Chapter 7 Jill #2
She felt sorry for the trees, which were being smothered by the vines. Woven into a great, heavy net, they soaked up all the sunlight and drank up all the rain—stealing everything the trees needed to survive. They’d taken over the woods. Now they were coming for the McCreedys’ house.
Turning her back on the woods, Jill began weeding the garden beds. She pulled out clump after clump of chickweed, filling
a black trash bag in no time. Next, she used her trowel to dig up stubborn dandelion and crabgrass roots.
After an hour, her arms were coated with a sheen of sweat and dirt. Her hairline was damp. Her mouth was dry. She wanted a
drink of water from her mom’s thermos, but she didn’t want to stop working until she’d cut a few vines with the hedge clippers.
For the next fifteen minutes, the scissor-like blades bit through the vines hanging over the fence. They tumbled to the ground
like clumps of hair, and by the time she’d created a small channel of space between the trees and the fence, she was ready
for a break.
Wiping her wet brow with the bottom of her T-shirt, she stared into the woods.
They were too quiet.
There was no birdsong or drone of insects.
There was nothing.
In the silence, Jill could sense the vines moving.
She could almost feel their tiny, maggot-white root hairs wriggling through the soil. Stretching and probing. It was only
a matter of time before fresh, young shoots climbed over the fence. Without constant trimming, they’d spill down and blanket
the brown-bellied juniper bushes. After that, they’d crawl over the patio and come for the house.
Jill imagined them growing and spreading until they couldn’t be stopped.
These vines were the reason behind the concrete drainage gully running between their property and the empty lot next to Mrs. Smith’s house. As soon as the vines reached the ditch, Jill’s dad would cut them back and douse the lacerated stalks with weed killer.
Year after year, the vines tried to creep onto the vacant lot. They were a constant nuisance, and no matter what Jill’s father
did to them, they always came back. But if he didn’t stop them, they’d invade the Scotts’ property.
He told Jill that oriental bittersweet couldn’t be burned. It had to be attacked at ground level. However, trying to rip the
spiderweb of orange roots out of the dark earth was only a temporary solution. The roots tunneled deep into the soil, branching
out like hundreds of tiny lightning bolts. A severed root could regenerate like a lizard’s tail.
The vine was a survivor. It had found a home in Mrs. Smith’s woods. And now, it wanted more. It wanted to spread, smothering
and choking every living thing in its path.
I bet Mrs. Smith wants that, too, Jill thought with sudden clarity. It’s all over her property. She must love it.
Jill swiped at her sweaty forehead and glared at the woods.
She was angry.
She hated the sight of the suffocating trees. She hated having to spend her Saturday cutting the insatiable vines. She was
hot and thirsty. And hungry. The bowl of Raisin Bran she’d eaten for breakfast seemed like a distant memory. She wanted to
tell her mom that she’d had enough—that she was going to the pool to hang out with her friends. She wanted to sit with them
on the hot stone steps and eat a sun-softened ice cream sandwich while they talked about boys.
She knew she wasn’t going anywhere until her mother was good and ready.
Then they’d load the tools into the car and head home, and her mom wouldn’t even thank her for helping.
She’d just tell her to scrape the dirt out from under her nails before she sat down for lunch or not to wear her dirty shoes in the house.
And lunch would probably be a turkey and cheese sandwich on that dry-as-sand wheat bread. Jill would get apple slices or carrot
sticks while Justin could have a mountain of potato chips. He could have whatever he wanted. Chips. Oreos. An orange Creamsicle.
Grilled cheese on rye.
If Jill asked for any of those things, her mother would say, “Have a nice glass of milk.”
J.J. should be here, Jill thought, her anger building. It’s not fair.
A jagged rock poked out of a brown patch of grass close to Jill’s sneaker. She pried it out of the ground and hurled it toward
the woods. It sailed over the fence and was instantly swallowed by the dense vines.
She heard a faint rustle when her missile struck the foliage, but although she waited for the muffled thud of the rock hitting
the ground, it never came.
The silence was as dense as the woods.
Jill felt eyes on her. There was something behind the trees, back where the shadows stitched together. Something was there,
watching her.
Mrs. Smith.
Fear knotted Jill’s stomach.
She took a step backward. She couldn’t see a thing beyond the tangled mass of vines, but she knew she was no longer alone.
Jill grabbed the garden trowel, clippers, and the garbage bags stuffed with withering weeds. Then she ran to the front of
the house and told her mother she’d finished her work.
Behind her, the vines she’d cut were already healing.