FFM 2020: Grow
“Papa, don’t forget to do your injection.” Cara calls from the other room, and tilts her head around the corner of the door, just to check.Her father sees her, and rolls his eyes, his face creasing with old laugh lines. “I won’t forget.”Which is what he always says, but she knows better, and leaves the living room lights on because otherwise he’ll just fall asleep in his chair.“You’re meant to take it on a schedule.” Always the same exchange, every night. But she’s glad for it, because it means he’s still here.He grumbles, but to her surprise he gets up, grimacing with pain as his legs creak beneath him like old wood. Every day, the disease reaches a little further, takes over a little more of him. The medicine helps, but he has to take it regularly or it won’t work. Sometimes Cara wonders if it’s some subconscious thing. Maybe he wants to die. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe, it’s all of those things. She knows plenty of people live for years with the treatment, and manage to have perfectly normal lives. But his symptoms are advanced, and he is old, and it is only a matter of time.He absently scratches at the exposed knot of his knee, and plucks a shoot of new growth that has taken root there. Crushing the tiny leaf between the pads of his rough fingers, he turns to her and smiles.“My legs think that it’s spring.” He says with a chuckle. But they both know it’s a bad sign.He shuffles over to the counter, removes his medicine from the fridge, and prepares the injection.“Night, Papa.” Cara calls, and turns away. Aware, as she always is, that their time is increasingly precious.-That night she dreams they’re back at the old house, and all the rooms are full of strangers. Her father is asleep in the room at the end of the hall, and he wakes up as she walks in. “Did I sleep all day, Cara?” He asks her, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”“It’s ok, Papa.” She tells him. “Rest for as long as you need.” She goes back to the front of the house, and when she looks through the doors, she sees her old cat running towards her across the paving stones, and there is a jolt of unreality, because she knows he’s dead, even here, and she’s just so happy to see him.“What are you doing here boy?” She asks, laughing as she gathers him up into her arms, marvelling at the weight of him. She presses her face to his soft black fur, still warm from the sun, and breathes in. He’s so real, how can he be this real?When she looks at his face, she see’s there’s something small and dark clamped in his mouth. “Here,” she says, and when she takes it from him her fingers come away bloody. She opens her hand and a tiny bird's liver rolls across her palm.“You never used to hunt birds.” She tells the cat, but when she looks up he is gone, and the dream dissolves around her like dust.-It takes her a long time to wake up, the dream still lingering at the edges of her mind. She knows it wasn’t real, and yet her cat has never visited her dreams before, and she feels strangely disquieted by the visit. She checks her hand, just in case, but the skin of her palm is clean.When she goes down to make breakfast, her father is already sitting in the kitchen. He’s wearing shorts despite the winter chill, and his legs are entirely covered in blossoms.“Cara.” He says.“Oh,” she looks at him, meets his steady gaze, and her face crumples. “Hang on Papa, I’ll call the ambulance. Just…wait. Please, wait.” She runs for the phone and dials the number with shaking fingers, but they both know it’s no use. Even as she watches, he burgeons with growth. Flowers burst forth across his skin, and the last thing she sees is his smile.-“As you can see, the grove is well maintained, our tenants want for nothing.” Cara nods, smiles, hands clasped before her because it helps to have something to hold onto, even if it’s just herself. “Thank you, I appreciate all your help.” She tells the Arborist, and accepts the proffered information pamphlets, stuffing them into her purse.There is no one else at the internment, no family, no friends. Everyone they knew or loved is gone, and it’s just her now. She is the final witness. The grass underfoot is brittle with frost, but the trees in the Arbour don’t seem to notice. Here, it is always spring. The sun shines, pale and cold through the tall branches, and fallen white blossoms crush beneath the soles of her shoes. She walks up to the tree, her tree - just a sapling really, and places a hand against the bark.“Night, Papa.” She says, one last time.She turns away, and doesn’t look back.
The-Inkling