At the Pear Tree

The crackling of the fluorescent lights overhead were the only sound audible in the little room the hospital had labeled “the chapel”. Sara had fallen to her knees on the deep, red carpet and had begun praying to a God she wasn’t even sure she believed in anymore. Tears clouded her vision and she felt as though her heart would explode right from her chest.

“Please God, please don’t take her. Please.” she sobbed. “I need her, God. I need my mom. Please don’t take her from me.”

With this, Sara folded into a heap on the floor and lay there for a while, curled into the fetal position, her breathing so erratic she nearly blacked out. The small room smelled of hospital disinfectant and sorrow. People rarely came to the hospital chapel for happy reasons. No. They came here to beg their God to save the one they love. Sara’s mother was dying. Cancer. There was nothing the doctors could do. It had taken over her mother’s tiny body and there was just too much of it.

Sara couldn’t understand how this could happen. She had just talked to her mother the night before and she was fine. How could she have cancer and not know? This wasn’t supposed to happen. She needed her mom. Her heart ached so deep that Sara actually thought that she could feel it twisting inside her body; constricting tighter and tighter until it crushed itself from the inside out. And she would welcome it. She would welcome death because the thought of a life without her mom was too painful to bear.

After what felt like an eternity Sara pulled herself up, using the prie-dieu to balance herself, and wiped the salty tears from her face. She knew she looked a mess as she left the confines of the chapel. She had been at the hospital all night, holding vigil by her mother’s bedside. Her pale face was puffy and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She had been picking at her lips; a nervous habit that her husband hated, and they were full, red, and bleeding in areas. She had to go tell her sons. But how could she? How could she tell her boys that the woman they loved most in the world was going to die today? And she would have to tell her young daughter, who was at home asleep with her stepsister.

The tears began flowing again and she felt the world spin. She grabbed onto the rail in the hallway and tried to slow her breathing before she had another panic attack. She had to be strong for them, but she didn’t know if she could. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to survive this herself, let alone be strong for her babies. She felt so young in that moment. So helpless. She was a 34 year old woman, but in that moment all she needed was her mom. She felt as though she was a child again, fully dependent on her mother. It was such a horrible feeling.

When Sara felt as though she could walk without falling over, she made her way down the long corridor and through the big, metal, double doors leading to the surgical waiting room. Her two sons, Alex and Ryan, looked up as soon as she walked through the doors. Immediately, Sara felt the tears rising up and she fought to hold them back. She sat down across from them, trying desperately to avoid breaking down.

“Boys, Grandma isn’t going to make it. I’m...I’m s.s..sso sorry.” she began crying right at the end, turning away to avoid seeing the pain in their faces.

Her heart broke all over again hearing the wails coming from their young mouths. Eleven and twelve are difficult ages to lose your grandparent and Sara’s sons were incredibly close with their Grandma. She reached out to hug her oldest, Ryan, but he pulled away and stormed out the doors and down the hall. Sara’s husband, Jason, followed after him. Alex cried into Sara’s lap and she cried as she stroked his black curls. Sara didn’t know how any of them would survive this.

The next week was a blur of funeral planning, uncontrollable bouts of crying, and Jack Daniels. Lots of Jack Daniels. It was the only way that Sara made it through that week. She needed something to numb some of the pain, something to make her forget the giant void she felt inside. She couldn’t sleep. She didn’t eat. And then she worried so much about her kids that she was making herself sick. But she was too busy to be sick.

Funerals are this strange mixture of comfort and torture all mixed into one. There’s a comfort in seeing loved ones they haven’t seen in a while and sharing memories of the person they’ve lost and laughing and smiling through the tears. But then funerals take place during the worst time in a person’s life; when all they want to do is to cry and grieve and drink and be alone. But instead of having that time, they are forced to get out of bed and plan a funeral and greet guests and keep it together when all they want to do is fall apart.

Then, once the funeral is over, the rest of the world goes back to normal and they are left there with the void, the loneliness. They are left there trying to pick up all of the pieces. That’s how Sara felt, like she was trying to pick up all the pieces, only some of those pieces were missing and she didn’t know how to go on without them. There were days when she didn’t want to leave the bed. Her husband had to force her to shower every few days. She knew that she had to snap out of it; she had kids. Her mother would have been so upset to see her this way. But she was so lost in her grief that she couldn’t muster the energy to try.

