The Endurance of Oak Trees and Gooseberries

The oak tree we used to climb as kids still stands, but now it’s one of the few trees left at the edge of our father’s farm, which has since turned into an empty field. I remember when the field was vibrant with peppers of all colors and we would pass by them and stumble upon the zucchini and yellow squash. Beyond the squash were the tomatoes, and after the tomatoes were the lettuce and spinach. Sometimes we would snag a leaf of lettuce on our way to the tree or grab a tomato and eat it like an apple.

On our last skip out to the tree, I had grabbed a tomato, still warm from the sun, and took a big bite. I remember that day vividly, and it was the sweetest tomato I had ever eaten. Its juices ran down my face as my skip slowed to a walk and I savored the fruit. When we finally reached the tree, I was almost done eating.

You had scrambled up first. You always said that because you were born first, that meant you got to do everything first. My seven-year-old self never questioned it because I was so in awe of how your long limbs swung from branch to branch. You were always the fearless daredevil.

“Catch me if you can!” you had taunted.

I had swallowed the rest of my tomato and tried to maneuver around the gooseberry bush growing next to the tree to access to the lowest limb. I remember a thorn catching in my calf as I hoisted myself into the air. I tried to swing with as much ease as you did, but I could feel my body struggling against gravity and settled for a branch about six feet off the ground in comparison to the twelve feet you had accomplished.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Yes,” I had said, “I don’t want to hurt myself.”

“Okay, I’ll make my way down to you,” you said.

In that moment, I blacked out. I always tell myself that we hung out in the tree for a little bit like we always did and that we ate gooseberries afterwards, the tartness reminding us of the sour patch kids our friends sometimes shared with us at school.

I remember coming to when you were being loaded onto a gurney. Dad said that he had been watching us out of the corner of his eye as he was tending to the squash and had heard both of our shrieks. The doctors had said you were lucky that you had only broken bones and weren’t paralyzed or dead. I never thought that someone who had broken as many bones as you did would be considered lucky.

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  I pull into the driveway for the first time in five years and am greeted with a slow wag of Daisy’s tail. She is lying in the driveway in front of my car, her black muzzle turning gray. Aside from the wagging tail, she doesn’t move, as if she’s asking me to put her out of her misery. I step out of the car and she hobbles over towards me, her back legs stiff. I pet her and she leads me into the house where our parents are sitting at kitchen table, each absorbed in their own worlds.

“Hey,” I say, breaking the spell. Mom’s short wavy hair has greyed significantly since I last saw her and Dad’s jaw looks slack from his lack of teeth. I have a feeling you’re home, and I wonder if you are hiding upstairs. I bet you saw me coming from a mile away (after all, the driveway is practically a mile long) and holed up in your room so that you wouldn’t have to talk to me.

“How are you?” I ask mom, who gets up out of her chair to hug me. I return her embrace and inhale the scent of biscuits in her hair.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” I say. Despite the fact that you and I haven’t spoken for the past five years, I’ve still called our parents at least once a week. They understand that what happened between us doesn’t affect my relationship with them. I can’t believe how much they’ve aged in only five years though.

“Where’s Suzy?” Mom asks, referring to my four-year-old daughter. Dad is still sitting the table and staring at his coffee mug, oblivious to the fact that I’ve walked in.

“Jacob’s watching her,” I say, referring to my husband. Just mentioning his name in this house sends shivers down my spine.

Dad finally notices me and says hi. He slowly gets up out of his chair and I wonder who’s more arthritic: him or the dog. He makes his way over to me and hugs me.

“Oh Polly,” he says in my ear. I inhale the scent of smoke on his worn army green coat.

“Hey Dad, how’s it going?”

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, ending the hug but leaving his hands planted firmly on my arms.

“In the city, Papa. How have you been doing?”

“Oh, you know. The farm ain’t what it used to be, but we getting along alright. Pam makes darn sure of that.”

I bet she does, I think to myself.

“That’s good,” I say. I don’t want to talk about how you traded his vibrant vegetable farm for a government subsidy for corn and then let monoculture destroy the soil. Now the only way Mom and Dad make money is through bees. Between making honey and renting bees out to other farms in the area, they usually manage to scrape together enough to buy food with and keep a roof over your head. But when Mom told me last week that three of Dad’s seven hives were infected with American Foulbrood (probably from renting the bees out) and a little less than half the bees died, I knew I had to do something. You don’t know that I know this though. I’m ninety percent sure that Mom and Dad keep their calls with me a secret from you so that you don’t fly off the handle on them. I brace myself, then ask the dreaded question.

“Is Pam here?”

“Oh, I think she want for a walk,” my mother says.

“Really? When do you think she’ll be back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How long were you planning on staying?”

I try to tell my mom with my eyes that it’s in her best interest not to cover for you. She seems to understand, and leans in close.

“She’s upstairs in her room,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” I whisper back.

I walk up the stairs, the wood protesting with every step. I knock on your door and surprisingly, you let me in.

