Lemons

by Melissa Savage

  But for the first time since she’s been gone, I don’t feel like I’m drowning or bubbling lava, or holding something way too heavy for me to carry. Here, in Willow Creek…I feel found.

  Found by a new kind of family.

  And I know it’s Mama who got me here.

  Mrs. Dickerson’s backyard is small, with a heavy forest of pines lined right up against the end of her gardens. She has two gardens out back, one that’s all vegetables and one that’s all flowers.

  On our way out the kitchen door to investigate the mystery of the missing pumpkin, Tobin pulls the two cameras and two flashlights from his case.

  “Here.” He hands me one of the flashlights and the Polaroid.

  I slip the camera strap over my head.

  “Remember, picture first, always picture—”

  “I know, I know,” I say.

  Tobin slips the movie camera’s strap around his neck and double-checks the chin strap on his safari hat.

  “Ready?” he asks. “Flashlights…check.”

  “Check,” I tell him, flipping my switch.

  “Check.” He flips his.

  “Cameras ready…check.”

  “Check,” I say.

  “Check,” he says.

  “Let’s examine the garden first,” Tobin says then. “It’s nineteen hundred hours already, and Charlie said to leave Mrs. Dickerson’s by nineteen-thirty.”

  “Right,” I say.

  We investigate up and down all the rows between the pumpkin vines, carrot tops, tomato plants, and carefully lined-up herbs, all labeled with tiny handwritten signs.

  Rosemary.

  Carrots.

  Tomatoes.

  Green Beans.

  “There are so many dents in the dirt, it’s hard to tell who’s been in here,” he says.

  “Here’s where the pumpkin must have been,” I say, crouching down near an empty green vine. I hold it up for him to see.

  “But you know what?” I look at it closer. “It looks like it’s been cut…like with a knife, not gnawed with teeth.”

  Tobin steps over Mrs. Dickerson’s carefully planted rows of greens and reaches down to grab it. He examines it close, running a finger over the clean cut. He checks his watch again.

  “Take a picture,” he says.

  I aim the Polaroid in the direction of the vine and snap a shot.

  “Let’s head to the tree line to see if we can find the structure,” he says. “We’re running out of time. We can always come back and examine this more tomorrow. I want to see that nest.”

  I follow him. Inside the woods, it’s already dark, even though the sun isn’t quite down yet. The pines reach toward the sky, hiding their deepest secrets. We turn on our flashlights and step over small bushes and push past long pine arms, just beyond the tree line.

  “There it is!” Tobin hollers, shining his light on some twigs tied together into some kind of hut.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, right there.” He points. “See it? See the braiding of the tree branches? It’s spectacular!”

  When we reach it, I examine the outside, taking Polaroids to document the find. It’s a tall structure with a doorway, and broken twigs are wound together like braids to make walls and a roof. Pine branches cover the top of it, which almost makes it invisible in the woods, unless you’re actually looking for it.

  We stop at the doorway and look at each other.

  “You go first,” I tell him.

  He takes a deep breath. He peeks around the edge of the doorway, shining light inside.

  “All clear,” he calls back.

  I peek around the corner too and shine my light inside.

  “The pumpkin!” I exclaim, pointing to it in the corner of the nest.

  “Look over here.” Tobin shines his flashlight next to a bed made out of pine needles. “A pile of newspapers.”

  “Newspapers?” I say, peering over his shoulder. “Don’t even try to tell me the Bigfoot reads the Two Rivers Tribune.”

  “Look at this, too…clothes.” Tobin grabs a camouflage sweatshirt off the ground.

  “What’s that?” I aim my light toward a small wooden box stuffed between the pine-needle bed and the stack of newspapers.

  Tobin takes a step closer and reaches down to pull it out. It’s got curling vines carved all over it. On the top, bottom, and sides, too.

  “Open it,” I tell him.

  Tobin lifts the lid and peers inside.

  “Well?” I ask. “What’s in there?”

