‘Aspen?’ Bill spat out the letter ‘p’ like it was a bitter pill. ‘What sort of name is that?’
I stroked my swollen abdomen and gazed out the window for added wistfulness. ‘Mum would have loved it.’
‘Hazel still rules our lives from beyond the grave,’ he muttered into his tea.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I stood up, losing my balance. In an instant he was easing me back onto the sofa, my vulnerability softening him.
‘Heather! Take it easy. You can choose the name, within reason…’
Ah, reason. Along with logic, Bill’s guiding force as a mathematician. But it did mean that he knew when to acquiesce in order to maintain our relationship’s equilibrium. In response to my doe-eyed plea, he did the necessary mental calculations and gave a perfunctory nod.
I smiled, patting my bump.
*
Aspen, true to her name, was never more at home than when playing among the trees, yellow hair trembling in the dappled light. The woods that fringed the estate had been Mum’s favourite place too. It was as though Aspen had absorbed something of Mum’s spirit by osmosis.
Bill was sawing wood one afternoon when Aspen and I emerged from the woods.
‘Daddy, look what I made!’ He put down his saw and she strung a daisy chain around his sturdy wrist.
‘Thanks! Guess what I’m building? A treehouse!’
Aspen squealed with delight, then ran into the house to wash her hands for lunch. Bill went back to work, flexing his floral arm.
The treehouse plans were laid out on the grass in Bill’s precise hand. Glancing down at them, I smiled. Then shuddered.
‘Bill!’
He stopped sawing.
‘What? You’ve gone white.’
‘Mum’s will was clear: no felling trees!’
‘It’s only a little one. The treehouse won’t fit otherwise.’
‘It’s ancient lore. We’ll invite bad karma into the family.’ My breath was ragged, stringing my words into an uneven rhythm.
Bill sighed. ‘Karma is a fabricated concept to help people feel in control of the uncontrollable. Disasters happen by chance. That chance isn’t altered by removing a tree against your dead mum’s wishes.’
My blood boiled over. ‘Karma isn’t some mystic thing. It’s the cumulative effect of your actions. Do bad things, create conflict. The risks stack up, increasing the chance of danger. And I don’t care whether that fits a mathematical formula!’
Bill clenched his fist around the saw and the daisy chain snapped, curling beside his huge boot.
Dammit, I’d lost my cool. Going head-to-head with Bill never worked. I knew he’d win this argument, with a probability of 100%.
He trampled the daisy chain and continued building.
Within days, the remains of the slain tree were stacked against the fence like broken bones.
*
The day Aspen didn’t return from the woods, the leaves danced as we called her name, and I felt grief take root in my heart even before I heard it. The whisper on the wind, hissing through the branches.
‘It’s only a little one.’
Great writing!!