FRESH DIRT

Naomi lit the amber candle in the corner of her room at The Medspa 101. She aligned the towels on the warming shelf, making sure the corners matched and the edges were flush. She opened the top drawer, then the second, then the third. Checking that everything inside lay where it should.

The first client of the day was a woman wanting her lips to look fuller. Once the woman settled into the chair, Naomi pulled on her gloves, then tilted the woman’s head back. Naomi placed her pinky finger along the woman’s jaw to steady her hand. She could feel the warmth of the woman’s breath through her gloves. The smell of coffee mixed with nicotine made it through her mask; it reminded her of her grandmother.

The woman wore a soft, floral perfume that smelled expensive, but strong. She was trying to mask the smell of her morning cigarette. Naomi breathed through her mouth for a moment, then through her nose again. She had trained herself years ago to let smells pass through her without lingering.

Naomi worked carefully, marking the woman’s lip line, measuring, and steadying her hand. The woman didn’t flinch when Naomi inserted the needle. Naomi made several passes with the needle, pausing between each insertion to visualize where to place the next one.

When she was done, the woman opened her eyes. Naomi handed her a mirror. The woman looked from side to side, then turned to Naomi.

“You smell good,” she said.

Naomi’s eyes dropped to the ground. “Thank you.”

Naomi turned to the counter and washed her hands nervously, then washed them again. She hated it when people told her she smelled good. That’s why she had stopped wearing perfume years ago. It must be my deodorant, she thought.

The woman left, pleased with her new lips. Naomi wiped down the chair, blew out the candle, and aligned the towels again before picking up her keys to leave.

The road into town ran past her childhood home. It was the only road in and out. Every weekday morning, she drove it to get to the salon, and every evening, she drove it back home. The old homestead had been sold three times since she moved out — once when her mom and siblings moved, and twice after that. It was so old when they moved there that she couldn’t understand why it was still standing.

For years, she had begged God to burn it down. She was even ready to start the fire herself, but she was too afraid she would get caught. And she knew exactly which room she would ignite first. That middle bedroom upstairs. She had visualized all the ways she could destroy that room. One night, she stayed awake, imagining herself taking an ax to it, starting with the bed.

She shuddered, remembering the tiled ceiling and how she would try counting them to take her mind off what was being done to her. There were nine glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to one of the tiles. From that one time her brother talked about becoming an astronaut. She could still smell the room, still smell him. Dust masked with Glade, and his oily scalp. But one memory that haunted her constantly was what he always said to her. He liked the way she smelled.

She thought moving out would help her forget. But driving past that house twice a day would not let her memories fade. It only strengthened them. Her stomach ached every time she passed. She held her breath as if she was trying not to smell that room. She gave it a quick look, drove a few miles, and then realized she had checked out.

Over the weekend, severe storms and a tornado came through their small town. There was extensive storm damage throughout the area. Her home was spared. She lived in a little valley, and tornadoes seemed to skip over it. But Monday morning, when she was headed to work, she realized the tornado had taken the same path she did every day.

She saw wads of grass wedged in trees left standing, pecan orchards split open, a path leveled to the ground. The roof rolled back on homes. Then, as she was approaching her childhood home, she noticed it had been leveled to a heap of lumber.

She stopped the car and stared. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tight her neck and shoulders ached. Then she started to cry. She wasn’t sure whether she was sad because a good part of her childhood had been destroyed, or relieved that a bad part of it had been. But it was both. Her prayer had been answered. The home was destroyed, although not in the way she imagined. She turned the car around and drove home, canceling her appointments and telling them she had storm damage to deal with.

It would be months before they cleared the house off the land. Every day she passed it, she was reminded of the destruction that a home was capable of. For 130 days, it looked like the same heap of destruction it had been the morning after the storm. Nothing changed, and no grass grew. The storm had taken the topsoil, too. And a bulldozer sat on the property in anticipation of work.

Day after day, at work, her hands kept moving. She did facials, lash extensions, brow waxes, Botox, and lip injections. And she would light the candle and align the towels. The women in her chair talked about their husbands, their children, and their vacations. Naomi listened, nodded, and smoothed serum into their skin. At the end of each day, she drove home past the wreckage. And the bulldozer did not move. She hated the way the sight of that debris made her feel.

About six months after the storm, on a bright morning, she drove past and saw everything was gone. The wreckage. The bulldozer. All of it. She stopped, then pulled into what used to be the driveway and turned off the engine. She sat there for a moment, both hands still on the wheel. Then opened the door and got out. The cool Autumn breeze felt refreshing.

The lot was bare. Smooth in some places, churned in others, the way a piece of land looks after machines have done their work. She walked to the middle of the lot and stood there. Looking up at where the staircase had been. The one she had to climb to that middle bedroom. Above her, somewhere in the empty sky, was where the ceiling tiles and stars had been.

Then she squatted down and ran her hands through the dirt, remembering the hardwood floors in the living room. The dirt was damp and smelled earthy and clean, like after a fresh rain. This dirt had been hidden under the floor of this house since 1930. She felt something and closed her hand around it. It was a nail. Old, rusted, and bent at the tip. She turned it over in her palm. Then tucked it into her pocket. Stood up and brushed her hands on her scrubs. She let out a sigh; her stomach was no longer in a knot.

She got back in the car and drove the rest of the way to work.

At the salon, she lit the amber candle and aligned the towels — corners still matched, edges still flush. She checked the drawers, top to bottom. Then she washed her hands once. Her first client of the day was a woman she had not seen before. The woman settled into the chair, tilted her head back, then asked Naomi, “What perfume are you wearing?”

Naomi smiled as she pulled on her gloves and said, “It’s just my deodorant. It must be doing its job well today.” She placed her pinky along the woman’s jaw and began shaping her new appearance. She could feel the nail in her pocket pressing against her while she leaned into her client. And she thought of that lot and the fresh dirt. And how she, too, had been given a clean slate.

About The Author:

Yoli Kae Reynolds is the author of Not What God Promised, a memoir. She is a Certified Journal Therapy & Grief Coach based in Central Arkansas. Her writing explores suicide loss, family trauma, and survival in the aftermath of abuse. Her personal essays have appeared on Medium in Women Write, Reaching Hearts, Threads of Life, and Money and Momentum. Her fiction has appeared in The Fiction Journal on Substack. Through both her coaching practice and her fiction, she investigates how systems fail survivors and the violence that echoes through families.

Originally published at https://thefictionjournal.substack.com.