“What do you want?” you ask, wrapping yourself in a faded Aztec shawl. Your face is gaunt and you look like you’ve lost weight everywhere else too. I can’t tell if it’s because you’re sick or if you just haven’t been eating enough.

“A simple ‘hello’ would have been nice.”

“Okay fine. Hi, how can I help you?”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like a customer service representative. Listen, I know things haven’t been great between us since the whole Jacob thing, but hear me out. His father recently died and left him a lot of money. We’ve been talking, and I after I told him what happened to Dad’s bees, he offered to help out.”

“I don’t want his money,” you say, turning away from me and walking towards the chair placed in front of your window.

“Please hear me out. Why don’t we go for a walk?”

“Because I don’t want to,” you say, sitting down in your chair and watching the squirrels scamper across the yard. I wonder if I should have led with an apology, but also think that maybe the peace offering I’m about to make is enough of an apology in and of itself.

“Okay fine. But Jacob doesn’t want to give Dad money. He wants to buy the farm.”

You snort and turn around to face me.

“What does that boy know about farming? His daddy never made him work in the field. Maybe that’s why you two got on so well. Neither of you know the meaning of hard work.” She wiped a tear from her eye and turned to look out the window. “You know, you’ve got nerve coming around here, thinking that money is an apology.” You pause, and I can hear you sniffle. You compose yourself and turn around to face me.  “He’s got some nerve too, breaking our engagement to run off with you. And now he wants to buy my daddy’s farm? Tell me Polly, is he buying the farm to help me or you?”

I want to defend him but your blue eyes reflect back on me like a frozen lake and I can’t find the words. I can see pain etched into the lines on your face and suddenly I want to cry.

“I’m sorry, Pam. What we did was wrong. I should have been honest with you about my feelings for him. We shouldn’t have snuck around the way we did and we definitely shouldn’t have run off. I’m sorry, we just found out I was pregnant and freaked out. I feel awful. I should have come back sooner.” I can feel tears beginning to stream down my face. “I really am sorry,” I eek out before I start crying. You turn towards the window again.

“I’m sorry too. I’m sorry that I’m thirty-five and living with my parents. I’m sorry that my fiancée ran off with my sister. And I’m sorry that I fell out of a tree when I was nine and ended up in a full body cast.” I can hear you sobbing in between words but you won’t let me see you cry. Then you turn and look me in the eye.

“God Polly, every time I tried to just live my life, I was punished. And you, you’re the epitome of a sinner and you have this magnificent life. Where’s your punishment, huh?”

My sadness is suddenly transformed into anger. “What do you want me to do? Tear my clothes and fast for forty days? Is that my Biblical punishment, Pam?”

You turn to face the window again, but I can hear you sobbing uncontrollably. I don’t think I’ve seen you cry so much since the day after you fell out of the tree and learned you’d be immobile for three months. I walk over to you and hug you over the back of the chair. Surprisingly, you don’t throw my arms off. I start to cry again too.

“I really am sorry about Jacob, Pam. We should have done things differently. I understand if you don’t want him to buy the farm, but this could really help Mom and Dad out.”

You continue sobbing uncontrollably and I keep trying to comfort you.

“I,” you begin. You’re finally starting to calm down a little bit. “I screwed up. I messed up his farm. If it weren’t for me, Dad wouldn’t need any money.”

I walk around the chair to face you and gently put my hands on your frail shoulders. Your tears have melted the lake in your eyes and I wipe a tear from your face. “It’s okay,” I say, “I screwed up too.” I give you a real hug and you wrap your arms around me.

“I think maybe that walk would be a good idea,” you say, wiping your tears and snot on your shawl. I take your hand and lead you down the stairs, past Mom and Dad, and out the door.

We walk silently, still holding hands. I can see that you’re leading me to the oak tree, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I look at the rows where Dad’s tomatoes used to grow. They’re bare now, covered with dead grass and make me want to cry even more. I want to know how the color gets sucked out of everything as time passes.

We approach the oak tree and I’m surprised to see that the gooseberry bush is still there and is bursting with red berries. It seems to be the only thing my dad planted that’s still alive. You guide me to sit down next to the bush. I can’t resist picking a few berries, and I hand you some. You don’t eat them, but examine them as if they are unfamiliar to you.

You break the silence. “Remember when we were kids and we’d always come out here and eat these things?” You take a deep breath.

“Mom always told me not to climb the tree, but I never listened.”

“We all do things we shouldn’t do,” I say, squeezing your hand.

“I guess you’re right,” you say, popping a berry into your mouth. I bite into one myself, the sour skin making way for the sweet flesh.

“Dad’s farm may be gone,” I say before popping another berry into my mouth, “but somehow this tree and bush survived.”

“It’s the beauty of symbiosis,” you say, squeezing my hand. I’m not sure if there’s an actual symbiotic relationship between the two or if they just co-exist, but I don’t say anything for fear of ruining the moment. Instead, I comfort myself with knowing that no matter how far we grow apart, our roots will always be intertwined.