All the times he’d tried to talk her into moving to New York with her mother gave her little reassurance that things would ever really go back to normal. He smoothed his expression and took an even, careful breath.
“This will all be behind us in a couple of months. Just remember that.” When he nodded, his black-rimmed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. “I’m so proud of you. Abuela will be too. Why don’t we try to video chat with her this weekend? I’ll call her nurse and get her to help set it up, okay?”
The thought of seeing Abuela and talking to her eased all of the worry and heartache in an instant. She couldn’t just call her at will here—thanks to the time difference and the lack of an international phone—and maybe that was part of the problem. Evie nodded so hard it made her dizzy. “Yes, Papá. I’d really love that.”
He was proud of her. And they were going to talk to Abuela.
That was enough for now.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Oskar’s Journal
Meddlesome adults
are a recurring theme in my life.
So it’s no surprise when Agnes tells me
Edvin Jonsson came by to see me.
I was at Bjorn’s playing music,
I tell her.
Which is partly true.
I don’t tell her I went to Bjorn’s
because I saw Edvin’s truck parked out front.
School is no longer required for me since I turned seventeen.
And regardless of my old teacher’s dreams for me,
I don’t share his vision.
He wants me to go to a conservatory
in America or Europe or even Reykjavik.
But leaving this orchard
means forgetting what used to be here,
what’s still here,
in the orchard and the lighthouse.
To change the subject,
I hurl the accusation at her
I’ve been sitting on for days.
I did no such thing!
Agnes’s voice pounds the walls
like an angry fist.
The echoes careen across the surface
of the glass jars on the shelves,
causing a barely audible
high-pitched shriek.
Her adamant denial doesn’t convince me.
In fact, it makes me even more certain
she’s full of shit.
Let’s be honest, though, Oskar.
Ye need motivation like the orchard needs rain.
Ever since the girl’s been comin’ ’round,
you’ve been playing again.
Of course that’s what this is about.
She feels indebted to my mamma,
believes it’s her responsibility to make me chase dreams
I don’t even have anymore.
Look, if you don’t want to talk to the girl,
don’t talk to her!
She scowls, ripping her apron off the counter
and tying it on with furious fingers.
But don’t be accusin’ me of playing Cupid.
I’ve got more important things on me mind
than your love life.
Her assumptions just piss me off more.
I never said anything about a love life.
I want to ask her
how else the girl could know about Ivan.
Did she show her a picture?
I can’t bring myself to ask.
Even holding my brother’s name
on the tip of my tongue
conjures tears.
I can’t lose it in front of Agnes.
She’s never been the affectionate type.
She’s nothing like my mamma was.
But the sight of a nearly grown man
crying over his dead family
might be enough
to make her clasp me
against her bosom and smother me
with an uncomfortable hug.
And, well,
that’s a scene I’d care to avoid.
It wouldn’t be the worst thing, Agnes says,
if you had a friend besides that hooligan Bjorn!
I don’t tell her Bjorn isn’t really my friend.
I just buy gras2 from him.
Instead of yelling,
I shove another piece of gum past my teeth
to keep my mouth busy.
I want to tell her
to stop trying to manipulate me.
But the bell on the door
interrupts the words that won’t come out.
______
2: gras (grass): [Icelandic] marijuana
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Evie
Evie’s determined march into the storefront was met with sudden hushed silence.
Agnes jerked her head toward the intrusion, a red blush crawling out of her starched white collar and lighting her round face ablaze. She grabbed a rolling pin off the shelf behind her.
“Mornin’ to ye,” she barked.
“Hi,” Evie said in a pipsqueak voice. Oskar’s gaze met hers across shelves of homemade jams a nanosecond before he diverted his attention to the crate in front of him. He stacked glass jars, either pretending not to notice her or ignoring her entirely.
The tension in the air hung thicker than geyser steam.
Evie got the distinct impression she’d interrupted something important. Some Icelandic conversation they could’ve continued speaking in her presence, and she’d never have known the difference. She had no real reason to be here. But her curiosity had kept her on a leash lately. Questions had swarmed her brain for days. She’d barely slept.
The warm, tart aroma of a cherry dish swam through the air, and she inhaled it. Her mouth watered. She strolled the aisles, every footstep an amplified thud against the wood floor in the quiet space. As she pretended to browse, working up her courage to ask Agnes some questions, she lifted jars of jam and salsa, reading ingredients on the labels.
It was then that she noticed the logo on all the product labels—the same as the symbol on the rock beneath the tree, and the tattoo on Oskar’s arm. She opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again. Oskar must be more connected to this place than she’d originally thought, or else he really loved his job. Evie strolled along the side wall, until she noticed a framed poem hanging next to the orchard door. Again—the same familiar logo inscribed the top.
Bless this orchard
As we sow
Limbs and bark of
Ev’ry row.
From midsummer
To Samhain3
Gestate cherries
Red from green.
Take blood and sweat
For ripened fruit
Our sacrifice
And gratitude.
Evie pulled her attention away from the framed poem and glanced back at Oskar. He worked diligently to unload products, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Agnes eyed her as she dipped her hands in flour and rolled dough, a puff of white making a cloud above her workspace.
