Tree of Life

The first time I heard my grandmother's voice from beyond the grave, I was halfway through brushing my teeth, and nearly choked on a mouthful of foamy toothpaste.

Tess.

She had a distinct way of saying my name, lingering a bit too long on the ‘s’.

Tess.

It sounded as clear as if she was standing in the bathroom with me. I looked around, half expecting to see her ghost. It would have been classic Miranda to come back to taunt me.

Seeing nothing but an empty room, I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

I stared at my slanted emerald-green eyes and high cheekbones in the mirror. They say I inherited her beauty, but she had an ethereal quality that I lacked, which made her both alluring and terrifying, even up until the day she lit her last incense.

Miranda used to have grandiose ideas about how our ancestors discovered the secret to immortality and passed it on to her.

I never believed her, of course.

Although, I once made the mistake of asking how, just to humour her. She had looked deep into my eyes in a way that made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. With her fingers clasped around the pendant she always wore, she whispered a phrase I’ll never forget: Through my lineage, I will be reborn.

In hindsight, I should have taken those words more seriously—I should have known it was a warning.

My grandmother had claimed she was a witch. I never quite believed that either, but she did look the part. I don’t mean the kind with crooked noses, pointy hats and broomsticks, but rather, the billowy skirts, long black nails and wild grey hair kind. She’d wear layers of necklaces with big chunky moon pendants and rings on each finger. Her house had shelves full of crystals in every corner, and it always smelled of incense and candle wax.

I think she saw herself in me, though we were nothing alike in other ways. Miranda wasn’t afraid to look you right in the eyes, as if she could peer into your soul. I, on the other hand, always found it uncomfortable to hold someone’s gaze for too long. She could entertain a crowd with fun anecdotes and wild stories, while I prefer to listen more than speak. I believe in science; she believed in sorcery.

The next time my dead grandmother spoke to me, I was in the shower.

Tess.

The sound was muffled under the hiss of the spray, but when I switched off the tap, what I heard sent goosebumps all over my body.

Surrender, Tess.

That night, I couldn’t sleep; the words tumbled around in my mind. I worried I was losing it—I’d heard of people going mad from grief, maybe it was happening to me? The alternative, though, was even more terrifying.

Miranda never hid the fact that she practised witchcraft—proudly recounting how she’d made my mother drink a special brew while pregnant to make sure I was a girl. When I asked why she’d wanted a granddaughter so badly, she replied, boys don’t live as long. I was used to her saying wacky things most of the time, so didn’t think much of it.

Regardless of our differences, we spent a lot of time together, mostly in her kitchen in the cottage at the bottom of our garden. I’d watch her make brews and concoctions to treat all sorts of ailments—from the neighbour’s gout to my mother’s arthritis, she had a cure for everything. Evidently, she referred to her remedies as magic potions, while I called them herbal cocktails.

Her ‘Witchy Brews’ were very popular at local markets, maybe because they worked, certainly because of her charismatic charm—it was impossible to walk away from Miranda empty-handed. I’d watch customers leave her stand with armfuls of her products for conditions they didn’t even know they had.

Strangely, I didn’t cry when she died. The pain was visceral, like I had lost an integral part of my body—but the tears refused to come, and so there was no release. Instead, I had to carry the pain inside me, like a never-ending stomach ache.

She didn’t leave us much in terms of possessions. Nothing valuable anyway. My mother got her entire crystal collection.

“What am I supposed to do with this junk?” she grumbled.

I inherited her ‘Ancient Book of Healing’. I think she had hoped I would take over her ‘business’.

The book contained hundreds of recipes, all handwritten in that slanted cursive of hers—practically illegible. As I flicked through the faded, yellowing pages, something slipped out. Catching it in my hand, I inspected the small tree-shaped pendant with a frown—I was certain it was the one she was wearing when they buried her.

The image of her pale, lifeless body had been permanently imprinted in my mind. It had been an open casket, and she had looked surprisingly comfortable nestled in the cream-coloured padding as if she were lying on a marshmallow. All her chunky jewellery had been removed—except for a single pendant resting on her chest. The one she wore permanently, and joked that it had been around her neck when she was born. A tiny gold tree inside a circle; the symbol for life, death and rebirth.

When I showed it to my mother, she didn’t understand my confusion.

“She probably bought you one like hers, Tess. Pretty sure you can find those anywhere,” she said, elbow deep in shiny crystals, stuffing them one by one into plastic bags.

