Cristin Bishara - Relativity

I can see into the field far enough. It looks like a navigable path, and it’s aimed in the right direction, so I decide to walk to the oak tree. I’ve been wanting to get a closer look, and after hearing Willow’s stories, I’m more curious than ever. Besides, let’s face it: there’s nothing better to do.

Five minutes into my trek, reality check. This is not easy. Leaves lash my face, dust and dirt invade my sinuses. I’m sweating. And sneezing. My entire body itches. A humongous insect orbits my head, and I spin around, swatting and ducking.

“Get away!” It dodges the palm of my hand and slowly drifts off, unimpressed.

I’m left wondering: Was I going this way, or that way, or …? There are no landmarks in a cornfield.

“Crap.” I walk a little more, then stop to gulp the last of my soda, wishing I’d chosen water instead. Sucrose and caramel color aren’t exactly quenching my thirst.

Relax, Ruby. You’ve only been walking five minutes. How lost can you be?

Okay, maybe it’s been ten minutes, though as far as I can tell, I’ve stayed within the confines of a single row, which means I’m walking in a straight line. I jump, stretching my neck, trying to glimpse the third floor of Willow’s house. No use. The corn is eight feet tall. Add the tassels on top, maybe it’s ten. And I suck at jumping.

Ridiculous? Yes, indeed.

I can navigate BART all over San Francisco, to and from the East Bay, south to the airport, and anywhere in between. The maps are easy to read; the lines are color-coded. I never feel intimidated. I’m never lost. But then again, I’m never alone. I’m either with Dad or George.

George. I picture him at the café, in our usual spot, on the leather couch. I should be next to him, scooping whipped cream off the top of my shake, then his. I should not be dripping with sweat in the middle of a cornfield. Last week should not have been the end. It shouldn’t have been our last time together, our good-bye.

“Your going-away present,” he’d said, handing me a wrapped gift.

“Thanks!” I’d taken the opportunity to move closer. Our thighs were touching; we were shoulder to shoulder. I could smell his skin, a hint of the sandalwood soap his mother stocks the bathrooms with. “Let’s see,” I said, though it was obvious it was a book. A big one.

“Try not to squeal with excitement.”

I snorted with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t know how to squeal, even if I wanted to.”

“You’d squeal if your dad told you he’d changed his mind, and you weren’t moving.”

“I might attempt a cartwheel,” I admitted. “Which would be ugly.”

I peeled the wrapping paper off and held the book in my hands, grinning. It was a collection of photos from the Hubble telescope. Amazing, full-color pictures of impossible things. Star clusters, the Crab Nebula, spiral galaxies. New stars emerging from molecular clouds. Storms on Jupiter.

I’d wanted to kiss George, but things weren’t like that. Couldn’t be like that. He and Jamie had just broken up, so he was still off-limits. She would’ve killed both of us in a jealous rage. Maybe after a few months, it would’ve been okay. After she’d moved on to the next boyfriend, and if I hadn’t moved three time zones east. Then George and I would’ve had a chance to become more than just flirty friends. Eventually, I’m pretty sure. Like a 90 percent shot. But now I’ll never know.

Because I’m going to die from corn asphyxiation. Honestly. If one more leaf smacks me across the neck or ends up in my mouth … gag.

Finally, the upper branches of the oak tree emerge, sending shadows over the tall cornstalks. Yes! All along I was perfectly on track. After another hundred feet or so the field ends abruptly, and I’m standing in an open patch of grass, shaking off corn silk and claustrophobia. I breathe. A very deep breath. So far, the only good thing about Ennis is the smell of fresh air.

And the tree!

It’s enormous, majestic. It casts its shade thick and wide, blocking the sun, and the cool air is a kiss of relief after sweating through the cornfield. I walk carefully, stepping over roots that erupt through the earth at intervals, like knuckles, fingers gripping the ground. To think this tree started as an acorn—a seed you could hold in the palm of your hand. How long ago? It shot roots into the soil, spread branches into the sky, feeding on carbon dioxide and rainwater. It thickened and stretched, cells multiplying, pulling itself up, straightening its spine like an evolving primate.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper. It’s almost human in its presence. A breathing, living thing.

I hit the web browser on my phone and type in how old are oak trees in the search field. I scroll through the site listings and find an oak in England that’s a thousand years old, and one in California that’s two thousand. Most sites say they live closer to four hundred years. So this tree could predate the American Revolution, or even the Pilgrims.

I wish George could see this. I pull out my phone and try to frame the tree for a photo, but of course it doesn’t fit in the viewfinder. I step back, but it’s no use. There’s no way to capture its size and grandeur. If he were here, he’d pull out his sketchbook, and we’d sit quietly for hours while he worked his pencil magic.

I step closer to the trunk, reaching out to press my hands against the bark, layered and gray like stone. But I pull back, suddenly remembering Willow’s stories of electrocution, death by fire.

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re not going to fry me up for dinner, right?” I ask.

You’re an idiot, Ruby. It’s a tree. A bunch of xylem cells and phloem tissue. Plant matter. Not a serial killer.

It doesn’t answer my question. “Didn’t think so,” I say. At the base of the trunk there’s an even nook, almost like a small front porch. With some lingering apprehension, I sit cross-legged there, leaning lightly, hesitantly, against the trunk. Nothing bad happens. The methane in my intestines doesn’t erupt into flames. I don’t spontaneously combust.

In the distance, I hear the hum of a lawnmower. A soothing buzz. I close my eyes and relax, daydreaming. My mind skips through memories and settles on one of George singing happy birthday to me in the school parking lot, the way he jumped onto the hood of his car and ended with an operatic flourish: “And many more!” I feel happy in this moment, and sleepy. I’m just nodding off—destined for sweet dreams, for sure—when something hits the top of my head and bounces into my lap.

“Hey!” I say, startled and annoyed. It’s a piece of bark. I twist around to look up and behind me. Maybe a squirrel knocked it loose. I pick it up and chuck it toward the cornfield.

I lean against the tree again, trying to pick up where I left off. George singing happy birthday. I’m dozing off when another piece hits. This time I stand up and accuse the tree. “A break, please? That’s all I want!”

I shake my head. What am I doing here? Stranded in the middle of nowhere, at the bottom of Dad’s priorities. I’m not going to cry. But if I do, at least no one will see me here. I look up at the tree, its branches outstretched like it would give me a reassuring pat on the back, if only it could. That’s when I notice, about ten feet up, a bare spot.

A lot of bark has fallen off, and now I see that the ground is littered with chunks. Odd. I wonder if a tree disease, a parasite, is at work. And then I hear the buzz again. The hum I thought was a distant lawnmower is neither: it’s not distant, not a lawnmower.

It’s the tree. Tentatively, I press my hands flat against the trunk. It’s vibrating. From within.

I pull away, my hands tingling slightly. Are the stories true? The only thing I can hear is my heart, and the voice in my head: They’re just stories to scare kids . There must be a reasonable explanation for the vibrating. Something’s going on here that makes sense.