Evie and the Earth

The day my mom died was the day I stopped believing in God, heaven, and the other nonsense to which so many of my friends subscribed. I was of the opinion that there were only two types of people—the living and the dead. When someone died, that was it. They didn’t go to a better place or become reincarnated. They simply ceased to exist.

I sometimes wished I could believe in the hereafter, then maybe my mother’s death wouldn’t have ripped my guts out the way it did. And perhaps at the funeral, when my neighbor Mrs. Sykes hugged me and whispered, “Don’t be sad, Emily. You’ll see her in heaven one day,” the words would have felt comforting. Instead, they angered me.

I looked right into her eyes. “God? If there’s a God, why did he ignore the only thing I ever prayed for? Why didn’t he take away her cancer?”

I knew it was rude, but so is telling a kid who just lost a parent, “Don’t be sad.” Besides, she smelled musty, and my name is Emma, not Emily.

As I suspected, she had no definitive answer. She simply shook her head. “I can’t answer that; only He can.”

Of course, you can’t, I thought. You can’t even remember my name. Before my mom got sick, she visited Mrs. Sykes at least monthly, so I wondered why this woman couldn’t seem to get my name right. Was she simply old and forgetful or thoughtless?

The funeral was on August fifth, two days before my thirteenth birthday. My mom had always planned the most incredible things for my birthday; the best so far had been my tenth birthday party, held at an indoor water park. But this year, she’d been too ill to plan a celebration. My dad ended up forgetting my birthday altogether. The day came and went, and I didn’t mention it. I mean, he had just buried his wife and became a single father all within a week, so I figured he had enough on his plate without me adding a heaping helping of guilt.

The day after my birthday, he realized his blunder, apologized profusely, and handed me a fifty-dollar bill. Then he took me to my favorite pizza joint for dinner. I remember saying something like, “It’s no big deal, Dad . . . really.”

But it was, and anyone who’s ever been forgotten on their birthday might agree.

That night, I’d gone straight to my room after our pizza outing and swallowed back tears as I tucked the fifty into the back corner of my nightstand drawer. I felt guilty for not spending more time with my mom, for not crying harder at her funeral, and for secretly being upset with my dad for dropping the birthday ball. I was, however, excited over the fifty dollars, which made me feel even guiltier. After all, what kind of person gets happy about money when their mom died less than a month earlier? I think the main reason I felt so crappy, though, was because I really missed her.

Surprisingly, the tears came less often with each passing day, and life began to feel semi-normal again. Things would never be the same as before my mom got sick but keeping busy helping my dad with household chores seemed to help; I found comfort in having a routine. My best friend, Kate Hughes, who spent every summer at her aunt’s ranch in Texas—and missed my mom’s funeral because of it—came home a week before the new school year began. Equipped with two hundred bucks, I accompanied Kate and her mom on their annual shopping trip for new school clothes. My dad happily handed over the cash, stating how nice it was for Kate’s mom to invite me along, adding, “Be sure to get some, uhhh . . . underclothes too.”

“Sure thing.” I shoved the wad of twenties into my front pocket. Even at thirteen, I was old enough to understand how lost my father must feel raising a teenaged girl alone, and I tried to make things easier for him whenever I could. In the grocery store, I’d wander off to the health and beauty aisle, grab whatever feminine products I needed, and casually toss them into his already half-full basket. Luckily, my mom had still been in good health when I hit puberty, and we’d had all of those conversations, potentially sparing numerous awkward moments between my father and me.

I spent all but ten dollars the day I went shopping with Kate and her mom. As the cashier handed me the change from my final purchase, I remembered the birthday money hidden in the back of my nightstand drawer, dying to be spent. The only problem was I still had no idea what I wanted to buy. It never failed—having my own money to spend on whatever I chose always coincided with not having a desire for anything in particular.

“Are you okay, Emma?” As we sat in the food court eating, Kate’s mom gave me the same look of pity that pretty much every adult had given me since my mom died. My mouth was full, so I nodded. She patted my arm. “Okay. You’ve just been quiet.”

