#FlashFictionMagic: The Hedgerow

Grace’s dad had warned her twice this week about spying on Fern and Jake through the hedges, but she and Darcy couldn’t help themselves. During their playdate on the Saturday after Halloween, while Dad made lunch, they snuck outside with jackets and binoculars and took turns watching Fern and Jake rake leaves. They narrated what they saw in conspiratorial whispers. 

“She has a blue scarf on today,” Darcy reported as she took her turn. “And she’s wearing his gloves.” 

Grace grabbed the binoculars and peered through. “Nope, those are my dad’s gloves,” she said. She took another quick look. “His scarf, too.” 

“Why is she wearing your dad’s stuff?”

Grace shrugged. Why did grown-ups do anything? Not that long ago, Dad had been dating Laura. She’d worn his baseball cap all summer, but that obviously hadn’t meant anything since she didn’t come over anymore. 

Fern also didn’t come over anymore. One night, when Grace got up to get a drink of water, she heard Dad on the phone saying that Fern needed to have her own life now, and that he couldn’t stand in her way. Grace was still trying to figure out why Fern’s own life couldn’t include her and Dad. 

“She’s so pretty!” Darcy sighed dramatically. “But Jake has a weird nose.” 

Grace took the binoculars again and studied Jake’s face. His nose was sort of pointy, like a beak. She wondered if Fern liked him because she liked birds. He didn’t seem that interesting otherwise. She tugged on Darcy’s coat sleeve. “Come on, this is getting boring.” 

But Darcy, whose eighth grade sister had been talking to her about love stories, barely seemed to hear. After a moment, she leaned over to Grace and said, “Your dad should fall in love with Fern. Then she would be your mom!” 

Grace felt as though the air went rushing out of her all at once. It was one thing to think something like that, to whisper it to her stuffed goose alone in bed at night, to wish for it, and pray for it, and hope for it. But hearing Darcy say her heart’s desire out loud was something else entirely. “Fern’s not my mom,” she said softly, and before she could think of any other way to explain how she felt, Dad’s voice saved her. “Gracie! Lunchtime!” 

Grace stood and smoothed her pant legs, wiping away stray pine needles. Darcy lingered a moment longer, then she stood, too, and they went wordlessly toward the back porch and the kitchen door. In the kitchen, Darcy’s plate was waiting not at the guest seat across from Grace, where Fern usually sat, but to Grace’s right, where no one had ever sat, instead. 

Gloves, scarves, place settings, phone calls. Grace was sure it all added up to something, but the math was too hard for a kid. She guessed she might never know why grown-ups did anything.