  Tobin doesn’t say anything.

  I peek over the lid myself. “Is that a picture?” I ask, shining my light on it.

  “Yeah,” Tobin says.

  “A picture of what?”

  “It—it’s…a…it’s a, um—” Tobin stammers, staring down at it.

  “It’s a what?”

  Tobin peers over his wire-rims at me but doesn’t say a word. Not one single word.

  I reach over the lid and grab the photo from the box.

  “Oh,” I say, sucking in my breath and swallowing hard. “Tobin,” I whisper. “It’s you.”

  “I—I must have dropped it,” he stammers, starting to pace the length of the nest. “That day we were out here dusting for prints. Or you did, maybe. That’s got to be it.”

  “It’s the same one, right? The one in your case? Is yours missing?”

  “I—I don’t know. It must be.”

  “Go and check,” I say.

  “Yeah, okay. You come with me.”

  That’s when we hear the footsteps.

  Running footsteps.

  “Turn your light out,” Tobin whispers. “Turn it off! Hurry up!”

  While I fumble with the switch, he grabs my arm and pulls me low to the ground, near the pile of old newspapers. The footsteps are coming closer, pounding the dirt, cracking sticks and grinding rocks into the earth.

  Hard.

  Fast.

  A large body smashing through leafy branches.

  Tobin’s breathing is heavy, and his face is close to mine. His breath smells like Mrs. Dickerson’s hot buttered corn. My heart is beating so loud, I’m sure he can hear it banging against my chest.

  The footsteps get louder and louder, until we can hear the snapping of twigs and the swaying of branches right outside the nest.

  Then they stop. And he fills the doorway, with heavy breath and darting eyes.

  But it’s not a Bigfoot.

  It’s a man. Just a man. A wild man with long, matted reddish-brown hair.

  At first he doesn’t see us, but when he does, he almost drops the eggs he’s holding tight in his fists.

  “What—what are you doing in here?” he demands. Sweat is soaking his temples and his tan T-shirt. “Where—”

  My hands are shaking while I fumble to turn my flashlight back on. I shine it in his direction, and then he does drop the eggs while he tries to cover his face with his arms. Like we’re grizzly bears lying in wait, ready to eat him for dinner.

  “No—please!” he begs.

  He’s dirty and he stinks something awful. Like he hasn’t seen a Mr. Bubble bath or a bar of Irish Spring in a long time. His reddish-brown hair is scraggly, with a matching beard hanging down to his chest all tied up in knots. He’s wearing camouflage pants, and his shirt is ripped across one shoulder, and there are holes in the front. He peers out at us from behind his arms, eyes darting like he’s a wild deer ready to run from a hunter.

  Tobin aims his light on the man now too.

  “Please state your name and business here, sir,” Tobin demands, his voice shaking.

  “I—I—” the man starts. “Tobin, please! I can’t—”

  That’s when I hear Tobin make the same weird sound in his throat he made that day at the store when the boys came in to hassle him. He slowly lowers the flashlight to his side.

  “What did you say?” he asks.

  “Please…just leave me be. You need to leave here—”

  “
Do you know me?” Tobin asks him. “Did you take this?” He holds out the picture. “Because this is mine…did you steal this from me?”

  “Let’s just go.” I grab Tobin’s arm and start to pull. “He wants us to leave.”

  “It’s not yours,” the man says then.

  “What do you mean, it’s not mine? It is mine. It’s me and it’s my dad. This is mine. Not yours. How dare you steal it from me? How dare you…?”

  And then Tobin stops. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t breathe or move or anything. He just stands frozen, like the wooden Bigfoot statue in the center of town.

  Except for one part of him. The picture in his hand starts to shake.

  “Tobin,” I say again. “Please, let’s just go.”

  “Wait,” Tobin says, raising the flashlight one more time toward the man and then looking at the picture in his hand.

  “He told us to go, let’s just go,” I say.