I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t thinking about my mom, which I’m sure was what she thought—but was instead thinking about my birthday money—so I swallowed my food and offered up the first response that came to mind. “I’m just really hungry.”

Kate gave me a look that said, Sorry—just ignore her. I mustered a smile, silently wishing my mom was still around to embarrass me.

Later that evening, I decided—in a general sense—how I would spend at least some of my money. The idea started on our way home from shopping. We’d just pulled into my neighborhood when I saw her—there, sprawled out on her front lawn, wearing a yellow moo-moo with bright red flowers, was all three hundred-ish pounds of old Mrs. Sykes.

I bolted up straight. “Stop the car!”

Mrs. Hughes slammed the brakes. She turned in her seat. “What’s wrong, Em? I thought I was about to hit a child! You scared the bejeezus outta me!”

We’d passed Mrs. Sykes’s house, so I pointed back to her yard. “Look! I think she’s dead!” Kate’s mom had barely pulled to the curb when I jumped out and ran over. As I stood over her perfectly still body, I began to panic. “Oh my God, whatdoIdo, whatdoIdo?”

I jumped when her eyes popped open, and she looked at me as if I were an alien there to abduct her. She sat up, seemingly perplexed. “Hello, Emily. What are you doing?”

“We were driving by, and I saw you, and I thought . . . um, well, you were just lying there in the grass.”

“You thought I was dead?” She shook her head and thrust her arms out to me—and Kate, who’d just walked up with her mom—signaling to give her a hand up. Seconds later, she brushed off her backside and turned to Mrs. Hughes. “Sorry if I alarmed y’all, but I appreciate you stopping to check on me.”

She turned back to me and grinned. She didn’t appear to feel the least bit sorry, and I felt my face grow hot as the anger began to bubble up.

“Are you serious right now? Why were you laid out in the middle of your lawn like that? That’s a great way to scare people.” I wanted to push her back down.

“I was earthing.” She gave me a matter-of-fact look as if I should know what “earthing” was.

I shrugged.

“You know, connecting with nature, with God. You should try it.”

Before I could ask Mrs. Sykes if the sun had fried her last brain cell, Kate’s mom interrupted. “We’ll be waiting in the car, Em.”

“Right behind you,” I said.

Mrs. Sykes was still wearing a goofy grin. “Come by sometime, Emily, and I’ll tell you all about it. I sure do miss your mom’s visits. Such a sweet soul, your mom.”

My heart momentarily halted at the mention of my mother. “My name is Emma.” I gave her the evil eye before turning to walk away.

“Don’t forget to come see me,” she sang out as I stormed back to the car.

 

A few hours later, my dad and I sat in the living room eating dinner, him in his recliner, and me in my usual spot on the couch. We hadn’t eaten a meal at the dining room table since before my mom died. It hadn’t been something we’d talked about, and I don’t know which of us initially bypassed the table and headed for the living room, but I had a feeling we’d never eat a meal at the dining room table again.

I put my half-empty plate on the end table beside me. “Hey, Dad, I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“How old is Mrs. Sykes?”

He put his fork down and thought for a moment. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’m guessing late sixties, maybe.” It came out as more of a question than an answer. “Why do you ask?”

“I dunno. Is she crazy? Like, I mean, how some people get when they get old?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“When we pulled into the neighborhood this afternoon, she was lying in her front yard. I thought she was dead, so we stopped and checked on her. She was fine. She was connecting with the Earth or something like that. It was weird.”

Dad chuckled. “Well, she is a bit peculiar but other than that, she seems okay. Your mom thought a lot of her.”

I felt a slight stab of pain as I recalled the last time my mother walked out the front door with home-baked cookies in hand, headed over to see Mrs. Sykes. Still in good health, she’d been wearing a sundress, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I could see her clearly in my mind, how pretty she looked that day.

“Why did Mom go over there?”

“Mrs. Sykes didn’t have kids or a husband. I suppose your mom thought she was lonely and would appreciate the company. That’s just how your mom was, kiddo. She had a great, big heart.” He grabbed his plate, walked over to me, and kissed the top of my head. “Just like you.”

