A Garden in the Forest

by Zaher Alajlani

A GARDEN IN THE FOREST

Edward’s eyes were fixed on the woman lying in the bed by the window. The sight was as bleak as the face of an orphaned toddler who knew he’d never see his father again but still couldn’t comprehend death. The life support machines beeped and, together with the hospital’s murmuring ambiance, created a sad melody that carried him away.

The past tapped him on the shoulder, but when he turned around, he found himself looking within. He regressed inward to a place where he was seven years old and his mother in her mid-thirties—a gorgeous woman with light-brown cascading hair, almond eyes, and the strong spirit of an immortal, ancient city. She was a widow, after all, and such women possess a saintly inner strength.

Life is difficult when two parents raise a single child, but it is almost impossible when a single mother raises two. His mother was raising two boys, but it felt like they were eleven. Six years Edward’s senior, his brother was eight when their father suddenly passed away and was crushed by it. Once Edward’s brother hit puberty, he changed. It was as if someone had expunged innocence from his heart and replaced it with raw anger and impulsivity. He regularly got into fights at school, often returning with black eyes and scratches stretching across his cheeks—from his flaring ears to his stubby nose.

His mother would put her hand on her chest. “What have you done this time?”

Edward’s brother would gaze at his mother. “I did nothing wrong. The other kid provoked me.”

“Provoked you?”

“Yes.”

“So you hit him?”

“Yes, and he hit me back. I don’t see what the big deal is. The principal wants to see you the first thing in the morning, anyway. Otherwise, he’d expel me.” He’d walk to his room and slam the door as if she had wronged him.

The defeated woman would sit in the armchair, light a long, slim cigarette, and cry silently. It was apparent to Edward—a scrawny but adorable young boy with silky black hair and big, brown eyes—that she was constantly exhausted. She was a nine-to-five rheumatologist at a public hospital and a social worker for her troubled firstborn for the remainder of the day. During the sparse intervals of domestic peace, she’d pay more attention to the neglected Edward.

The two would suddenly become very close, and Edward felt he owned the world at such times. But that wouldn’t last long. The police would eventually come knocking at the door again, dragging his brother by the shoulder and saying with disdain, “Here, your son got himself into trouble again. He’s lucky he’s a minor. Soon, he won’t be, and we won’t let him off with a warning. Do you understand, madam?”

Edward could see her face flush with anger, shame, and bitterness. “Get in.” She’d push her prodigal son inside, then apologize to the policemen. They were often young and unsympathetic with eyes blazing with judgment.

Once the door closed, a shouting match would begin. Though each time they exchanged different hurtful words, the fight always ended the same: his mother in that armchair and his brother closing the door with a thud and blasting some tasteless music.

When Edward tried comforting her, she’d lift her hand, wipe his hair, and kiss his forehead. “Never behave like your brother. You’re a good boy.” She’d sniff, then continue, “I need some time alone, sweetheart. Maybe you should go to your room and study.”

He did and was an excellent student involved in many extracurricular activities: music, sports, and theater. She showered him with gifts when he brought home straight A’s. However, the expensive sports shoes weren’t enough. Neither were the latest electronic gadgets nor the imported sweaters. Edward desired something beyond money: her presence. He wanted her at the school’s talent show to watch him play his cello. He wanted her at the track and field competitions where he ran like a gazelle as the rain of his Eastern European country beat against his chest.

It killed him that she missed all that because he did it all for her. After all, a righteous man’s mother is his first and last love, and this love endures and remains untainted by any worldly inclinations. And when his mother dies, he’d look for pieces of her in other women—in his daughter, sister, or wife if he’s sane and in his lovers if he’s utterly broken. And if the physical world completely disappoints him, he’d turn to the Theotokos and weep.

Many things, like this love, never change. One of them is that some men are born to self-destruct. They detest themselves, and all the love they receive is as useless as a mournful song whispered into an empty grave. That was Edward’s brother who never spared a chance to hurt himself and his mother and brother in the process. Selfish, prodigal sons don’t recognize love and often mistake it for unsolicited control. In their vices they see freedom but remain unaware that they’re merely walking to death’s early embrace.

Edward’s brother did just that. A few months before turning eighteen, he stole his mother’s car one last time. The car returned in pieces and he in one piece, a non-breathing piece, one that looked intact but was robbed of life by a neurogenic shock. 

Sometimes, one gets the most bizarre ideas when witnessing indescribable tragedies. He’s lucky he’s a minor, as the police said at that time. Otherwise, he would’ve been in real trouble for wrecking the car, Edward thought with a hollow smile on his face. As they lowered his brother’s coffin into the ground, he held his mother, and they wept.

He wept for a few more weeks, then got used to the painful realization that there was nothing he could do. His mother wept for much longer. In the first few months, she went through daily episodes of wailing grief, chain-smoking, and wordless despair. A year or so afterward, she’d cry occasionally but more woefully. This lasted until the day she became unconscious during her final illness.

Despite the lingering agony, by the time Edward turned twelve, he finally felt like he had a mother, one who gave up smoking, took care of her health, and dedicated so much time to her remaining son.

