Lemons

by Melissa Savage

  “Well, maybe I feel the same about you!” I shout back at him.

  “I don’t want you working here anymore,” he says, looking me straight in the eye.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious. Turn in your name badge and see yourself out. You are officially relieved of your position as assistant Bigfoot detective with Bigfoot Detectives Inc.”

  “Tobin—”

  He holds out his hand palm up, waiting for his stupid handmade badge with the Elmer’s glue clumped up on the back.

  I stare at him, and he stares at me.

  “Fine,” I say, pulling it off my T-shirt.

  I throw it on top of the desk.

  “Leave.” He points to the door.

  I don’t know what else to say. I stomp toward the door and put my hand on the rusty knob. Before I open it, I turn around to look at him one more time.

  He’s already got his head buried in his ridiculous yellow legal pad, and he’s shuffling the papers furiously.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask him.

  “Already done,” he says.

  “Fine, have it your way,” I say, pulling the door open.

  The whole garage door rattles when I give the side door one good hard slam. And then I walk away without even once looking back.

  Charlie and I eat dinner alone. He’s ordered deli sandwiches from Diesel’s.

  Again.

  Egg salad. With tomatoes.

  Again.

  The fact that he still hasn’t cared enough to figure out that I hate tomatoes makes me want to scream. Miss Cotton would know on the first day I lived with her. And if not the first, then for sure the second.

  “Where’s Tobin tonight?” Charlie asks, taking a bite of his BLT on rye. “I got him his usual, ham and cheese, hold the pickles.”

  I roll my eyes at the pickle comment as I’m forced to pull each slimy tomato off with my fingers and put them on the side of my plate.

  “How should I know?” I ask. “I’m not his keeper. Am I supposed to be in charge of him or something? Because I’m not.”

  Charlie stops chewing and looks at me with a perplexed expression.

  “And just so you know, I hate tomatoes. I don’t know why you haven’t figured that out yet,” I tell him. “I only have to pick them out with my fingers every time.”

  He starts chewing again, then swallows, and then takes a long drink of his iced tea.

  “Did you and Tobin have a fight?” he finally asks.

  “He had a fight. I didn’t have a fight. You said there was nothing wrong with playing with the others, and you were wrong. He thought there was plenty wrong with it.”

  “Did you call Professor Malcolm today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wants us to send him the hair sample, and he’ll test it and bring us back the results.”

  “That’s wonderful news! Aren’t you excited? Tobin must be ecstatic. You don’t know where he is?”

  “I said I didn’t,” I say again, louder this time. “I mean, am I supposed to babysit that kid or something? Are we expected to be joined at the hip?”

  “Lemonade.” Charlie sets down his sandwich and leans in close across the table. “Why are you shouting at me?”

  “He fired me!” I push my plate away.

  Charlie looks confused.

  “That doesn’t sound like Tobin.”

  “Well, it’s exactly what he did!”

  “What happened?”

  “You said he’d understand about going to Nick French’s. You said it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Didn’t take it well, I gather?”

  “No. He took my badge away, and he fired me. Me! I found the footprints and the hair sample, and he fired me!”

  Charlie leans back in his chair.

  “He’s a very sensitive kid,” he says. “He carries a lot of pain inside him. I think if anyone could understand that, it would be you.”

  “Take his side, why don’t you!”

  “I—I’m not taking anyone’s side, Lem, I’m just saying—”

  “I wish I’d never come to this place!” I shout from deep inside my volcano. “I wish I’d never even heard of Willow Creek, or that stupid beast of yours that lives out in these woods.”

  Charlie takes a deep breath and pushes his chair back.

  “You came here for a reason, Lem.”

  “Only because Mama died. That’s it. She didn’t want anything to do with this place when she was alive, either!”

  I feel like I’m being sucked deep in the quicksand and he doesn’t even notice.

  Just like he hasn’t figured it out about the stupid tomatoes.

  There’s no big, strong hand to reach for me now. I’m sinking fast. He’s too busy searching for Tobin.

  Saving Tobin.

  Ordering hold the pickles for Tobin.

  My volcano is out of control, spewing hot lava everywhere I go. And I can’t stop it.

  “I hate it here! And so did Mama!”

  I get up from the table and start to run.

  I want to run until I make it all the way home. Then I can forget this place and all the people in it. The screen door slams behind me. It’s already dark. Low thunder rolls. But I don’t even care if it storms all over me. I keep running and running and running.

  Running until I can’t hear Charlie calling my name anymore.

  The rain comes somewhere between Nick French’s house and Mrs. Dickerson’s place. It comes at first in small, bitty sprinkles, and then in sloppy splashes that hit the top of my head and leak into my eyes. Soon the splashes turn to buckets.

  But I keep running.

  Cracks of thunder and flashes of light wage a war above me. But tonight I’m not even scared, because tonight I’m hoping that one of those strikes of lightning finds its way to earth and zaps me into dust. Then I won’t ever have to think of anything again.

  Not Mama.

  Not Tobin.

  Not Charlie.

  Not Delores Jaworski.

  Not even whatever is hiding in the woods.