One day, a few weeks after her mother had died, when she felt so lost that she couldn’t take it, she drove her car to the cemetery to lay upon her mothers’ grave. She brought a bottle of cheap whiskey and drank and cried and talked to her mother until she finally rested her head upon the cold, frozen ground and drifted off to sleep. Sara was awakened by one of the groundskeepers who thought that she was dead. She jerked awake, knocking the empty bottle to the side and nearly screaming as she sat up.

“Ma’am, are you alright? I thought you were dead!” he cried.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just fell asleep.” Sara told him, slightly embarrassed, slightly annoyed.

The man looked angry now that he realized that Sara was not only alive, but drunk. He shook his head.

“It’s about to be dusk and we close the gates at that time, so you’ll want to get ready to head out soon.” he said, making it clear that he meant she should leave now without actually saying it.

‘Yup.” Sara responded, standing and wiping the dirt from her jeans and coat and walking to her car.

She hadn’t planned on getting drunk and passing out asleep on her mother’s grave, but there were days when she felt as though her soul was no longer attached, and today was one of those days. She climbed in her car and drove a little ways around the cemetery before realizing she was far too intoxicated to drive, so she parked her car in the parking lot and called for an Uber. She was barely paying attention as they drove down High Street to get to the freeway when a sign caught her eye, “Psychic Readings, Tarot”.

“Stop!” she cried to the driver, an older Italian man with a wonderfully thick accent. “Pull into this parking lot up here on the right. Please.”

“Here?” he asked, confused.

“Yes. Please.” she reassured him.

The driver pulled into the lot and Sara thanked him and climbed out of the car. She felt a little silly now that she stood there, just steps from the door. She wasn’t sure what it was that made her stop. She wasn’t one to really believe in that kind of thing. She believed that there were people in the world that were sensitive to things beyond the normal person, but she didn’t believe that every “psychic” was anything more than a fraud. Yet something inside her pulled her to this very place. She had felt it. She took a deep breath as she opened the door to the brick, one-story building. A bell chimed as she stepped inside.

It smelled of cactus flower incense but aside from that it did not look like what she had envisioned. The walls weren’t black, there were no velvet curtains or round tables or crystal balls. In fact, it was very beautifully decorated. There were modern touches with vintage charm. A beautiful woman came from the back and greeted her with a smile. Her long, black hair was pulled into a loose braid and she wore a white blouse and loose, flowy black pants. It was hard to determine how old she was or even her race because there was something very fluid in the way she appeared, like she was a mystery even though she was right in front of you.

“Hello. How can I help you?” she asked. “I’m not actually sure. I...I don’t know why I’m here. I just…..” Sara started.

“The pear tree. You came to find out about the pear tree.” she interrupted.

“What? No. I don’t need a pear tree. What the…..no.” Sara snapped, turning sharply and marching towards the door.

“Your mother. She waits for you at the pear tree.” the woman said.

Sara stopped, goosebumps forming on her arms under her heavy winter coat. She stood silently for a moment in front of the door, her back to the woman.

“What did you say?”

“Your mother. She waits for you at the pear tree.” the woman began, “She is no longer in pain. She no longer suffers. The pear tree represents immortality and your mother was given that when she left this earth. She waits for you there. But she wants you to stay here for a long time. She says they need you. Your children, Sara. You are needed here.”

Tears streamed down Sara’s face. She felt a weight lift a little from her heart. They needed her here. She needed to hear that and her mother knew she needed to hear it from her.

“Thank you.” she told the woman, reaching into her purse to pay the woman for her time.

“No, dear. This one was free. Your mother brought you here to me.” she smiled, handed Sara a box of tissues, and headed to the back again leaving Sara alone.

Sara cried for a minute, feeling the pent up pain release itself from her soul and pour out with her tears.

“Thank you, Mom. Thank you. I love you so much and I’ll see you someday. At the pear tree.”