by Mimi Flood
I told him about my grandmother, Dolores Williams. He looked at me as if he didn’t understand my attachment—and why would he? Paul and I had been together for years, and he had never met my family or known much about them. He couldn’t entirely be blamed for this, though. Paul’s absence from my family’s life was partly my doing.
Since I had moved from home I rarely visited them, and when I did, I preferred not to drag Paul along. He was as urban as it got and compared to my rural, bucolic family, he would just stick out too much. Then again, maybe I had kept him away from them because part of me knew we didn’t really fit together and I knew that my family, especially my wise, perceptive grandmother, would see right through the charade that was our relationship. Whatever the reason, I had maybe mentioned Dolores to Paul at most two or three times. And each time was in passing, an anecdote. So understandably, he couldn’t fully grasp how sad I was learning of her death.
Then again, had he ever bothered to ask about them, maybe he would be more aware. Paul, being who he was, usually focused on himself more than anyone else, had never shown much interest in my life before he came into it, especially not my family. He knew the general information: country girl moved to the city, found a job, lives alone. That was all that mattered to him, I suppose.
I was starting to question what I had ever seen in Paul. Other than his looks, which, I had to admit, were divine, his personality was starting to bug me and in all likelihood, probably always had.
“I never knew you were so close to her,” he said, confirming my theory.
“Used to be close,” I corrected, the admission killing me.
After graduating college, Dolores would call me weekly to see what I was up to. Nothing was going my way, friends were hard to find and I ended up working in a dentist’s office, a job that, at the time, had grown much more permanent than I had originally intended it to. I was living a life that wasn’t even remotely close to what I had envisioned, and especially not what I had bragged to my family was the reason I had to leave town—why I had to move to Montreal.
The fact that I had been so sure of myself before coming to the city, the way I had been so arrogant in my beliefs, turned me against my grandmother, and, not wanting to hear the disappointment in her voice every time she called, I slowly began to pull away. Soon, her phone calls diminished and eventually, our only conversations were when I spent the holidays at home. No doubt she was disappointed in me, as was the rest of my family, so I told myself over and over again that it was just easier avoiding them altogether.
Now, as reality hit, I quickly felt ashamed and regretful. I would never have the opportunity to speak to her again. What I wouldn’t give to sit across from her and chat over a cup of tea. I would tell her about Paul, about the complicated relationship we had spent the last three years maintaining and ask her opinion. I knew it wouldn’t be favourable, but still, I imagined she would have placated me and told me how to make it work.
Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I had never before shown this much emotion, if any, in front of Paul. I felt myself blushing, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he said, reaching up and using his thumb to wipe away my tears. For once, he was showing genuine sympathy and it caught me off guard.
Before I could stop, I took his face in my hands, finding his lips with my own. I knew it was probably the worst thing I could do at that moment, but I really didn’t care enough to stop. I didn’t want to face what I was feeling. I knew I was making a mistake, but all I craved was reassurance and to fill the void I now felt in the pit of my stomach.
Paul wasn’t good for many things, and I was sure I would regret it in the morning, but all the same, at that precise moment, I needed the distraction. I needed him.
Thursday, April 20th
CHAPTER THREE
Paul had left at some point during the night.
Big surprise.
I couldn’t be sure when he had gone, but I knew the sun hadn’t fully risen yet. Through semi-closed eyes, I had watched him find his clothes and tiptoe cowardly out of my room. Part of me never wanted to see him again and wouldn’t feel all that sad if I never did. I couldn’t really be mad at him—it was to be expected. We had both gotten what we wanted out of each other and his sympathy from the previous night would never have lasted, that much I knew. Of course, I should have known better than thinking angry sex would solve our problems or relieve the heartache I felt.
Over a cup of coffee, I tried to erase the lingering memories of the tumultuous dreams I’d had; one of which left me with an especially haunted feeling—a feeling the caffeine wasn’t shaking.
I had found myself floating in the middle of a large, open expanse of water. I had no recollection of how I had gotten there, just that I was in serious trouble. I felt panic in my chest, my breathing was laboured even though I wasn’t moving. I was just floating, not on an object or raft, but on the open waters. When I eventually decided to swim for land, my limbs would not move no matter how much I told them to.
Suddenly, I felt like I had been lifted and placed on something that was keeping me above water—a piece of driftwood I assumed. I was still in the middle of nowhere, but I wasn’t as scared this time. Peering over the edge of the raft, into the deep, dark water, I saw my reflection but not much else. Then, out of the murky depths, a white, almost translucent face appeared. Strangely, it didn’t frighten me—quite the opposite. I gazed into the blue eyes set in the round face I recognized better than my own and immediately knew my grandmother was at peace and that everything would be alright.
Now, sitting at my small, round kitchen table, I felt drained and anxious, to say the least, the dream’s feeling of peace having vanished.
My coffee cup drained, I didn’t have much of an appetite, so I began attacking the to-do list I needed to complete before I could leave for my parents. I watered my plants, did my dishes, leaving the apartment nearly spotless.
