When my stepdad passed away, I moved back in with my mom.

Initially, she wasn't doing so well. But after a couple weeks, she took up a new hobby that seemed to change her outlook on life: gardening. I know, I should’ve been happy. I mean, it was better than locking herself in her bedroom crying all day, right?

But…

It was weird. Gardening is the last thing I would expect my mom to do. She’s a very fast-paced, independent businesswoman type. She doesn’t cook, she isn’t crafty, and she absolutely hates the outdoors. The bugs, the sunburns, the pollen allergies—all of it.

“And she’s so weird about it,” I told my boyfriend over the phone. “Like a few days ago, she found me in the garden, and she flipped out. And did I tell you she only works on it at night? She says it’s because she sunburns. But you have to admit, it’s super weird.”

“Okay, yes, it’s a little odd. But that’s probably when she’s feeling the most lonely,” Matt offered.

I paced into the kitchen. Even though it was almost midnight, I could see her dim silhouette just beyond the back porch light. Hunched over the garden bed.

“She’s out there right now,” I whispered, even though she couldn’t possibly hear. “I’m worried about her.”

“I know you are, Ali. But it’s only been a few months—”

“Richard wasn’t even that great! He was constantly spending her money. He didn’t have a job, but he was always getting the latest iPhone, Airpods, laptops…”

“Ali,” he warned.

“At least they were only married five years. Imagine if he lived longer. She wouldn’t have anything left—”

“ALI!” Matt shouted into the phone.

I sucked in a shaky breath. “Okay, okay. Sorry. He wasn’t that bad. I just… I dunno. It hurts that she’s like a thousand times sadder about his death than Dad’s.”

“I get it. But you have to be nice. And support her. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Give her time. Let her be.”

“You’re right.”

But when I hung up the phone, I opened the door and walked right down to the garden. Maybe it was rude, but that’s why I was here, as Matt said. To support her. To keep an eye on her. To help her get on her feet.

“Oh, hi, Alison,” she said, straightening. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“I guess so. But I just wanted to get a little more work done in the garden.” She pulled her bare hands out of the soil, her fingernails caked with black dirt.

Gone were the days of perfect French gel manicures, I guess. “We should get you some gardening gloves.”

“I like to feel the soil under my bare hands.”

“What are you planting?” I asked, crouching next to her.

“Just some vegetables.”

“Which ones?”

“Well… I’ve got some radishes over there,” she said, pointing to the far end of the bed. “And I was thinking of putting some carrots over here.”

“Aren’t you allergic to carrots?”

“They’d be for you.”

“Oh,” I said lamely. “Thanks. That’s really nice.”

“Of course.” She brushed a bit of dirt from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Now, why don’t you head to bed? I don’t want to keep you up, and I’ll be in soon.”

So she wanted to get rid of me.

I almost protested, but then I remembered Matt’s words. Let her be. I forced a smile and stood up. “Okay. Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, hun.”

***

I realized it as I was falling asleep.

I’d been just drifting off, my thoughts stretching into strange and illogical dreams like pieces of taffy. And then four words popped in my head, screaming for attention:

She wasn’t planting anything.

The entire time I was out there, talking to her. She was just… sticking her fingers into the dirt. Pulling them out. Scratching at the top of the soil, then patting it down. It was like that scene from Monty Python with the peasants. They look like they’re doing work, but they’re just stacking mud, over and over and over.

What if…

What if it wasn’t a garden? What if it was just a four-by-eight rectangle of empty dirt, that she kept playing with, every day, for hours on end?

I rolled over, listening to my mom’s footsteps in the adjacent room. Then the creak of the bed as she stepped up into it.

What if she just… snapped?

I stood up and walked over to the window. Outside I could see the garden, illuminated by the full moon. The large rectangular bed of freshly-turned dirt, the fence surrounding it.

Memories flashed through my mind of the hours I’d seen my mom, hunched over the garden bed. Digging and pulling at the dirt with her bare hands, her fingernails caked with it, the darkness seeping into every wrinkle. Her eyes focused downwards, never looking up.

