddy will never get ripe. Do you want him to come back?"

I had nodded frantically. Yes. More than anything.

But I had waited so long. I waited through the spring blossoms, through the tiny green buds hanging on the branches, through the leaves turning gold and falling to the earth.

Dad never ripened.

If Mom was dead set on selling this land to the men in the suits, then I had to dig Dad up and plant him somewhere else. That way, Mom wouldn't be mad, and Dad could keep ripening.

But I was too small. Every time I lifted the heavy shovel and drove it down, I only managed to scrape away a tiny layer of dirt.

The sky began to turn a bruised, pale gray. Dawn was coming. Panic fluttered in my chest. If Mom woke up and found my bed empty, it was over.

I threw my entire body weight onto the shovel, desperate to reach him.

But she found me anyway.

"Hazel!"

Her scream tore through the morning mist, so loud and sharp I dropped the shovel.

She sprinted toward me, drenched in cold sweat. Before I could even speak, her hand cracked across my face.

My ears rang. The force of the slap sent me tumbling backward into the dirt.

"Are you trying to get us killed? Are you out of your damn mind?!"

She stared down at me, her face contorted into something wild and unrecognizable. It terrified me.

"Are you trying to ruin my life?!"

I lay in the dirt, crying and shaking my head. I didn't want to ruin her life. I just missed him.

I missed how he used to lift me high into the air and let me ride on his shoulders. How he would sneak the best pieces of meat onto my plate at dinner, and buy me toys we couldn't afford. He was the one who would shield me when Mom got angry.

I just loved him so much.

But looking at my tears only seemed to fuel her rage.

"Let me tell you the truth, Hazel. Your father is dead! Hes been dead for a long time!"

"Do you even know what dead means? It means you are never, ever going to see him again!"

A guttural sob ripped out of my throat.

No! He wasn't dead!

Mom was lying. She had promised me he just wasn't ripe yet!

She watched me hyperventilate, a cold, bitter laugh escaping her lips.

"Listen to me," she hissed, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "If you don't want your mother to die too, if you don't want to lose me, you keep your mouth shut. And you stop thinking about that piece of trash!"

Her words swung like a sledgehammer, smashing straight into my chest.

The dream I had guarded for three years shattered into a million pieces. I scrambled to my feet, shoved her as hard as I could, and screamed.

"You're a bad mom! You're a liar! Dad isn't dead!"

It was the first time I had ever fought back against her. My heart was breaking.

I ran down the ridge, sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn't understand it. Why would she tell me he was going to ripen, only to turn around and say he was dead?

I didn't believe her. It was just an excuse. She just didn't want him anymore.

Near the bottom of the hill, I bumped into Barb, our neighbor. She smiled and waved at me.

"Well, look at you, Hazel. Up awfully early. Where have you been?"

I was drowning in my own grief. Without thinking, the words spilled out of my mouth. "I went to the orchard to find my dad."

Barb blinked, startled.

Before she could say a word, Mom materialized behind me, breathless.

"Kids and their imaginations, right? Have you had breakfast yet, Barb?"

Ice flooded my veins. I suddenly realized what I had done. The secret. If I told, it wouldn't come true.

I sniffled hard, turned, and sprinted the rest of the way to the house.

Mom walked through the front door a few minutes later. The second the deadbolt clicked into place, the polite smile vanished from her face.

"Do you really want me dead, Hazel?"

"If you ever say a word of that again, I will tear your mouth right off your face!"

I hated the word "dead." Why did she keep using that word?

I burst into tears again, screaming back at her, "I don't want you to die! I just want Dad to come back!"

Mom glared at me, her chest heaving violently.

"Every time you open your mouth, it's 'Dad' this and 'Dad' that."

"Why do you care so much about a monster?"

"He's not a monster! He's the best dad in the world!" My voice shook, the tears blinding me. "You're just doing this for the money! You're trading him for money!"

"For the money?" She let out a hollow, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. "You're just a little girl. Do you have any idea what my life has been like these past few years?"

She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me.

"Do you know the absolute hell I live in? Do you know how much I hate it when I look at your face and see more and more of him every single day?"

My head spun, but that one word cut through the noise.

Hate.

I had heard her say it a thousand times growing up. She hated him, and she hated me.

So I knew, deep down, that no matter what she claimed, she just wanted to get rid of him.

"That million dollars is our ticket out of this nightmare!" She was panting now, her eyes feral and wet. "We can buy a real house. Send you to a good school. It buys us safety! Do you understand that? Safety!"

She spoke like someone who had been deeply, irreparably wronged, but all my childish brain processed was that she wanted the cash.

Mom started crying again, her expression so utterly desolate it scared me.

I dropped to my knees in front of her, begging. "Mom, please. Please don't give Dad away. I can make money! I don't have to go to school. I won't ask for toys or new clothes ever again."

"I'll be so good. I'll listen to everything you say. Just please."

I scrambled to my room and carried out my ceramic piggy bank.

Crash.

I smashed it onto the floorboards. Quarters, dimes, and crumpled dollar bills scattered everywhere.

"I know you work so hard, Mom. I saved all my lunch money. I didn't spend any of it. You can have it all. I won't ever ask for an allowance again, I promise."

Mom stared at the coins littering the floor, frozen.

