Page 127 of We Already Dug the Grave

Sadness overwhelmed Hattie’s tired bones, but she forced herself up and out of bed and gathered her sketch pad and pencils, as well as her little garden trowel, and tucked it all into her favorite wicker basket, then headed for the forest, whistling an old hymn her mother had loved.

I come to the garden alone—while the dew is still on the roses…

She wasn’t religious—the women in her family seldom were—but something about this verse in particular had always spoken to her. Being alone in a garden was as close to God as she could imagine.

Walking the woods and spending time with trees whose roots curled deep into the earth, with wildflowers who seemed to whisper her name, and among the hills that were older than the continent as it now stood, always granted Hattie…not serenity exactly, but perspective.

A way to recalibrate.

Hattie would find a nice spot, slide off her shoes so that she could feel the dirt and damp leaves and pine needles beneath her feet, then take a seat on the ground. Yes, she could get up and down on her own, thank you very much. Her knees and hips weren’t what they used to be, but she was quick to tell anyone who’d listen how she could still place her hands flat on the floor in front of her without bending her knees, no problem. Neither Ruthie nor the girls could say the same.

Of course, at barely five foot, the ground wasn’t that far away. Not for Hattie-May.

There was a break in the trees, and enough sunlight dappled through the canopy to give a patch of wildflowers a fighting chance. Her old friend snakeroot was blooming white and frothy, as was frostweed. Hattie-May named each flower out loud as she passed. Golden aster. Swamp thistle. She smiled at the small crop of ghost pipes. When they were children, her late sister (Ruthie and Lilibet’s mama) had sworn the long pink-and-white flower resembled a penis. Even though Hattie’d known better for quite a long time, she still giggled like a schoolgirl whenever they made their seasonal appearance.

The forest always rewarded her, usually with a good memory and a laugh.

Without meaning to and with no forethought, she walked toward the sound of the creek. So many happy memories near here! The girls splashing ankle deep, catching tadpoles in old Cool Whip containers. Pretending to be mountain mermaids.

Hattie was so lost in her own thoughts, she almost missed it.

Would’ve missed it, if she hadn’t walked directly upon it. Perhaps if the whisper hadn’t been so urgent. Look look look. The words coming from her head. Her heart. From her bones.

When she saw the feckless thing struggling in the sandy dirt, she gasped. It couldn’t be—not here—not so close. Not when she’d spent a good part of her younger years foraging through miles of forest trails in search of one. She’d wanted it to be real so badly that she’d refused to give up, to believe that it was an old wives’ tale.

A fable.

She’d thought she saw one as a little girl, but there were times she doubted the memory.

It was during these moments when the internal door seemed to shake on its hinges and the whisper ordered her into the forest. Keep searching searching searching…

For a long moment she stood still as a garden statue, like a fearful worshipper who’d stumbled across their god.

She inched closer, as if she’d scare the tiny plant. It was too small to call a sapling. Her heart pounded as she approached. The mourning willow was sickly, curling forward, but she’d recognize it anywhere. Hattie used her trowel to scoop it from the earth. She held it inches from her face, unable to suppress a giddy smile.

Yes, the forest rewarded her.

She placed the baby tree in her basket, and turned to leave, before remembering the most important thing a mourning willow needed to survive. How could it slip her mind? Many thoughts had been slipping lately, like water through a sieve, but perhaps this particular moment could be chalked up to excitement. A mourning willow! Here! On her hill!

Where there was a mourning willow, there was death.

The little sapling would need sustenance. Hattie sank her trowel back into the earth, expecting to make contact with the remains of a forest creature. Perhaps one unlucky enough to cross paths with Frances. Hattie had known for a long time that Frances wasn’t like the other kids, but she hoped her quiet niece’s curiosity would lead her to the medical field. She was such a sweet girl, after all. So bright. She’d be a good surgeon, and it would be nice to have a doctor in the family.

There was no forest creature.

What Hattie-May found was a hand.

Pale. Bony. Its skin peeling away. The nailbeds black with rot. A silver ring on one of its fingers.

Without hesitating, she used her trowel to uncover the body. That was what she was doing: uncovering. Whoever the unlucky person was, they weren’t deep enough beneath the soil to call them buried nor could you call what Hattie-May was doing digging.

She scraped away the layers of dirt, revealing what had fed the sapling.

An arm. A torso.

All eaten through with worms and worse. For maybe the first time, she was thankful her sense of smell wasn’t what it once was. When she uncovered the face, she stumbled back, landing hard on her butt. Oh no. Poor sweet boy.

Then, once her thoughts arranged themselves into something making sense…