The Lemon Tree

Sharp.

Ivy smelled it before she saw it. Something tart and bright tinged the hot, humid summer breeze drifting into her muggy car. She had been sitting in the car, engine off, for nearly ten minutes now.

Lemons. That’s what it was. She turned her head to look out across her father’s barren front yard. A lone lemon tree was planted right next to the porch steps. It must’ve been six feet tall. Had she not noticed it last year when she was here for the funeral?

Ivy glanced down at the Tupperware container on the passenger seat. Yakisoba with tofu. She brought it for her dad and, honestly, for herself because he never had anything she deemed edible in his fridge.

She squinted at the tree through the windshield like it was an outsider that needed to explain itself.

“Lemons?” she said, her voice sounding strange after not speaking during the five-hour car drive. Dad never liked lemons.

She decided it was less torturous to spend time with her dad than to cook in her car, which was turning into an oven. She wouldn’t even need to heat the noodles. She grabbed them, opened her car door, and stepped out onto the gravel driveway.

Ivy looked at the adorable yellow house her parents bought when she graduated from high school and went to college. They had many plans for it, like a garden for Mom and a workshop for Dad. Mom started a small garden, and Dad bought the lumber for building the workshop, but it didn’t go beyond that. Mom’s passing wasn’t the only reason these plans didn’t come true.

She focused on the tree as she climbed the steps. The sharp scent of citrus reminded her of her mother’s cold hands touching her warm cheeks when she was a child. Had it been here the one other time she visited after her mom’s funeral? The time she preferred not to remember? The one her father didn’t know about.

The front door flew open before she even had a chance to knock.

“Hey, dude,” her dad said with a smile. He was still too handsome—her mom had teased him about it their whole marriage. At sixty-five, he hadn’t slowed down much. His salt-and-pepper hair was thick, and his sun-warmed, healthy-looking olive skin suggested someone who’d refused to age.

Conversations used to flow easily between them. But now, Ivy’s stomach twisted at the thought of even making small talk.

He leaned in for a hug, but she lifted the Tupperware like a shield.

“Yakisoba.”

“Yum,” he said, though the corners of his mouth pulled down.

Dear Mom,

Can’t believe a year has already passed. I visited Dad and brought tofu yakisoba with me. He’ll probably make some vegan joke at me if we even get that far. We’ve only had about two phone calls and a few texts since you’ve been gone. This time, I’m planning to bring up what’s been bothering me. You won’t believe what he planted right next to the porch—a lemon tree…

❦ ❦ ❦

Worn.

Ivy stood in the living room as her father fiddled around in the kitchen with the noodles. She heard the sound of silverware clanking against plates and the microwave beeping.

She looked around the room and realized her mom’s urn was gone. It usually sat on the bookshelf next to her framed portrait. She approached to check. Maybe they were stored somewhere else.

“Noodles smell great,” her father called from the kitchen.

“Good,” Ivy replied.

She opened her dad’s rickety secretary desk, which she couldn’t believe was still standing. She couldn’t wait until it was hers, so she could fix it up and give it a nice stain.

A postcard fluttered out and landed at her feet. She bent down to pick it up, intending to slip it back into the desk—but paused.

It showed a painted beach scene, bright with palm trees, tropical flowers, and a large, cartoonish toucan. Across the top, in a red-to-yellow ombré: Costa Rica. It was wrinkled and faded, as if it were old or perhaps handled too much. She ran her finger along a torn edge and noticed it was also folded in half for easy carrying. A small voice told her to put it back in the desk, but instead, she flipped it over.

Rick,

Miss you so much. I wish you could’ve come here with me. The coffee is phenomenal. I made friends with a sloth today, which I know you would’ve called us soul mates. I’ll call you in a couple of days, but you know how I am with sending postcards. The end of summer can’t come soon enough. Love you, M

Ivy realized that this postcard wasn’t old when she saw it was postmarked just a few weeks ago. She heard the soft clink of plates on the dining room table from around the corner. She tucked the postcard into the secretary and left the room.

They sat eating noodles, stealing quick glances at each other across the table. Her dad with his sad smile, and Ivy occasionally letting out a big sigh through her nose. The words from the postcard kept invading her thoughts. Why did the handwriting look so familiar? Who was M? Could it be the man she saw her dad with after mom died? The one she saw him kiss?

“Noodles ok?” Ivy asked.

“Chicken’s better,” her dad said.

Ivy rolled her eyes, expecting a punchline, but there wasn’t one.

“That’s it?”

“Better protein.”