I spoke quickly with Mrs. Benson, my neighbour, and asked her to take care of Max while I was gone. As usual, she accepted.
“My condolences, Elizabeth,” she said, taking my hand. It was such a small thing, wrinkled and warm. It reminded me of my grandmother’s and nearly made me jerk my hand away.
“Thank you,” I replied, forcing the image of my dead grandmother from my mind. “I should be home in a few days.”
She nodded and took the keys to my apartment.
“Not to worry. Take as long as it takes.”
The drive out of the city was the distraction my brain craved. The highway, its straight and uncomplicated route which was engraved in my subconscious, meant I didn’t need to focus on the directions as much as I would have wanted to. Instead, knowing precisely where I was going, my brain kept running back to the previous night, to my troubles with Paul, and most importantly, to the upcoming trial that was this weekend. Intent to not allow those thoughts to bog me down, I tried desperately to focus on the road ahead.
Once I was out of the city, leaving the malls and suburbs behind, the road became calm and the scenery more enjoyable. The road twisted and turned this way and that way, lined with tined-roof homes and old tractors set aside as if they had been forgotten. I drove past these farmhouses that were older than time itself, their wood siding faded and worn from years of wear, barely looking like they should still be standing, and yet, I smiled when I noticed the satellite dishes hung to the edges of their roofs. Though there were still some elements that brought back a simpler time, it was clear that even the farmers had been trying to leave that time behind.
I passed vast farmlands where cornfields were soon to be born and cows were grazing, the bumpy roads not used to cars but rather tractors, making my car thump with every bounce. The fresh air soon became overwhelmed by the smell of recently spread manure in the fields, forcing me to shut my windows.
In the distance, the silhouettes of the Appalachian mountain range, its peaks dwarfing the tall silos that seemed so huge, called me ho
me like some kind of finish line. Somehow, the sights made the trip fly by. Soon, I was driving into my hometown—the small, idyllic town of Frelighsburg, with its population still hovering at just under three-thousand. I drove past the scant homes, separated by acres of farm fields, memories surging back into my mind. The towering trees that arched over the roads and formed lush tunnels, like some sort of welcoming committee, all indicated that I was only a few minutes from my parents’ home. Sadly, being back for something as sad as my grandmother’s funeral made what was once so vivid and beautiful seem dark and depressing.
I pulled into the driveway and parked the car. Immediately, my parents, Corinne and Alex Williams emerged from their home, my mother looking grief-stricken despite the heavy coating of make-up, my father’s sorrow painfully obvious. They looked older since the last time we had seen each other, I thought, which wasn’t that long ago. They seemed so different. My father had bags under his eyes, the darkened skin giving his blue eyes an eerie look and the small lines on my mother’s face, which used to give her face some character, were now menacingly taking over.
My father took me in his arms, rather by surprise.
“Hi, Honey.”
“Hi, Dad,” I replied, stunned at his show of affection. He had never been what I would call a very lovey-dovey person, but considering the circumstances we were now in, I let him hold me. I stayed there, encompassed by his strong arms, a little unsure what to do or say next.
“Take it easy on her, Alex,” my mom said, her tone severe. At least she seemed her normal self, I thought. My father stepped away allowing her to hug me. It felt cold and distant, as it almost always did.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Come, let’s go inside.”
CHAPTER FOUR
My father held the door for me and I was hit with the familiar smells of my childhood home—a mix of vanilla and pears. The scent brought back feelings and memories I wasn’t in the mood to face, so I shook them away as quickly as they entered.
“I love the wallpaper,” I said, pointing out the newly renovated foyer.
“It was your mom’s choice. I thought it was fine the way it was.”
“Oh, Alex, you’d be happy if this entire house still looked like it was built in the sixties.” Though she was trying to sound playful, the edge to my mom’s tone made it hard for me to laugh along. “Elizabeth, your room is ready for you, if you want to go and get settled.”
Taking the hint, I went upstairs to what had once been my bedroom. Years before, it had been the perfect example of a room where a teenage girl growing up in the nineties’ would call home. I had pasted the walls with heartthrobs and rock bands, leaving barely any signs of the pale, pink colour I had begged my father to paint when I was eight.
They had changed everything shortly after I had moved out when I was eighteen. They had never told me of their plans, leaving me to be surprised the following Christmas on my return home for the holidays. My feelings had been hurt, to say the least, but I had never brought it up. There would have been no point.
Now, all signs of my old bedroom were long gone, replaced by a guest room that contained a small, glass desk in one corner and an elliptical machine tucked in the other.
Dropping my bag on the floor with a heavy thud, I sat on the bed and looked around. At least the walls were still that pale pink, bringing back memories from years ago of a happier time before all the other crap had happened and things got so complicated.