So I wore the pendant, and it became a source of comfort—like a part of her was still with me, and I could talk to her through it somehow.

What I did not expect was for her to start talking back.

A week after hearing those chilling words in the shower, I woke up to searing pain in my chest—like the pendant was burning a hole through my skin. When I tried to pull it off, it wouldn’t get past my chin, and the clasp stayed locked tight, like it was fused shut. After a few failed attempts at prying it open, I gave up.

“What’s that?” my mother asked, pointing at the angry red welts all around my neck. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Knowing your grandma, she probably picked up that pendant at a flea market somewhere.” She rolled her eyes—clearly she hadn’t forgiven my grandmother for the crystals.

I tried every ointment and cream, but nothing soothed the rash. I could have broken the chain; should have, considering what happened next. But it was all I had left of her, so I endured the constant itching and scratching.

When my sixteenth birthday came around, my mother did her best to make it special—she even baked a cake, and she never bakes. It came out lopsided and burnt around the edges, but I appreciated the gesture.

My first one without my grandmother by my side to help me blow out the candles. Our birthdays were a week apart, so it had been our tradition to combine them—one cake, one set of candles, one wish each.

“Don’t forget to make your wish,” my mother said, attempting to light candles that sat dangerously on the edge of the uneven cake.

Reluctantly, I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, and as I was about to blow out, I heard Miranda’s brazen voice again.

Surrender, Tess, so that I can be reborn.

I felt the blood drain from my face. My mother must have noticed a change in my complexion, because she looked at me strangely and asked if I was okay.

I mumbled something about stomach cramps and ran to the bathroom.

“Get it together, Tess,” I scolded my reflection. If this carried on, I’d be headed for the psych ward for sure. And I could add talking to myself to the list of reasons.

After splashing water on my face, I lifted my gaze to the mirror again—and froze. My reflection had changed. The same slanted emerald-green eyes stared back, but my smooth, adolescent skin had morphed into deep lines and creases.

Miranda.

I will be reborn, said her reflection, and to my horror, I felt my lips mouthing the words involuntarily.

“Tess, are you okay in there?” A loud knock on the bathroom door gave me a jolt.

“I’m fine Mom, I’ll be out in a sec,” I said, trying to disguise the tremble in my voice.

When I looked back in the mirror, her reflection had vanished.

In a moment of frenzy, I grabbed the pendant in my hand and yanked it with all my strength, desperate to get it off me. But instead of breaking the chain, the more I pulled, the tighter it got. Eventually, it had retracted to the point that it was constricting my throat.

Surrender, Tess.

Panic took over as it dawned on me—I was being choked to death, the chain now a noose around my neck.

Was this really what she wanted? My life for hers?

I tried to scream, as tears trickled down my cheeks, but it was too late, my vocal chords were being crushed as I gasped helplessly for air.

Now, here I am, lying on the cold bathroom floor, my soul lingering somewhere between life and death with her voice in my head, coaxing me to surrender my body. As I feel my heartbeat flatline, I question whether I was ever anything more than a vessel to her—a way for her to cheat death and live forever.

Had she even loved me at all?

The thought gives me a sudden surge of anger, and, with the sliver of strength I have left, I start to drag my body towards the door where my mother is waiting on the other side.

I inch closer and closer, clawing my way across the tiles, vision blurring, limbs trembling. Almost there, I force my body to hold on a second longer as my fingertips reach for the door.

**

I open my eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjust to the light. I sit up slowly, my body feeling foreign, and I reach for my pendant, relieved to find it still there. I get to my feet, wobbling slightly, and stagger to the mirror, eager to take a peek at my reflection. Pleased with what I see, I admire my face from every angle, taking in the tight, smooth skin of youth.

She put up quite the struggle, my Tess, I didn’t know she had it in her. I almost started to feel guilty, but after at least a hundred rebirths, I’ve learned not to get too attached.

“Tess, I’m getting worried now,” I recognise my daughter’s voice at the door. Or should I say, mother.

“I’m coming, Mom,” I say as I open the door. Seeing my daughter/mother’s face creased with concern, I hug her tightly.

“Oh, honey, you sure you’re okay?” she asks. When I eventually pull away, she glances at my neck. “Your rash has finally cleared, thank goodness! Come, let’s go have some cake.”

We sit at the table side by side, mother and daughter—daughter and mother, and, as I slowly slice a knife into my granddaughter’s birthday cake, I hear her voice, soft but insistent: Miranda.