26
Then she wondered how Bob would react once she started to turn tree. She imagined his face— the wide O of his mouth, the trembling fingers on his hands—as he tried to hold all of her tree-pieces together. Or maybe he would be too afraid to touch her.
As her arms twisted into branches and her hair curled into leaves, Bob would not know what was happening. Maybe he would back up slowly. In her mind, Lissa could see his orthopedic sneakers take a few mincing steps backwards across the freshly waxed floor. She could hear the whining squeak of plastic soles as he backed into a crate full of apples. She could see the crate spill onto the floor, shiny red apples going everywhere. Bob would stare at her form in terror.
He would not see the parts of her that were still her, he would lose sight of her face as she curled towards a sky that lived somewhere beyond the top of the shelving. Beyond the layer of bread that had been burrowed into by a determined family of mice, beyond the dusty fluorescent lighting and solid concrete ceilings.
But of course, that would never happen, thought Lissa. Casually, she plucked a withered leaf from where it sprouted from the pale skin on her forearm. Green veins flashed inside her elbow beneath the congealed moonlight.
Lissa’s other hand clutched her car keys spasmodically, and she saw a flash of car lights just a few feet away. She sighed, closed her eyes, and settled deeper into the hollow of tree bark. As the night went quiet and still, Lissa’s hair grew long and twisted, rooting itself into the dirt of the base of the tree.
You cannot get lost if you never leave.
In the morning, the men came. They wrapped the tree in yellow caution tape and did not see the girl that had grown into its side.