A agonizing struggle waged in her eyes, one I couldn't comprehend. The tears flowed faster now, tracking silently down her face.

She wiped them away with a fierce, trembling hand. "Do you have any concept of what a million dollars is?"

I didn't answer, because I didn't.

Then, she asked softly, "Are you sure you won't regret this?"

I nodded furiously, launching myself forward to hug her, but she put a hand out and pushed me away.

Even so, a wave of relief washed over me. I could keep waiting for Dad.

Watching her walk into the kitchen, a sweet, naive thought bloomed in my chest. Even though Mom yelled at me and hit me, she still loved me. I just needed to be a better daughter. When I grew up, I would make so much money for her.

But the very next day, Mr. Caldwell came back. And he brought a crew.

I ran out to the driveway, throwing my arms out wide to block their trucks, a bright smile on my face.

"You guys have to go home! My mom isn't selling the orchard anymore!"

Mr. Caldwell chuckled, patting the top of my head. But his smile vanished the moment he looked up and saw my mother standing on the porch, her face the color of ash.

"Donna? The kid's joking, right? We have a deal."

Mom forced her lips into a dry, rigid line.

"I'm sorry. She's just... having a hard time letting the place go."

The relaxed demeanor of the suited men evaporated instantly.

"Donna, this isn't a game. You signed a legally binding contract. Our equipment is already mobilized. If you back out now, you are liable for a breach of contract penalty."

He pulled a folded document from his jacket and held it out to her.

Mom stared at the paragraph he was pointing to, and the last remnants of color drained from her face.

She looked down at me.

In that single glance, I saw a tidal wave of guilt and agonizing defeat crash over her.

Her grip on the pen she was holding tightened, then loosened, then tightened again.

Finally, with a trembling hand, she pointed toward the ridge.

"I apologize. Proceed as planned. The trees are yours."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The sky felt like it was falling.

"Mom! Why did you lie to me? You promised!" I screamed at her.

She offered me a horrific, broken smile and tapped the paper. "Hazel, look at this. The penalty is two million dollars. If I sold my own organs, I couldn't pay them that."

I couldn't read the legal jargon, and I didn't understand the math of two million, but I understood betrayal.

I threw a tantrum, but Mom wouldn't budge. The crew was losing patience, urging her to walk with them to the orchard to oversee the clearing.

She grabbed my arm, dragging me along with them.

I looked toward the center of the acreage. The oldest apple tree stood tall and proud, its lush green canopy hiding little red apples in the branches.

It was harvest season again.

Dad, why aren't you ripe yet? If you don't hurry, it's going to be too late!

I stood frozen in horror as a man yanked the pull-cord on his chainsaw. It roared to life. He stepped toward the first trunk.

Wood chips flew into the air.

I sobbed hysterically. I watched as another worker began walking toward Dad's tree.

No! He couldn't!

"Stop! You can't cut that one!"

I shrieked with every ounce of air in my lungs, ripping my arm out of my mother's grip and sprinting forward.

"Hazel!" Mom screamed behind me, her voice laced with pure terror.

I didn't care. The only thing in my field of vision was that massive apple tree.

That was Dad. He was right under there.

"Hey! Kid! Watch out!" The worker stumbled backward, startled, lowering the screeching blade.

I slammed my back against the rough bark, spreading my arms out as wide as I could, acting as a human shield.

"Don't you touch this tree!" I roared at them, my face slick with snot and tears.

Mom reached me a second later. She clamped her arms around my waist from behind and hauled me backward.

"I am so sorry! She's just acting out! I've got her!" she babbled frantically to the crew, her forearms digging into my ribs like iron bars.

"Let me go! Mom, let me go!"

I kicked, I thrashed, I dug my fingernails into the dirt to anchor myself.

I couldn't leave. If I left, Dad was gone forever.

"Stop it! Stop making a scene!"

I was dragged further and further away.

The worker, getting a nod of approval from Mr. Caldwell, raised the heavy chainsaw again.

"No!" My scream tore my throat raw.

Crunch. A sickening thud echoed as the steel teeth bit deep into the wood.

The entire tree gave a violent shudder.

It looked exactly like a man convulsing in pain beneath the soil.

Mom held me tight against her chest, pressing her freezing hands over my eyes.

But through the trembling cracks between her fingers, I watched it sway.

Slowly, agonizingly, it tilted, groaning as the wood splintered, until it crashed down to the earth.

With that deafening boom, my entire world went silent. A dead, suffocating blankness.

Dad had fallen.

The impact kicked up a massive cloud of dust and dead leaves. Mr. Caldwell had gotten what he wanted. He must be thrilled.

I glared at him through my tears with pure hatred. But instead of celebrating, he was frowning, staring down at the exposed patch of earth near the stump.

He crouched down, scooping up a handful of dirt, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He turned his head and looked at me, his voice quiet.

"Sweetheart, tell me something. Why were you so desperate to protect this specific tree?"

Mom's grip on me instantly turned bone-crushing.

She tried to pull me backward, tried to clamp her hand over my mouth, tried to laugh it off as a child's nonsense.

But it was too late.

Everything was too late. Dad was never coming back.

I shoved Mom's hand away with a violent jerk.

I looked at the man in the suit, my face streaked with mud and grief, and with the last scrap of energy I had, I screamed the secret I had carried for three years.

"Because that's my dad!"

"You just killed my dad!"