The Mock Orange Shrub - 1. The Mock Orange Shrub

The Mock Orange Shrub

How had it come to this?

Dalit wiped the beads of sweat that rolled down his forehead with a fancy kerchief pulled from his back pocket. At his feet lay a gently tied Japanese holly, its roots snugly wrapped in burlap as he prepared for another labor-intensive removal. That was the second shrub he uprooted that morning. His gaze drifted back to the eight remaining shrubs that lined the backyard, vibrant reminders of the last ten years of his life. A sharp throb pierced his chest as he recalled watering every one of them as often as needed while his son ran around the yard behind him.

His eyes sought the sun, which hung low on the horizon, partially shrouded by trees.

Clenching his jaw, Dalit hefted the nursery spade shovel, gripping its handle tightly. Approaching the third shrub, he was well aware that the sun's path reminded him of his urgency. Visually measuring where the ends of the roots were, he began to dig a careful circle around them. As he worked, he mentally counted off the months of the year, each thrust of the shovel punctuating the passing time.

January, February, March...

When he reached December, a sizeable root ball had formed beneath the shrub, one that he could carefully lift onto another sheet of burlap to tie the roots securely, creating handles for easier transport. His muscles burned and protested as he worked through the eighth shrub. The outside of his body was a canvas of dirt, streaks of soil marring his face, arms, and expensive pants. He had stripped down to an undershirt; his business jacket, tie, and button-up shirt lay abandoned in the chaotic aftermath of his determination.

Pausing to check the sun's position, Dalit noted it was a quarter of the way up in the sky. Aware of the risks he was taking, he chose to ignore them, feeling that if he lost his momentum now, he might be trapped in this painful limbo forever. He plunged the shovel into the earth once more.

January, February... As he counted off the months in his head, he thought of his last encounter with his wife not an hour prior, a memory that was like the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.

The sky was still dark when he entered the building. Dalit remembered the cold that seeped into the pit of his stomach upon entering the conference room at such an ungodly hour. Eudora was there across from him, but the two of them might as well have been sitting on opposite ends of the Pacific Ocean. She wanted the house, and he was more than willing to let her have it.

"Seriously?" Eudora questioned, disbelief tinging her voice. "You want all of the bushes in the backyard? What are you going to do, uproot them all yourself?"

"Every single one, if I have to."

"You are such a ridiculous man."

A ridiculous man. He'd never heard her call him that in that tone before. The word had always been a term of endearment.

When he finally recognized the type of plant that the last shrub was, tears stung his eyes. The mock orange that bloomed on their first anniversary was a symbol of their early love. Now, it stood like a cruel reminder of everything they had lost, including the one person who had strengthened their union and brought joy to their lives.

"It smells wonderful," Eudora commented as she balanced their son in her arms. "Reminds me of my childhood."

"Happy first anniversary, 'Dora."

Dalit then made funny faces at their son, drawing out a trill of giggles from the infant. Eudora joined in, laughing at his antics.

The echoes of their laughter tickled his ears as he lost himself in a moment of nostalgia. He could almost feel Dora's phantom kiss brushing against his lips along with the grip of their son's tiny hand as it clutched one of his fingers tightly, the phantom touches of warmth amidst the sorrow. Then he heard her voice like a whisper in his ear in the lighthearted tone it used to be.

"You are such a ridiculous man, love."

Tears continued to flow as he gently patted the burlap encasing the mock orange shrub. As his vision cleared, he recognized the plant's current state. Not a single flower was in sight. Over the years, their son had brought several of the fallen blossoms to his mother as gifts. She indulged the child with many smiles.

He couldn't remember the last time Dora smiled. Steeling himself, Dalit hefted the shrubs one at a time onto the back of his truck, ensuring they were lined up perfectly in the truck bed in comparison to the mess he'd left in the backyard during his rush to extract them. He left the shovel against the wall and picked up his jacket, shirt, and tie.