They spent quiet Friday nights at home watching movies in their living room where the beige Lawson sofa was comfortable, the coffee table in the middle enough to rest their feet, and the horror movies he liked abundant on cable TV. He was sure she didn’t share his penchant for the macabre, but as long as she was there next to him, caressing his hair and bringing him snacks, he knew she was having a good time.

He, too, did things he didn’t like for her, especially hiking. They’d go on long hikes on Saturdays at the nearby mountain forest. It was one of those woods with thick trees and a single beaten path stretching around thirty kilometers. They’d begin their trip rather early when he was still in his morning haze. After walking for an hour, they’d reach a resting area overlooking a green valley split by a glistening creek.

She’d hand him a bottle of water and a piece of fruit as they sat on the bare ground. While running her fingers through the soil, she’d tell him, “Son, your brother must be in a better place now. Look at the forest; it’s God’s Garden. Everything in it makes sense. The leaves fall, and then the trees leaf out again. A bird dies, and another is born and sings just as beautifully. Here, death is not a tragedy, nor is life a victory. Each is merely is, and together, they’re existence. Together, they’re both meaningful. See how beautiful nature is, Son. It’s Christ’s work.”

She’d take a deep breath before continuing, “His sacrifice gives meaning and purpose to everything: agony, pain, happiness, triumph, words, feeling, and even to the dead silence. Those who believe in him return to him when they die. Your brother was troubled, but he believed. So, he’s with Christ now, in a better place. He’s happy and contented. One day, we shall meet him again, and he will be whole and unbroken by this world.”

She’d look at Edward and smile, “Do you hear that, Son?”

“Hear what, Mother?”

“Nothing.” She’d pat him on the head, “Let’s walk back to the car.”

Such were the few times she’d talk about her dead son. Edward wasn’t mad at her because she bottled up her feelings. Albeit his young age, he understood her. When he was younger, she never talked about his father much because she thought he couldn’t understand death, and now, losing her son had overshadowed all else. For a parent, the death of a son or a daughter feels like the most singular tragedy in the universe—as though mankind had never seen death before that and will never see it after.

However, life goes on regardless of one’s inner state. Minutes turn to hours, hours to days, days to years, and years eventually to memories. That was how Edward felt now that he was a man in his prime, watching his mother fade into a memory.

You can always quit a bad habit, but what if a bad habit doesn’t quit you? What if its detriments stay within for years, then suddenly surface to attack you? Poor Mother, she quit smoking but is still dying of lung cancer—

The beeping of the life support machines suddenly turned erratic, forcing Edward back to the moment. His mother convulsed briefly, then became motionless again. It seemed surreal to him. He was a rational man, but nevertheless a man, and inside each man, there is a childish glimmer of hope that death may eventually turn out to be an illusion.

A doctor burst into the room, bumped into Edward without apologizing, and headed straight to the dying woman.

“Sir, you need to wait outside. Please, outside,” a nurse followed, turned the shocked Edward around, and nudged him politely toward the door.

He looked over his shoulder and saw the doctor compressing his mother’s heart.

“Now, sir,” the nurse said. “Please, now.”

Once he exited, another nurse came in and closed the door.

Each minute felt like a decade for Edward as he waited in the corridor. Finally, the door opened, and the medical staff emerged with their heads down. The doctor drew near Edward, then gently said, “I’m very sorry for your loss. You can go see her before we take her to,” he pierced his lips in sorrow, “the morgue.”

Edward summoned the courage to return to the room as the man walked away. His breathing grew heavier when he entered, but he didn’t feel that the lifeless body in the white bed was his mother. Even when she was comatose but alive, she was still his mother. Now, she was merely a piece of flesh.

He walked out of the hospital, crying soundlessly—almost expressionlessly. He let his feet guide him and drifted through the city under the pale sun until he found himself entering the forest, where he’d hiked countless times with his mother.

He began jogging when he saw the beaten path, and once on it, his jogging turned into a steady run that eventually became a slow jog again and transformed into an exhausted walk. He knelt once he arrived at the resting area. On that overlook, he wept, and when his weeping subsided, “Do you hear that, Son? Do you hear the singing in God’s Garden?” his mother’s voice whispered to him.

“Yes, Mother, I hear it. I finally do,” he said through the resurging tears. Edward now heard it for the first time: an angelic hymn about going on after a loved one had departed.

ZAHER ALAJLANI

Dr. Zaher Alajlani is a Pushcart-nominated Syrian short-story author, editor, researcher, and translator living between Romania and Greece. His work has been featured in various publications, including Agape Review, Ariel Chart, Bandit Fiction, Active Muse, Revista Echinox, The Way Back to Ourselves, and The Journal of Romanian Literary Studies. He is a prose editor for Agape Review and a proofreader for Metacritic Journal for Comparative Studies and Theory. Zaher earned his Ph.D. at the Babes-Bolyai University of Cluj-Napoca. His research focuses on early modern horror fiction, the relationship between science and religion, and the 19th-century mad scientist prototype. He speaks English, Arabic, Romanian, and Greek.