  Then maybe I’ll be free from the quicksand waiting to suck me in and never let me breathe again. Free of the load that is just too heavy for me to carry.

  I keep running until I find myself knocking on Mrs. Dickerson’s screen door, drenched to the bone.

  Some rain. But mostly tears.

  “Lemonade Liberty Witt!” Mrs. Dickerson exclaims, pushing the door open. She is lipstick-less and her long white hair blows free in the wind. “Sweet girl, you come inside this instant. What in the world are you doing out on a night like this?”

  “I don’t—I don’t—we had a fight…and I—”

  “Okay…well, never you mind. You’re here now, let’s get you into something warm and dry.”

  She takes me into the front bedroom and digs through a stash of clothes in a dresser drawer near the bed.

  “Let’s see here,” she says, rummaging through folded piles while I drip on the hardwood floor and shiver. “I always have something on hand for the grandchildren when they come to visit. Yes, here we go. This should do nicely…and…let’s see, ah, this too, maybe. Here, sweetheart, put these on and put your wet clothes in the tub.”

  “Thank you,” I say through chattering teeth.

  “Hurry up now, before you catch pneumonia.”

  After I towel off and get changed in the bathroom, I find Mrs. Dickerson in the kitchen heating up water for tea and pulling cookies out of the cookie jar. I hope she has some meringue clouds left from the other day. I didn’t even get to try them.

  “Now, have a seat and we can talk.” She points to the kitchen table, already set with cloth napkins and teacups on saucers. In the center of the table are a tiny pitcher of milk, a jar of honey, and a bowl full of lemon wedges.

  I pull a chair out and sit down. I’m still shivering. The teakettle whistles on the stove, and she pours steaming water into my cu
p and then into hers. The rain clicks on the kitchen window. I wrap my frozen fingers around the warm cup and put my face over the steam to heat my nose and cheeks. I watch the tea from the bag seep into the water in slow waves until the water is all brown, while Mrs. Dickerson settles in a seat across from me.

  “I already tried to phone Charlie, but he didn’t answer. He must be worried sick.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Now, please tell me what happened,” she says.

  The tears come fast, even though I thought I couldn’t possibly have one more left. I tell her all about Tobin firing me, and Charlie and the tomatoes, and Tobin’s pickle-less sandwich, and how Delores Jaworski came to the store, and Kick the Can, and Rainbow, and everything else. I tell her that everyone here in Willow Creek hates me. My words spill over each other because they can’t get out fast enough.

  “I wish I’d never even come here,” I finally say. “It’s been a complete and total disaster.”

  She takes a long, deep breath and then a slow sip of tea with her eyes closed.

  “My goodness, that is a bad day, isn’t it?” she says to me after setting her cup on its saucer.

  I nod. “The worst day in the world. Well…not the worst, but it’s up there.”

  She nods.

  “That last day with Mama—” I start, but can’t finish.

  She reaches across the table and touches my hand.

  “Lemonade, do you remember when I spoke to you about your mother and Charlie?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Remember when I told you that sometimes when people are grieving badly, those sad feelings can come out in the wrong way?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You have all lost someone or something important, haven’t you? You’re all grieving that loss in your own ways.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I guess so.”

  “You’ve lost your dear, lovely mother. A beautiful person inside and out.”

  I swallow the lump.

  “Tobin has lost his brave and dutiful father. A good man who loved his family with everything he had inside him.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “And Charlie has lost twice. First his wonderful wife, and then his lovely daughter. How devastated he would be to lose what’s most important to him now.”

  “Tobin?” I ask.

  “You, sweet Lemonade. You.”

  “He doesn’t care about me,” I tell her, staring at my china cup. “Not as much as he cares about Tobin. I told you about the pickles, didn’t I? Didn’t I? He doesn’t want me here, anyhow. He never did. He could care less if I up and move back to San Francisco.”

  She looks at me curiously. “What makes you say that?”

  I think hard about her question.

  I think of the books Charlie has brought home for me, the comforter, the steamy milk, the space in the hall where I swiped the picture of Mama. I think of Rainbow, and his great big hand reaching out for me.

  I shrug.

  “I just know it,” I say. “And Tobin hates me too. He took my badge and everything.”

  “I know Charlie loves you more than anything. And he would give anything to have another chance to make things right with Elizabeth. Sad feelings can take control of us and make us choose things we wouldn’t normally choose.”

  “Like mean words,” I say.

  “Exactly, sweetheart.”

  “I said mean things to both Charlie and Tobin. I didn’t know how to stop them. They just kept coming up and flying out, and I couldn’t take them back.”

  “They love you.” She smiles at me. “I’m sure they’re hurting just as you are. I bet they would love to change today just as much as you would.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You really don’t want to leave Willow Creek, do you?”

  The lump gets bigger and bigger, and my eyes blur with tears, until I burst.

  “No!” I cry out, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I want to stay here with Charlie and with you and with Tobin and Debbie and with Mr. Harold and all the kids I’ve met—”

  Mrs. Dickerson comes over to my side of the table and hugs me hard.

  The phone rings.

  “I’ll bet that’s Charlie now, out of his mind with worry.” She straightens and moves her cane toward the yellow phone on the wall.