A small eternity followed those words, during which Ivy imagined herself yelling at her dad about many things, but she didn’t have the guts.

“Where’s mom?”

“What?”

“Her ashes.”

Her father stood and picked up his plate. Ivy noticed he had picked out all the tofu, and even though it was a small thing, she wanted to punch him in his stupid, handsome face. If she did, he’d make a joke about how “not vegan” it was, and she would have to explain that not eating animals didn’t mean she was a pacifist.

“You done?” he asked as he gestured to her plate. Ivy nodded and picked hers up. “Come on,” he added, returning to the kitchen.

Dad never liked lemons. You loved lemons. Why didn’t he ever plant one while you were alive? I found a postcard to Dad from “M”. Did you know him? He picked out all the tofu, and ugh, sometimes I hate him. Why can’t I just confront him? Maybe it’s because I’m waiting for him to tell the truth. Your ashes were missing. Even though he told me where you were, I’m still pissed…

❦ ❦ ❦

Sour.

They sat on opposite ends of the porch, drinks in hand, the citrus imposter casting soft shadows on the grass. Ivy took the lemonade her father offered, though she didn’t sip it yet. His glass was already half-empty. She lifted it to her lips. Dad never liked lemons.

“Too tart,” Ivy commented.

“Added honey,” her dad said, shrugging.

“Not enough,” Ivy said. Her mother always used just the right amount. “Where’s mom?”

Instead of replying, her father observed a bee crawling on one of the blossoms.

“She’s here,” he said, pouring the rest of his lemonade toward the base of the tree. “Cheers, sweety.”

“Seriously?”

“She loved lemonade.”

“You hated it.”

“Not true,” her dad said, frowning.

“Fooled me,” Ivy said.

I’m not sure if these letters are helping. Nothing will bring you back. Did you choose to leave because you knew? Sometimes I wish you had died of a disease. I guess you kind of did. I think your problems were a prison for Dad. I’m mad at him for not living his truth, for not letting you live your truth. I wish he would just talk to me…

❦ ❦ ❦

Hollow.

Her mother’s wind chimes were tangled and rusted, hanging from the corner of the porch. Ivy reached out and gave the string a gentle tug, then a harder one. A single hollow chime rang loose, thin and short. This thing was living a lie, too broken and old to serve any purpose.

“Toss this,” Ivy told her dad, who was now drinking a beer. He preferred beer over lemonade and actually liked it.

“Still works.”

“It’s sad.”

“Made mom happy.”

“She’s dead.”

“Still here,” he said and pointed to the lemon tree.

“You’re here,” Ivy said with a sigh.

She wished he had included her—planting the tree, burying the ashes, sharing the guilt. She didn’t want perfection, just the truth. Instead, she felt like a lie in his made-up life. Maybe that’s why her mother had felt so empty—hollow, like the wind chimes—still hanging but long since silenced.

I can’t believe he won’t throw those chimes away. I feel like the longer he holds onto you, the longer he holds onto his guilt. I know that, in his own way, he loved you. You were beautiful. Everyone called you the perfect couple. I’m scared, Mom, because I’m starting to feel that emptiness. I don’t want him to push me away...

❦ ❦ ❦

Fade.

Ivy and her father sipped beers as the sun set. Orange faded to red, then to pink, and finally to purple. The sky was a deep, dark blue.

“It’s tall,” Ivy said, as she lifted her chin toward the tree.

“Bought it,” her dad said, his bottle clanking against the grimy glass table.

“Who’s M?”

“Ivy.”

“Dad.”

“Not now.”

“Then when?”

Ivy looked straight ahead, biting her cheeks and watching the sunlight fade from the tops of the trees. It wasn’t just her dad’s good looks that seemed frozen in time; his shame was, too. It was up to her to help him get unstuck.

“I saw,” she said.

“Saw what?”

“The kiss.”

Silence.

“She know?” Ivy stood, pulled a leaf from the tree, split it in half, and breathed in the sharp scent of lemon. Her stomach twisted before he could respond. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“No.”

“Better, I guess… ”

“Not better,” her dad said, staring down at his feet.

Ivy padded over to her father and crouched down with her hands on his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he said, placing his warm hands on hers.

“It’s time,” she said.

“For what?”

“To be you.”

A wind picked up, and for once, the chimes had a voice—a low, trembling tone that faded into the rustle of leaves.

I finally said it, Mom. Not everything, but enough. He didn’t lie. He just sat there with me as the sky faded away. Three lemons fell from the tree… like you might have been listening and saying, “I forgive you.” Love ~ Ivy