As he headed for the kitchen, I remembered how mad I had been at Mrs. Sykes, my almost uncontrollable urge to push her back to the ground, and how I’d ignored her when she invited me over. My mom wouldn’t have acted that way. I decided to do something nice like my mom would have done; I’d use my birthday money to buy something nice and take it to Mrs. Sykes.

 

The inside of Mrs. Sykes’s house turned out to be nothing like I’d expected. On the outside, with its white-picketed porch surrounded with flowers in every color imaginable, it resembled a cottage from a fairytale story. As a child, I’d read so many of those stories that my imagination had shifted into overdrive, leading me to believe that the magical and inviting exterior was simply a ruse to lure unsuspecting children inside where they’d be shoved into an oven and later eaten.

I stood on the front porch and took a deep breath before pressing the doorbell. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear the muffled sound of the bells belt out a whimsical little tune. Part of the ploy to bewitch little children, I thought. I was debating turning around and hightailing it home when the door opened.

“Emily!” Beaming, she pulled the door all the way open and stepped aside. This time, she wore a pink moo-moo with blue flowers. “Come in, child, come in.”

She closed the door behind me. “It’s Emma . . .” The words were barely audible, as I was too distracted by the room to care that she had once again called me Emily. Off-white fairy lights adorned every inch of the room’s cornice molding. At least twenty lit candles—scented, based on the sweet, fruity fragrance that crept into my nostrils—claimed the fireplace mantel, along with almost every available inch of table space in the room. A royal-purple velvet sofa with an intricately carved frame sat regally before the front bay window, accompanied by an equally regal coffee table with a crocheted lace runner. Two emerald-colored sitting chairs, also upholstered in velvet, were positioned in caddy-corner fashion, each at a corner of the other side of the coffee table. An image of queens, kings, and magical things popped into my head.

“I’m sorry. I always get it wrong. You see, my baby sister’s name was Emily, and—” Mrs. Sykes stopped abruptly, watching as I took in every inch of the room. “You like this room, eh?”

“It’s so pretty.” I suddenly realized I was still holding her gift. “Oh, I brought you this.”

A smile crossed her face as she took the package from my outstretched hand. “May I open it?”

“Um, sure . . . that’d be great.”

She sat on one of the fancy green chairs and gestured at me to follow suit; I chose to sit on the sofa. I ran my hand over the soft velvet as I watched her chubby fingers untie and pull the ribbon from the package. Her eyes twinkled as she gently removed the gift wrap. She let out a squeal of delight when she opened the lid of the pink cardboard box. “Truffles! I adore chocolates.” Her eyes welled up with tears as she came over and hugged me; this time, she didn’t smell musty. “Thank you, Emma. So thoughtful and kind. Just like your mother.”

There it was again.

I swallowed the lump that had found its way into my throat. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like them. I got them from The Sweet Shoppe.” The Sweet Shoppe, a local confectionery store, was renowned for its truffles, which were expensive but worth the price. I passed by it on my walk home from school each day, and since it was where my mom used to take me before she became ill, I sometimes stopped and peered through the window, reminiscing. It seemed fitting to buy something from there for Mrs. Sykes, even though it had cost me almost twenty dollars.

Mischief danced in her eyes as she reached into the box and pulled out a chocolate. She held the box out. “Here, have one.”

I took one and bit into it; it was even better than I remembered.

We sat in silence for a minute or so, savoring every small bite. I declined when she offered me a second truffle but watched her with amusement as she enjoyed her second, then a third.

She closed the lid and set the box on the table. When she finished chewing, she put her hands on her lap and looked at me. “As I was saying earlier, I apologize for calling you by the wrong name, but I had a younger sister named Emily. She was a beauty with golden curls and big green eyes. You remind me of her, and I guess that’s why I get tripped up. I’ll try harder. Emma.”

