Amelia had done everything by the books. She’d researched, read, and gathered everything she needed. Spent days and nights alone. Watered the soil with her tears. But all she’d produced were some likely inedible puffball mushrooms. 

Amelia donned her gardening gloves and sun hat and grabbed a bucket to work in the small patch she had made for the mushrooms.

They were not large by any means. They weren’t even close to the size of giant puffballs. But they were big enough to eat. Amelia picked them and knew they would be perfect as meatballs in spaghetti, but the idea of squishing one or two to see the cloud of spores was much more tempting.

She took one of the small puffballs in her hand and squeezed it, smiling at the spore cloud that came out from between her fingers.

It reminded her of being a kid when she’d run around her mother’s backyard and kick the mushrooms that popped up when she wasn’t looking. Her mother loved how the mushrooms made the garden look and would scold Amelia for destroying them. Despite that, Amelia had grown up to love mushrooms. She felt a pang in her heart.

Why can’t she just be happy for me?

She gripped the remains of the mushrooms and ripped them, causing more spore clouds to arise from the leftover membranes. She didn’t need her. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what to do. She was fine by herself. 

Amelia put down the tattered remains of the puffball mushroom and buried it in the dirt. She grabbed another mushroom and crushed it in her hand with a satisfying pop. This time, the spores tickled her nose and she sneezed. She sniffled and sneezed again. And again. Once her sneezing ceased, she got on with the harvest instead of playing around with the puffballs. 

She gently removed the mushrooms from the earth, taking care not to lacerate the fragile outside of the sphere. As the afternoon drew on, her bucket filled with mushrooms of varying sizes and ripeness. She examined each one, sneezing every now and then. 

Most of them were good, though a few were going to have some spots that would need to be cut out. Some of them were completely inedible. Their yellowish tint told her they were past their edible period and would taste foul. Those ones Amelia placed back on the dirt so they could decompose and spread their spores for next year’s harvest. 

She imagined her mother making comments about the overripe and spoiled mushrooms. How it would somehow be Amelia’s fault and, if she had paid a bit more attention, it would have been a better harvest.

Thanks Mom, love you too. 

Amelia made her way into the house, heading to her kitchen to prepare the mushrooms. She washed them, cut them, and stored some in the fridge and freezer for later before starting her dinner. She sneezed a few more times. 

It must be the spores.

Over the next week, Amelia cooked with the mushrooms, enjoying their taste and the fun they added to cooking. It almost felt like cooking with friends or family. She had watched these puffballs grow into mature mushrooms and now here they were, part of her dishes.

Maybe this was the closest she would ever get to having a good family. 

One day, while cooking lamb and puffball cannoli, Amelia felt a bit sick. The watery smell of vegetables and the acidic aroma of wine was just too much. 

I can’t stomach this. I’ll just have cereal instead.

For nearly two days Amelia laid in bed. She only got up to drink water and rummage through the cupboards for saltine crackers. Amelia typically only ate the crackers if she was very nauseous.

By the evening of day two, she felt unbearably disgusting and greasy.

I need a shower. Hopefully I can feel human again. 

Amelia’s legs shook. Turning on the bathroom light, she squinted and looked at herself in the mirror. She was the definition of sickly. Her skin was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her skin also looked thin, horrifyingly so. Almost like paper. 

God, I don’t think I’ve ever looked so sick….

She pulled down her lower eyelid and inspected her eye. It was light pink and felt as itchy as it looked. There were far too many veins. But perhaps her vision was skewed from the fact that one of her eyes was looking at the ceiling.

Amelia turned over her hand. She could see the blue veins underneath and couldn’t help but think how they looked like a network of roots. Come to think of it, the entire underneath of her hand looked like that if she squinted. 

“Jesus,” Amelia said.

You’re being dramatic, she heard her mother say in her head. 

Amelia turned on the hot water and basked in the steam that filled the room. She let out a soft sigh. It was weird, but she swore she could feel the steam enter her body, rejuvenating her in a way plain hot water couldn’t. She stripped herself of her clothing and spent close to half an hour in the shower, taking in the warmth and the pleasantly suffocating steam. Once she had made her way back to her bed, she was content and felt less dead than she had earlier. She crawled underneath the covers and closed her eyes, feeling more like herself than she had before. 

Amelia slept into the afternoon the next day. When she woke, the clock read noon. She felt a pang of guilt for oversleeping. Once again, she could hear her mother’s nagging in her head. She tried not to dwell on it. If she’d slept that long then her body needed it. She rolled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. 

Coming face to face with herself in the mirror gave Amelia a bit of a scare. She’d grown paler overnight. Or maybe her veins had become more prominent. If that was possible.

She gently washed her face to try and bring some life back, but it didn’t do anything. Maybe she needed some sun. She had been inside for two days and barely left the bed.

I need to go to the garden. The garden will help.

Amelia put on a pair of gardening overalls, a button-up shirt, and some comfy socks. She pulled on her boots and gloves. She didn’t bother with the hat. She wouldn’t mind a sunburn. She needed some colour.  

As she opened the door to the garden, she took a deep breath. The air was moist and earthy. It had either rained last night or earlier. 

I needed this.

She decided to start by tending to a bed of flowers that she needed to prepare for winter. She thought she would turn the soil and start collecting some leaves to put around them. 

