supermarket apple

I couldn’t smell whiskey on his breath when I hugged him. Only apple cider. In the absence of disappointment- that same gray bitterness I’d felt as a child when I saw him passed out on the couch at noon, infusing it with the scent of booze and cigarettes- I had no idea what to feel. 

“Getting ready for Halloween early? Or is the purple here to stay?” He reached out a meaty hand to ruffle my hair. The interaction felt forced, like I was in a play with an amateur actor who’d been cast as a father for the first time. 

“I dyed it two months ago.” I stalked off before he could respond, heading towards the booth to purchase apple bags. Dad jogged ahead of me, smiling proudly at the worker. 

“I’d like two bags for my daughter and I.” I hated the way he said daughter. He liked to flaunt that he had a kid, like I was a designer bag or something. I bet it made strangers think he was this great guy. I wanted to scream that I was practically an acquaintance. That yes, he had a daughter, but he wasn’t there for her. Perhaps I would have screamed it if the boy working the booth wasn’t around my age, if he didn’t have these gorgeous eyes and an intricate tattoo on his hand. All I could do was smile and thank him, making sure my fingers brushed his when I took my bag. I expected this to make him fall madly in love with me, ask for my number, and give me a free apple cider donut because he found me so devastatingly beautiful. He did none of those things. I chalked it up to the fact that my dad was standing right behind us, rambling about the first Thanksgiving he’d had with my mother when he burned the apple pie. I was only half listening as we weaved through the orchard. There were too many picture perfect Homes & Gardens magazine families here. I stared too long at one who’d brought their golden retriever with them.

“Oh, you should’ve seen Maria’s face. Your mom was a doll, trying to scrape off the burned bits from the crust. And we were all packed into the tiny little kitchen in that New York apartment- your mom and I fussing over the pie, Angel coming in every five minutes to ask if it was ready yet, Camila taking out the pork only to put it back in over and over because it was never just right.” We approached the neat rows of dwarf trees, laden with glossy red fruit that looked too heavy for them. 

“That’s funny.” I did not have it in me to laugh. “Camila’s vegan now. Her kids, too.” Dad stopped and began inspecting an apple. He was being agonizingly thorough, and humming a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Eons ago, my parents used to have little living room concerts for me on Friday nights. After school, I’d go outside and pick the dandelions that grew wild in the backyard to present to them after their performance. They must have been the most hideous makeshift bouquets, but mom and dad always seemed overjoyed to receive them. There was nothing better than watching him play guitar while she sang. Sometimes he’d sing along as a joke, his gravelly voice comically terrible against hers, buttery and smooth and warm. Though the title escaped me, I knew this was definitely one of their go-to songs. Why was he humming it now? Was he going to say anything? Was he going to stand there forever? The awkward bobbing of his head made my sweater feel suffocating. The tiny trees offered no shade, the fruit smelled sickeningly sweet, and it was far too hot for October. The itchy fabric threatened to swallow me whole, strangle me, pull me underground with the apple tree roots. “You would know that we’ve been having tofurkey for years if you bothered to show up for Thanksgiving anymore.” I pressed my lips into a hard line. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do this. Maybe I wasn’t good at keeping promises. Maybe the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. I hoped I wouldn’t be an orchard apple, but a supermarket apple- loaded onto a boat and shipped to a store hundreds of thousands of miles away from its tree. 

“I’m trying. Really, I am. I’ve been going to AA meetings and all that. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but what I’m dealing with… it’s a disease, Riley. I know I flaked, but I’ve never stopped caring about you.” I let out the shaky breath I’d been holding, and reached over to yank down the apple my dad had been inspecting. 

“You cared about me when you forgot to pick me up from school? When you slept through every play I’ve been in?” I was probably saying all the wrong things, but my heart was hammering in my chest. It was doing the talking for me. 

“Yes! Of course I did! I never completely disappeared from your life, kid.” Neither of us were very good at serious conversations, or saying sorry, or even knowing when to say sorry. 

“That’s the bare minimum, it doesn’t make you a hero,” I spat back. 

“You’re right.” We looked at each other for a moment, and then continued walking as if nothing had happened. I reached out to feel balmy leaves caress my skin. I’d always wished I was a plant. It must be so much simpler. Dad stopped abruptly again, studying another apple as he spoke. “Would you want to come back here for Halloween? Do the haunted hayride like we used to? If you want.” I sighed, rubbing a leaf between my fingers. I did have Halloween plans- the same plans I’d had for years. The same party, same kids, same horrific concoction of orange soda and candy and vodka. I wondered if Dad used to do things like that. I wondered if it was wrong of me, being that my genetics were a punnett square from hell, to keep going back to that giant bowl covered in little dancing skeletons until I could barely walk and nothing existed. 

“Yeah,” I agreed, my voice coming out much louder than I intended. “A hayride sounds perfect.”