I’ve never seen her plant a seed. Never watched her dig a hole and put a plant in.

I’d only seen her bent over, pushing, pulling, tearing, raking her fingers through the earth.

Oh, Mom…

I had to know. I had to. I stood frozen in front of the window for fifteen minutes or so, waiting until I was sure she was asleep. Then I crept down the stairs and walked into the backyard.

The summer air was alive. Crickets chirping, frogs croaking, a few lightning bugs dancing in the darkness. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and walked to the back of our yard, where the garden sat. I unlocked the gate and stepped inside. A narrow gravel path surrounded the raised bed in the center: a four-by-eight cedar construction, filled to the brim with garden soil.

I started at the corner where she said she planted radishes.

I stuck my fingers into the damp earth. Scraped away at the layers of soil. Pawed and sifted and examined.

There was nothing.

No seeds, no seedlings, nothing. Just dirt and dirt and more dirt. “No,” I whispered, backing away from the bed.

And then I saw it.

Something glinting in the dirt.

I stood up. Slowly walked over to it, crouched down. Yes—there it was—something shiny poking out of the soil. I leaned over, brushed the dirt away with my thumb. Glass? Oh, no, Mom. You could’ve cut your fingers up on this.

I grabbed the glass—and pulled.

Out of the dirt came a pair of glasses.

A familiar pair. Wire-frames. Thick square lenses. Grief shot through my heart as I stared at them, and my hands trembled.

They were my stepdad’s.

***

My thought was a crazy one, but I wasn’t going to risk it.

My car crawled up the steep hill to Fairview Cemetery. Pink light bled through the clouds on the horizon, and a flock of birds dotted the sky. I yawned. I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep—I’d just lay there, confused and terrified, waiting until dawn.

The air was still as I parked my car. Dew clung to the grass and wet my boots as I walked through the tombstones. I fidgeted with the pair of glasses in my pocket, chewing my lip. And then I was there—standing in front of Richard’s tombstone.

I let out a sigh of relief.

The dirt was perfectly intact. Sprigs of grass popped up through the dark dirt, and a bouquet of wilted flowers lay on top.

Did I really think she…?

I mean, the four-by-eight bed was a perfect size to bury someone. Especially someone tall, like Richard. And I could’ve sworn he’d been buried in those glasses…

I shook my head.

She didn’t. It was fine. Everything was fine.

I walked back to the car, the pink glow deepening into orange that glowed as brightly as smelted steel. I opened the door, took a breath of the fresh spring air, and began the drive home. I’d ask Mom about the garden later, but for now, I was at least reassured she wasn’t a total psychopath.

But when I opened the front door, the house was empty.

“Mom?” I called, as I walked into the kitchen. The bitter smell of coffee hung in the air, which meant she had to be around here somewhere. “Mom!” I shouted, my voice echoing against the walls.

Nothing.

A cup of half-drunk coffee sat on the table. Next to a muffin, untouched. The sense of unease in my stomach grew. “Mom? Where are you?”

The glass door slid open behind me.

I jumped a foot in the air. “Oh my gosh, Mom. You scared me. You’re out there so early? I thought the sun—”

“You were in my garden last night. Weren’t you?”

My mom’s blue eyes bore into mine. They were cold, examining—none of her usual warmth. I swallowed. “Um, yeah, about that—”

“What did you do?”

I froze. She sounded so accusatory, so panicked. “Nothing! I didn’t do anything! But you…” I trailed off, trying to figure out how to word it gently. “You’re not planting anything. It’s just empty dirt. And I, I found Richard’s glasses out there. What… what are you doing, Mom?”

She shook her head frantically. “No. No. You messed up everything. Where are his glasses, Alison? Where?!”

“Mom—”

“Where are his glasses?!”

My hands were shaking. I’d never seen Mom this mad—not even when I flunked Algebra in tenth grade. “Th-they’re right here,” I said, reaching into my pocket.

She snatched them out of my hands.

Then, without another word, she stormed out of the room.

I watched as she sprinted across the backyard. Fumbled with the garden door. Hunched over the bed and pawed at the dirt like a wild animal. I could see her lips moving, as if she were muttering something to herself, over and over.

I collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and began to sob.

***

“She won’t go to a therapist?”

“No.”

I was at wit’s end. After our big fight, she’d eventually calmed down. She even apologized a bunch of times for her outburst. But… when I suggested going to a therapist, or at least a grief counselor, she vehemently refused. I can’t, I can’t, she kept saying, over and over.

“I want to help her. But I don’t know how anymore.” I sucked in a breath through sobs. “Clearly she’s… she’s not getting better.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you,” Matt replied.

The next few days, things got worse. Mom spent more time on the garden than ever, hauling huge bags of soil amendments inside—bone meal, blood meal, compost. I watched as she worked it all into the soil, her fingers furiously digging into the earth.

But no plants grew.

Not even weeds.

I felt powerless. Like my mom was spiraling into madness and I couldn’t do anything to help. I tried to take her out, buy her things, spend time with her. But she spent more and more time in the garden, less and less with me.

“I could call the police and ask for a wellness check on her.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“She’s getting worse, Matt.”

I didn’t want to turn to extreme measures. Calling the police would mean breaking her trust forever. But maybe that was better than… this.

It was getting ridiculous. I’d find dirty handprints on the refrigerator door. Little trails of black dirt meandering from the back door to Richard’s old rocking chair to Mom’s bedroom. Mom wasn’t just relegating her garden work to nighttime now, either, and her fair skin was sunburned quite badly.

About a week later, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I decided to do something drastic.

I waited until I heard the familiar creak of the mattress. Then I waited about an hour after that, straining my ears for any sound, making sure she was asleep for the night. When I was sure, I tiptoed down the hallway, crept over to the back door, and turned the lock.

I pulled the door open and stepped into the damp grass.

The night was dark. A crescent moon hung above me in the black sky. No crickets chirping, no frogs croaking—just the soft rustle of branches in the wind. I turned back to look at the house, one last time. My mom’s window was still dark.

Good.

I swung the garden gate open. It creaked softly on its hinges. Then I stepped onto the pathway and stared down at the garden bed. No plants, no weeds, just dirt that was pitch black in the waning moonlight.

I grabbed the shovel, leaned up against the garden fence.

And then I plunged it into the dirt.

I pulled a shovelful out, my arms aching with the weight. Dumped it onto the ground. Then another. And another—

My shovel hit something.

My heart dropped. Slowly, carefully, I crouched down to the garden bed.

Something pale was poking through the dark earth.

With shaking hands, I reached down and brushed away the dirt. First slowly—then frantically. My lungs burned as I held my breath. What the hell is—

No.

I was staring at my own face.

Skin whitish pale—the color of roots that never saw the sun. Eyelids fused shut—but translucent enough that I could see the dark irises underneath. Thin, hairlike protrusions grew out of the pores, like little roots sapping up all that the soil had to offer.

I stepped back. No. No…

Crunch.

I whipped around.

Mom was standing behind me.

But there was someone next to her. A silhouette that moved strangely, as if it didn’t yet know how to walk. But I recognized the build. The wire-frame glasses, as he stepped towards me…

Richard.

Richard, dirt caked in the corners of his eyes, underneath his fingernails. The same root-like protrusions growing all over his skin. His eyes fixed at me, the pupils jittering slightly. Then his mouth stretched into a crooked smile, revealing teeth caked with dirt.

Mom wrapped her arms around him and smiled. “You were never going to accept Richard,” she said softly, into the silent night.

“Mom…” I cried out.

“We wanted to be a happy family,” she said, her blue eyes locked on mine. “But you were standing in our way. But then… I got this idea… well, Richard got the idea. And now we’ll be a happy family. Forever. Right, Richard?”

He stepped towards me, his grin widening. The smell of wet, rotting leaves filled my nose. He bent down, with jerky movements, and reached for the shovel at my feet.

I glanced at the garden fence. Six feet of steel. Mom was standing against the gate, smiling as she watched Richard raise the shovel.

“No—Mom, please—”

“I love you, Allison.”

The shovel came down with a dull thump.

And then everything went black.