  “But I think…I think I know who it is,” he whispers.

  Tobin takes a step forward.

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Is it…is it you?” he asks the wild man. His voice comes out all high and garbled.

  The man hesitates. He turns, his eyes skimming the forest behind him, wondering where to run. Where to hide. Then he slowly lowers his arms, and then his head, and then his shoulders, like he’s surrendering to the hunters who have cornered him.

  Defeated.

  “Tobin,” I demand. “Who is that?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the man.

  We all three just stand in silence. The picture in Tobin’s hand is still shaking.

  “Tobin?” I finally say again. “Who—”

  “Lemonade.” He turns to me and whispers, “I think…it’s my dad.”

  “Kids!”

  It’s Mrs. Dickerson calling us from her back door.

  “It’s getting too dark now! Come on back!”

  “Your dad?” I breathe.

  Tobin nods, his eyes glued on the man.

  “What are you doing out here?” Tobin asks him.

  “Son,” the man says, swallowing hard. “I can’t believe it…you’re standing right here…right in front of me.”

  “Right here?” Tobin says. “I’ve been here the whole time. Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you to come home. Me and Mom. We thought you were dead.”

  The man takes a deep breath.

  “I’ve been here. But I couldn’t—” he starts. “I can’t—”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I’ve been watching you…your mom, from the woods. I couldn’t—”

  “Watching us? What do you mean? Did you forget where the house is or something?”

  “Kids!”

  The man jumps, and his eyes scan the darkness.

  “Are you there?” Mrs. Dickerson’s voice is closer now.

  “You can’t tell her!” the man whispers at us, moving back and forth in the doorway like a caged animal.

  Then he lunges forward into the nest and huddles in a ball on the corner of the pine bed, peeking out between the braided branches. Scanning the forest.

  “Yeah, Mrs. Dickerson,” I call back. “We’re coming!”

  “Well, hurry now, it’s just too dark to be running in the woods. You need to get back to Charlie’s. He’s already called twice.”

  “Mrs. Dickerson—” Tobin starts.

  “Don’t!” the man pleads. “Please…please don’t say anything….I can’t go back…I just can’t—”

  “Why not?” Tobin demands. “I don’t get it. Why didn’t you just come home? We went to pick you up, you know…at the airport. We waited for you. For a long time, we waited. We thought you were…we thought…What in Sam Hill are you doing out here in the woods all alone?”

  “I—I can’t leave the woods…the forest…it’s my protection. My home. I can’t leave it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tobin goes on with his hands on his hips. “Your home is at the house with us! With Mom and with me.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “No, I don’t,” Tobin says flatly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  The man’s eyes dart again, like he wants to escape but can’t remember how to move.

  “Mrs. Dickerson!” Tobin hollers.

  “Please!” the man begs again.

  “Yes, what is it?” Mrs. Dickerson calls from the yard, somewhere real near the tree line.

  Tobin hesitates and then shouts, “Call Charlie back! We need him to come right away! And tell him to see if my mom’s home from the hospital yet!”

  “Why did you do that?” the man asks, tears starting to make muddy rivers down his face. He wraps his arms around his legs and starts to rock.

  “Because you need help,” Tobin tells him. “And we need you.”

  “I can’t—” the man starts.

  “Well, we’re not leaving you out here all alone,” Tobin says.

  The man wipes at his eyes.

  “Charlie is on his way!” Mrs. Dickerson’s voice announces a minute later. “Is everything all right?”

  “Lemonade!”

  That’s Charlie.

  His heavy boots pounding the dirt and crunching the leaves and pine needles outside the nest.

  “Tobin!” he calls out. “Where are you?”

  “Here, Charlie!” I call back. “We’re here! In the nest.”

  More pounding and swatting of branches and crunching ground as Charlie’s footsteps get closer and closer. When he appears in the doorway of the nest, he’s all out of breath. And he’s so tall he has to duck his head to get inside.