I couldn’t let those memories haunt me, especially not now. I was here for my grandmother and I had to stay focused. Now was not the time to dig up the past. The guest room—my bedroom—was starting to feel smaller than it really was. With a sigh, I decided to join my parents downstairs.
My mother was in the kitchen making lunch—extremely complicated and gourmet sandwiches, from the look of it. She pointed her chin toward the back veranda where my father was sitting, his shoulders hunched, the epitome of a broken man.
“Go talk to him,” she suggested.
Again, I got the impression she was blowing me off, getting me to go elsewhere which was a common feeling I had when I came home, but I wasn’t about to point it out. I didn’t want to fight with her and I knew I should take some time with my dad, anyhow, so I joined him outside.
The door squeaked as I walked out onto the screened-in porch. The veranda overlooked a large lake which was about thirty feet below. Growing up, this had been my preferred part of the house. From it, I could see straight across the lake to my grandmother’s house, at the top of the opposite hill. Her house now seemed lifeless, almost as if its essence had disappeared along with her. The orchards that surrounded her home, with their over two-hundred acres of land, were just starting to come to life, the apple trees revealing their springtime blooms. The leaves were out, still glistening with the morning’s dew. Small white and pink blossoms were beginning to emerge. Seeing my grandmother’s favourite time of year in full swing and realizing she had just missed it broke my heart. Life’s timing sucked sometimes.
“Beautiful, isn’t it,” my father whispered. It was more of a statement than a question.
“Sure,” I replied, nodding.
As a teenager, I had never truly appreciated the beauty and quietness of my surroundings. Then again, what teenager would? My father had tried to make me see it, to make me appreciate it, but I would always belittle it. It wasn’t rare for me to make fun of its insignificant existence or even claim its population was made up of inbred farmers—present company excluded, of course. My desire to live in the city, to be as far away as possible from small-town folks had started early. Now, maybe because of my years spent in the city and my jaded perspective on things, or maybe because of being let down by the lacklustre life I was living, I found the scenery put me at ease and I was overcome by a longing for the peace it provided.
I wasn’t about to admit it to my dad, though.
“What are you going to do with it all?”
Being her only son, I assumed that Dolores had left her home and the orchards to my father. I also assumed he was probably completely overwhelmed by the sudden and new obligation.
He let out a small grunt but didn’t stop staring out across the water. He had never been a man of many words, so I didn’t think much of it. It was more than likely a response to the entire shock of it all. His mother was gone and to top it all off, he was now faced with the responsibility of caring for her entire life’s work, the Williams’ Family Orchard.
Originally started in the forties, the orchard was the brainchild of Dolores and her husband, my late grandfather, Albert. My grandmother had inherited the land from her father shortly after she had gotten married and my grandparents began planting the trees that now made up the orchard. Through years of dedication and hard work, Dolores and Albert had created one of the largest and most successful apple orchards in the province.
Now, the company was flourishing and ever-expanding, selling their products across the world. Despite the constant pressure to buy out competitors and use their lands and warehouses, my grandmother insisted they keep to their original roots as much as possible. So, even today, over seventy years after its beginnings, the company ran everything from right across the lake.
Of course, my grandmother had inevitably conceded and built larger warehouses but she still remained in her home and ran things like she had when she had been a young girl of seventeen. Even when my grandfather had passed, which had been a terribly hard time for her, she had found a way to overcome her grief and work through it. Her resolve to keep the company thriving was inspiring to watch and in a way, had motivated me. Though I had shown no interest in the orchards or joining the family business, her work ethic was definitely something I wanted to emulate.
Reality brought me back to the present and I knew that with both founding members gone, the orchard’s legacy was now left in the hands of my father, a high school science teacher who had never shown much interest in the business either. I couldn�
��t quite see him being fit for the task at hand and knew that his silence and the slight look of panic on his face was probably from his own realization of the magnitude set upon him.
My father spoke as if sensing my eyes on him.
“Not sure how this will all play out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Everything.”
I still had no idea what he meant. Was he thinking about all the responsibilities he now faced? Surely he had spoken to his mother about the inevitable day when she would pass and this would be his to take care of. This couldn’t have been a complete shock to him. Then again, there was something about his distant look and his choice of words that made me think there was more to all this.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
He looked over at me, finally making eye contact. He seemed tired and unwilling to delve into what was bothering him. He took a deep breath as if he was about to speak when my mom shouted from inside, telling us lunch was ready.
“Shall we?” my father said, getting up from his chair, looking relieved for the interruption.
He walked into the house and I knew the chance to hear whatever he was about to say had vanished.
CHAPTER FIVE
My mother didn’t hesitate to put me to work in the afternoon and my time was spent helping her organize the remaining funeral details. Luckily for all of us concerned, nothing—not one detail—was left to chance thanks to Dolores’ minutely organized preparations. She had left detailed lists which contained all her wishes and every element had been clearly described and taken care of beforehand. A long time prior, my parents had received a letter wherein Dolores had broken down what was to be known as her Death Party into a point-form checklist.