  “Hello? Yes, I—”

  She turns her back to me.

  “Oh, no,” she whispers. “Oh, my God…Yes, we’ll be right there.”

  She slips the receiver back on the wall and turns to look at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Oh, honey. There’s been an accident.”

  Mrs. Dickerson drives an old red Volkswagen Beetle with rust on the back fender. It makes a buzzing noise when the speedometer gets over fifty-five miles per hour.

  It buzzes the whole way to the hospital.

  But that’s the only thing I really remember about getting there, because my brain is too busy worrying. When we finally make it, Debbie is waiting for us in her white nurse’s uniform, white shoes, and a white nurse’s hat. Tobin is sitting on a stuffed bench welded to the wall, twisting his fingers in knots and then untwisting them again.

  “Where is he?” I demand, running toward Debbie down a long hall. “Where’s Charlie?”

  She bends at the waist to face me eye to eye, her arms wide to catch me. When I reach them, they feel like a life vest keeping me from going under, and I feel my legs let me go.

  “Shh,” she says gently, holding me tight. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No!” I cry. “No, it isn’t! He’s hurt because of me! Because of me! It won’t ever be okay again. Not ever!”

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Tobin by my side now. Tobin in his khaki shorts, red T-shirt, and that stupid safari hat strapped tight under his chin, peering over his glasses at me.

  He grabs my hand without saying a word.

  I hold it tight.

  Mrs. Dickerson is still scooting her cane down the hall to catch up to us, and when she does, she places her arm around me too.

  And then we all hug.

  One giant hug. It feels warm and safe and comfortable and familiar. It feels like a family. Maybe not by blood, but by choice.

  And by love.

  A feeling I thought would never, ever exist again in my whole life. The lump is back, and I don’t even try to swallow it down.

  I just let myself cry.

  Even though Charlie is still sleeping, and it’s way past visiting hours, and kids aren’t really supposed to be in the rooms because they have too many germs on their hands, Debbie gives me permission to see him. But only after I scrub my hands twice with disinfectant soap and swear I’ll stay no more than five minutes.

  “He’s going to be okay,” she says. “But he needs to rest right now, so you can only stay a few minutes.”

  “I promise,” I tell her, crossing an X over my chest.

  Tobin and Mrs. Dickerson watch from the bench while Debbie pushes open the thick wooden door of Charlie’s room.

  Charlie.

  Charlie Milford Witt is printed in bold letters on a metal chart hanging from the end of his bed.

  Charlie Milford Witt.

  He is still. His eyes closed. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up under his arms and tucked tight around him, the two-thirds of what’s left of his hair in a mess.

  He’s pale. Even paler than Eliza Rose was on that afternoon she told us about her Bigfoot sighting.

  I stand next to the bed staring at him. Looking at him in a hospital bed reminds me of the last time I saw Mama.

  Sick and weak and pale.

  Machines and cords and tubes intertwined.

  The beeping of the heart and breathing machines.

  “Lemonade,” she whispered that last day. “You are the love of my life, sweet girl. I wish I could stay here with you, but I can’t. Always remember that we are connected, no matte
r what. I am a part of you as you are a part of me. I will always be in your heart. I will be a part of your spirit. You are my Lemonade. You are strong and smart and will always find a way to make sweet whatever bad comes your way.”

  I crawled up in bed with her and laid my head on her shoulder, watching her chest slowly rise up and then sink down.

  Up and then down.

  Up and then down.

  Until it didn’t move up and then down anymore.

  A doctor put his hand on my back and told me it was time to say good-bye.

  “Mama,” I whisper to her now. “Look what I did, Mama. Look what I did. And now I don’t know what to do. I can’t make it sweet. I don’t know how. Help me, Mama. I need you.”

  I wipe tears with my palms.

  “Please, Mama, tell me what to do. I’ve made a mess of things, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t. I can’t make lemonade anymore….I forgot how.”

  The room is quiet except for the beeping of the machines around me. Just like that last day with her. My guts feel all twisted up inside my stomach.

  I crawl up on the bed next to Charlie and lay my head on his shoulder, watching his chest move up and then down.

  Up and then down.

  Up and then down.

  Machines beep and air rushes through tubes resting inside his nose.

  More tears find their way down my cheeks and onto his chest. So many that I’m drowning.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t stop.

  I’m slipping into sadness quicksand, and not even Charlie will find me. I’ll slip away, and no one will ever be able to save me.

  “Please, Mama,” I whisper again into his chest. “I need you, Mama, and you’re not here. Please, Mama, please tell God not to take my grandfather, too.”

  I wake up the next morning underneath my fluffy comforter.

  Rainbow in my arms.

  Dishes clink in the kitchen like any other morning, and I can smell coffee brewing.

  Charlie.

  Getting the sticks and seeds and bark ready.

  Having his usual coffee.

  Black. No sugar.

  Maybe it was all just a bad dream. A horrible nightmare.

  When I push the covers off me, I see I’m still wearing Mrs. Dickerson’s Willow Creek sweatshirt and shorts from the bottom drawer of the dresser in her spare room.