Chapter 10 - The Garden on Elm Street
By the third week, the yellow bruises had faded to a faint tea-colored shadow beneath Clara’s left orbit. The house had stopped smelling of Martha’s disinfectant and had begun to smell like cedar mulch.
Clara spent Saturday morning in the back garden, kneeling on a rubber mat with a hand trowel. The perennial bed along the cedar fence had been neglected for two seasons. Bindweed and crabgrass had choked out the black-eyed Susans, winding their pale, rubbery roots around the crowns of the plants until they couldn't reach the sunlight.
She dug her fingers into the damp earth, working methodically. It was hard, physical labor that made her lower back ache and her shoulder burn where Ryan had shoved her against the doorframe, but each root she pulled out gave off the sweet, sharp scent of fresh dirt.
Martha brought out two glasses of lemonade with mint leaves floating on top. She sat on the wooden deck steps, watching her daughter work.
"You’re going to give yourself blisters," Martha noted.
May you like
"Good," Clara said without looking up. "Blisters mean your skin is making something thicker to protect what’s underneath."
She held up a clump of earth, shaken loose from a clump of hostas. A pale green shoot was already pushing through the dark soil, blanched from being buried too deep, but stubborn. She pressed it back into a new trench, packed the dirt around its base with her palms, and poured water from a rusty can over its roots until the puddle settled clear.