While she worked, Amelia noticed her hands itched inside of her gloves. She took her gloves off and shook them out, thinking that some dirt had gotten into them. Nothing. She put them back on, but again her hands itched. 

Guess we’re gardening without gloves today. She discarded the gloves somewhere beside her.

Amelia put her hands straight into the soil. It felt right. The malleable dirt between her fingers was hers to mold and become one with. She had never felt like this before when she was bare-handed in the soil, but this felt right. Oh so right. She started to work on the flower beds. 

Jealousy started to grow in Amelia’s heart. She was confused as to why. She thought of her mother. How she started this garden to try and connect with her again after five long years of silence. Was she jealous of how her mother never liked her garden? No, then she should be feeling rage. She gently touched the stem of one of her flowers and felt it click. She was jealous of the connection the flowers had with the earth. With the trees. With the bugs. The community, the family the flower had. In one of her gardening books, she had read that all plants are connected via their roots and a string of mushroom roots. Mycelium. 

A thought came to her as she gently caressed the plant stem. Perhaps if she could become more in tune with the mushroom roots over in the other part of the yard, she could become more in tune with the earth and with her plants. 

Amelia stood and walked over to the patch that had been her mushroom bed. She dug her hands through the soil and lifted clumps of dirt that contained small, thin, white roots. She shook the dirt gently in her hand, sifting the roots out of the dirt. When one particularly big root touched her hand, she felt something akin to an electric shock.

She quickly dropped the dirt and stared at the offending root. Hesitantly, she touched the root again and received the same electric shock, but fainter. Something underneath her skin seemed to wriggle, and she felt herself send a current of electricity back to the root. She submerged her hands within the dirt below her. The tiny little shocks came to her fingers and without thinking, she could make out the words transmitted to her. 

Join.

Home.

Feed.

Over and over these words echoed in her brain. She knew they were right. She needed to join. She needed to go home. She needed to feed. That’s why she hadn’t been feeling well. She wasn’t eating. She wasn’t eating what she was supposed to be eating. She stood up and dusted off her hands. She let her feet take her back into the house. Her body knew what she needed.

Amelia rushed over to the kitchen sink and crouched down. She opened the cabinet door beneath it. She grabbed her compost bucket, taking note of the half-rotten fruit and vegetables within. She had to eat, and this was the only thing that would do. With a shaking hand, she grabbed a clump of the half-made dirt and shoved it into her mouth. 

Amelia forced herself to chew. The fermented taste and slimy texture made her want to gag. Swallowing was tough but she managed. She could feel it sliding down her throat and making its place in her stomach like a rock. She waited for her reflexes to kick in and expel the plant matter. Her stomach growled and gurgled, but it didn’t come. Instead, she craved more. She needed the nutrients faster. 

She looked out her sliding kitchen door to the backyard and heard the words reverberate in her head. 

Join.

Home. 

Eat. 

Amelia stripped off her clothes and returned to the backyard with her bucket. The cool air and grass felt like home on her skin and feet. She could feel the squishiness of the earth. She could hear the worms moving in the dirt, not with her ears, but with the small strings of roots that grew within her body. They were connecting her to the other plants. The bugs. The earth. 

Amelia walked over to the mushroom patch. The bed was damp and she could see a worm wriggling on the topsoil. Amelia put a hand into her compost bucket and began to spread the sustenance she needed over the soil. Once she was done, she tossed the bucket to the side. 

Amelia dropped to her knees and crawled onto the patch of soil now blanketed by fruit skins and bits of vegetables. It felt oddly soft. Each time she moved she could feel a piece of organic matter becoming more one with the earth. She could feel the juices escape and lightly coat her palms and knees. 

Reaching the middle of the cultivated spot, she laid down. She buried her face into the dirt and took in a deep breath, soil and plant parts filling her nose. It smelt heavenly. It smelt like home. She rolled over, slowly opening her eyes to gaze up at the clouds. The sun was in the middle of the sky. It was blinding. So she closed her eyes again. 

After days of feeling off and horrible, she finally felt at peace. She didn’t feel that loneliness. That need to connect with her mother like she had before. And why would she? She had her garden. 

Amelia spread out her arms and wiggled her fingers into the moist compost. It was cool and refreshing. She let herself relax, and in doing so, felt herself sink into the ground.

Tiny jolts of electricity and pin-like pain poked her back. A small buildup of pressure and then nothing. Each time, she felt more and more connected to the earth. Soon, she was fully rooted to the ground. For a moment, everything was still and quiet. Then a vicious pain started in her upper arm. She clenched her teeth and gripped the soil with her hands. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t want to disturb the garden. 

Just when the pain reached an unbearable point, it suddenly released with a faint pop. Even though the sun was still beating down on her with its unrelenting light, she opened her eyes. She looked over to her arm where the pain had been, and there, just below her elbow, growing from burst flesh, was a small puffball mushroom. A smile came to her face. Even as the pain started up again and she watched another spot of her arm start to bubble and squirm, peace came again. She let the pain wash over her in waves as mushrooms burst from her skin and covered her in puffball warts. 

Join.

Home. 

Consume.

Eventually, pressure started to build behind her eyes. One that she had now grown accustomed to. She knew what was coming and it filled her with a sense of joy. As she heard the faint pop, she saw a flash of bright light and then darkness. Amelia was finally home.