Just then, Eudora entered through the gate, pulling him from his memories. All of his rushing had been for nothing. She'd still caught him in the act.

For a fleeting moment, he thought he was still trapped in a daydream, but the sight of her—dressed in the same wine-colored two-piece she had worn during their meeting with the lawyers, their son nowhere in sight—snapped him back to cruel reality. She surveyed the messy backyard, her green eyes flitting from the gaping holes in the ground to the dirt-streaked paths before finally resting on his muddy leather shoes.

"Sorry," he stammered, an apology bubbling up from his throat. "I can come back tomorrow to patch this up. I didn't mean to—"

"That won't be necessary," she interrupted him with a weary sigh. Eudora avoided looking at his face, as she'd done for almost the entirety of the last three years. "If you want, you can use the shower before heading out."

Dalit shook his head, the exertion catching up to him. "That won't be necessary," he parroted. The cold way she treated him still hurt. How she sometimes acted like she was the only one suffering still hurt. He'd wanted so badly for them to keep moving forward, grief and all, but she kept putting up more and more walls between them.

They stood there, shadows of the blossoming family they'd once been, surrounded by the remnants of their relationship. The silence between them was like a trench filled with their memories, mistakes, and dreams for their son's truncated future. Without their lawyers present as shields, they had no reason to pretend to be anything other than what they both were…broken.

Dalit, for one, was tired of the hurt that lingered long after their fights. He desperately hoped Eudora felt the same, at least enough for them to stop attacking one another. He didn't have to look to know that the midday sun was directly over their heads. Then, the words he never expected to say fell right out of his mouth.

"Should I leave the mock orange shrub behind for you?"

Earlier that morning, Dalit wanted nothing more than for her to look him in the eye and call everything off. But as he watched her curl in on herself sobbing, he felt a wave of despair wash over him and wished to bury himself in one of the holes he had dug in the backyard that was once theirs– the place where their son was most joyful.

A few hours ago, it had been so easy to think that the frustration he felt was entirely one-sided, that he was the only one who wanted them to try again. Wouldn't that have been what their son would have wanted? Reaching out a tentative hand toward her, Dalit fought against the instincts that had formed over a decade's worth of commitment.

He suddenly realized why she kept avoiding his face for the last three years. Their son was the spitting image of him. How many times had he tried to comfort her when all she saw when she looked at him was their son's face? When would he come to terms with the fact that their relationship wasn't what Eudora wanted? Not anymore.

He was now only another source of her pain.

"They're yours, every last one." She gasped as she wiped at her tears with the back of a hand. "Be well, Dalit."

Dalit would have curled up on the ground with how much pain radiated in his chest after hearing such a final goodbye. The two of them chose to grieve in two very different ways, and somewhere deep down, he knew that he had to respect her wishes. If that meant that he had to continue his grieving without her by his side, then that's just what he'd have to do.

He gave her a firm nod. "You, as well."

Then, as though running on autopilot, Dalit forced himself to walk back to his truck. He pulled out of the driveway and headed towards the plant nursery without looking back. When he helped them unload the ten shrubs, the nursery staff was impressed with their healthy state and hefty sizes.

Dalit really thought their relationship would survive their son's passing if he only kept those shrubs blossoming year after year.

He kept telling himself that donating the shrubs was for the best. After all, he had no son to run around the backyard anymore. Hell, he didn't even own a backyard anymore. Feeling another twang of loss as he drove back onto the highway, Dalit allowed the tears to fall.

"Keep an eye on your mom for me, Junior," he whispered with a wavering voice. "We both miss you too much to support each other at the moment."

By the time he arrived at his apartment complex, the sun had begun to set. Dalit looked around for the sun before walking through the door. However, the view of the sunset was hidden by clouds. Just like how the sunlight was obscured at the start and end of that day, so too was the beginning and end of his marriage.

Their son had been their light.

How fitting.