  “Lem…Tob…,” he huffs, sounding relieved. “What is…where are…who…” He chokes and sputters, looking down at Scotty still in a ball in the corner.

  “Tobin!” It’s Debbie coming up behind Charlie, grabbing his arm and squeezing her head into the doorway. “Lemonade—”

  She still has her white nurse’s uniform on, her hair still twisted up in a knot under her nurse’s cap. Her normally spotless shoes are covered with mud.

  “What’s going on here?” She pushes her way in past Charlie and rushes to Tobin’s side.

  She turns him all around in every direction, looking him over top to bottom to make sure he’s all in one piece, and then grabs my hand and pulls me close to her like she’s guarding us from a wild animal.

  “Who is that?” she asks. “Who are you?” she demands.

  “Mom…,” Tobin whispers. “It’s Dad.”

  Debbie’s mouth falls open and she stares hard at Scotty.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s him, Mom. It’s really him. I guess he must’ve gotten lost or something.”

  It’s quiet again while Debbie watches the man hiding in the corner, his eyes still darting and his body still curled in a tight ball.

  “Scotty?” she says real slowly, like she hardly believes her eyes.

  He is still a caught animal ready to be slaughtered. Slaughtered up into jerky bits to be bagged and shelved in the FINE CUISINE section of Bigfoot Souvenirs and More.

  “Scotty?” Debbie says, louder this time and stepping toward him. “Is it really you?”

  Scotty’s body ball is so tight now, it looks like he’s trying to make himself invisible so we’ll all forget he’s still sitting in the corner of the nest.

  In the beams of our flashlights, we watch his matted red head slowly bob up and then down.

  And that’s when I see something I will always remember. For my whole life I will remember it.

  Debbie rushes toward him in her dirty nurse’s dress and muddy shoes, falling down to her knees and wrapping her arms around him with so much love it makes my eyes blur. They blur up even more when I see her thin shoulders shake against him as she cries loud and hard.

  I watch her rock him back and forth, the way you might rock a tiny newborn baby snuggled up in a tight swaddle.

  “Scotty.�
� She sobs and rocks and rocks and sobs. “My Scotty,” she says over and over, kissing his dark muddy cheeks. “My Scotty…I love you so much…I just love you so much…I thought we’d never see you again.”

  I look over at Tobin and see a whole bunch of tears all stuck up between his cheeks and the bottom of his glasses. Then I look up at Charlie and see tears rolling down and getting caught in his beard.

  I wipe my own tears away with my forearm.

  We all cry, seeing the love Debbie has for this man she has waited for and prayed for and hoped for. This man she loves with deep-down love.

  It reminds me of the time I wrapped my own arms around Mama in the hospital on the very worst day of my entire life. I bet my shoulders shook when her chest stopped moving up and then down. I bet I shook just like Debbie.

  Except these tears are different. Hers. Mine. Tobin’s. And Charlie’s. While we watch her deep-down love.

  These tears are happy tears.

  With Mama I was trying to hold on to something I had to let go, and Debbie is holding on to something she gets to keep.

  No, these are happy tears for sure.

  But watching Debbie, Charlie, and Tobin right this second…it sure makes me miss Mama. I miss her like something inside me hurts so bad there isn’t anything on this earth that could hurt me more. Not a bullet or knife or gangrene or even an insect-related scourge. Right now, I’d give anything to be with Mama like that. One more chance to be able to wrap my arms around her and hold her tight and rock her small, frail body just like Debbie gets to with Scotty.

  If somebody gave me that chance again, I’d never let her go. Not ever. And I’d hold on to her just like Debbie is holding on to Scotty. With deep-down love.

  And right this minute, when I feel like I’m getting sucked back into sadness quicksand, I look up at Charlie again and then slip my hand into his. The big hand with the special ring on it.

  His fingers fold around mine, just like Mama’s used to.

  And he squeezes my hand tight.

  And I squeeze his hand back.

  Just in case he has his own quicksand.