A feeling of guilt overtook me. Here was a lonely, old woman, telling me I reminded her of her beautiful baby sister. And here I was, a thirteen-year-old who’d become infuriated over a simple mistake as if everyone in the world was hell-bent on ruining my life. Had I turned into that person—the stereotypical angry, bitter teen? Just like you, my dad had said, believing that I was kind and caring, as my mom had been. At that moment, I realized I desperately wanted to be the person my dad thought I was.

“Mrs. Sykes . . . I’m sorry I was rude to you.” I forced myself to look at her. “And actually, you can call me Emily if you want. I’ve always liked that name, anyway.”

She waved me off. “No, that’s not your name. Speaking of names, I’ve never been married, so I’m not a missus. I’m Evelyn Sykes. But just to keep it simple, call me Evie—that’s what your mom called me.”

“But—” I had never addressed any adult on a first name basis.

Evie gave me a stern look. “I’m your elder, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you must listen to your elders.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ve asked you to call me by my nickname, so you must.” She stood up, walked the room, and blew out each candle before reaching for my hand. “Come on, let’s go out back.” I let her take my hand and lead me outside.

As we lay side-by-side on the back lawn, Evie explained. “We are connecting with the Earth’s energy. Think about it; long ago, our ancestors had constant connections to the Earth’s surface. There were no beds, so people slept on the ground. There was no indoor plumbing, so you did your business outside. Before bathtubs were invented, if you wanted to wash off, you found a stream. Or a lake. Or the ocean. People planted crops, and they put their hands deep into the soil. The human body is meant to connect with the Earth. Thirty minutes a day, and you’ll feel calm, relaxed, and healthier. And it’s here, doing this, that you discover the treasures that are meant for you.”

I didn’t fully understand what she was getting at but closed my eyes anyway. As the sun warmed my skin, I listened to the birds sing their sweet songs. I began to feel a deep peace wash over me. I was drifting off to sleep when I heard my mother’s voice speak one simple word that has run on repeat in my mind every day since: Believe.

As I walked home that day, I pondered over that word I’d heard so clearly. What did Mom want me to believe? In God? In myself? In Evie and the Earth? By the time I reached my house, I’d decided that maybe my mom didn’t have one specific thing in mind; perhaps the treasures Evie had spoken of required an open heart and a little bit of faith.

*****

It’s been ten years since that Saturday afternoon I spent earthing with Evie, and from that very first day, I’ve continued to Earth; I even taught my dad how to do it. I also still visit Evie on Saturdays when I’m able. If it’s raining or bitterly cold, we sit on her velvet furniture in what I refer to as the “magic room,” drinking coffee and talking. She loves to show me old photos, and while it’s true her younger sister was a beauty, Evie was—and still is—just as lovely.

If it’s a nice day, we earth in the front yard where the grass is lush and green, and I don’t worry about what people will think when they see us sprawled out on Evie’s lawn. Sometimes we connect with nature in silence, but most often, we talk. Over the years, as I’ve matured, our conversations have evolved as well. Some days we talk about my mom, and some days we talk about life, love, or spiritual matters. Other days, Evie tells me stories from days gone by. My favorites are the ones that involve her romantic escapades, each of which stars a dashing young gentleman attempting to woo the ever-elusive Evie but constantly failing. I believe these tales are slightly exaggerated, but they’re wonderful stories, nonetheless.

As to my beliefs regarding heaven, God, and those other things I once considered complete nonsense—well, let’s just say I took my mom’s advice. At the very least, I believe in angels on Earth and that some divine being strategically places them in our paths, like player tokens on a board game. Evie is one of those angels. She showed up at a delicate, pivotal point in my life; I was full of grief, anger, and cynicism when I made a decision that landed me on her front porch, holding a twenty-dollar box of truffles. In exchange for those chocolates, Evie has shown me kindness and patience and has loved me unconditionally—the most valuable treasures that one human being can give to another.

As Evie and I lie in the grass, I press my fingertips into the Earth and think back to the funeral and how Evie believed I’d see my mom again. I smile to myself and then reach over, feeling around for Evie’s hand. When I find it, I grab it and gently squeeze her hand in mine—you see, it’s because of her that I now believe it too.