Answers. She wanted to know why she felt such a connection to this place. Why the woman she’d painted looked like a younger version of Agnes. Why the boy she’d painted in the orchard looked like a younger version of Oskar. Why she’d painted Oskar before ever meeting him. Why, after being in the orchard, she suddenly had no control over her muse.
She’d prayed to Saint Dymphna, patron saint of nut bags, hoping for a little mental clarity. But being a little less devout than Abuela left her with disappointing results. Before she dialed up Miss Izzy in Miami and tried to tap into her shaky Santeria, Evie had decided to do the most logical thing: Ask.
“Actually,” she said, setting the jar back on the shelf, “I have a question about the orchard.”
Agnes cocked a copper brow.
How was she supposed to word this without sounding like a complete lunatic? An idea blossomed as she glanced at
the sign in front of the counter.
Fresh-picked cherries available, priced by the kilogram.
“I was wondering if I could maybe pick some of my own cherries,” she ad-libbed. “My father took me to an apple orchard in Tennessee a few years ago, and we picked our own apples.” She’d loved that trip and her connection to the place as she’d picked fresh fruit.
Agnes’s forehead rumpled. She dropped the dough on a wooden board and slapped her hands across her apron, then bent down in a heave behind the counter. She came up with a silver metal bucket, like the one Oskar had been carrying. She outstretched the bucket to Evie, but it swung in the air between them.
“I’m not sure I’d know how to pick the ripest ones though. I mean, surely it’s different than apples. Could you—”
“Pay attention to the color, lass. Darker means riper.” Agnes cut her eyes at Oskar, then back to her. “Pick from any tree but the one next to the back fence at the top of the hill.”
Evie opened her mouth to ask why not that tree, but shut it again. She didn’t want to admit she’d already been picking those. “Maybe you could show me?” Evie batted her eyelashes, innocent as she could manage. If she could buy just a few minutes of Agnes’s time, she would ask her some questions once they got in the orchard.
The bell on the door clanged and a group of young patrons poured in, clad in backpacks, laughing among themselves.
“Sorry, lass. I’m the captain of this vessel. Oskar can show ye, though.” She looked over Evie’s shoulder and clenched her jaw, then said something incoherent, heavy on ys and ks. Icelandic, Evie assumed.
Glancing behind her, Evie noticed Oskar’s disgruntled expression before he could smooth his frown. He mumbled something, then shoved his empty crate into a corner and headed toward the orchard. His reaction sent ripples of panic through her. He made her nervous enough as it was. She didn’t want to be reluctantly babysat by him.
“But I don’t speak Icelandic,” Evie blurted.
Agnes stuck one finger in the air, then retreated around the counter to a little section in the back of the shop with souvenirs and books and framed pictures. Plucking a small blue volume off the shelf, she marched over and handed Evie the book.
Icelandic-English/English-Icelandic Dictionary
The little blue hardback shivered in Evie’s icy hands.
“Won’t be perfect,” Agnes said with a smirk, “but it should help ye understand each other. Go on now.”
Agnes placed her heavy hands on Evie’s shoulders and spun her toward the side door where Oskar waited, arms crossed against his broad chest, chomping the life out of his gum. You’d think she’d told him to potty train a puppy instead of escort a girl through an orchard. Geesh. Pout much?
She swallowed the lump in her throat. It left a bitter aftertaste.
“Don’t look so miserable,” Evie grumbled as she breezed out the door past him, bucket in one hand, translation dictionary in the other. “I didn’t come here to talk to you, anyway.”
________
3: Samhain (saa-ween): a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the darker half of the year.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Oskar’s Journal
But talk is exactly what she does.
Nonstop.
It’s like nobody has ever listened to the girl
for as long as she’s lived
and she’s just discovered
I can hear her.
It’s infuriating.
Agnes forced this little rendezvous
not five minutes
after denying she’d ever do it.
Deep down,
I know she means well.
All these years
she’s been telling me I need to let them go.
She worries about me
and my coping skills
or lack thereof.
I get that.
But she’s no shrink.
And I’m not her.
I deal with things in my own way.
So let’s get to business,
Evelyn says.
The wind paints her golden face
light pink at her cheekbones.
My traitorous heart sputters
like a pönk4
as I hoist the ladder
from the side of the barn.
Feel free to take your shirt off, she says.
My feet stutter across the ground
and she lifts an eyebrow.
I force my face calm,
oblivious,
and hope it’s working.
Do not react, I remind myself.
She is just a girl.
An entitled American girl.
Who cares?
She steps ahead of me,
hips tilting like a see-saw
as she moves.
Suddenly my zipper is tight.
Me.
I care.
When she blows a dark tendril of hair
out of her eyes
I catch a whiff of her shampoo
and have to hold my breath.
Which means meddlesome Agnes is winning.
Her flip-flops crunch the pebbles
on the dirt trail between the trees.
The girl has no real shoes.
I force my pupils down
down
down
to her heels
as I climb the hill behind her
(even though they keep trying to sneak back up).
She ducks under a low-hanging branch
next to the fence surrounding my tree.
The bucket slides down her fingers
as she drops it on the ground with a clang.
She chews her lip,
flipping through the translation dictionary.
I can’t believe
the length at which
I’ve let this go on.
I should just tell her now.
Play for her on broken strings.
Watch her go.
Because that’s all it would take
to foil Agnes’s plan.
But every time
I part my lips and try,
I’m paralyzed with reluctance.
Because I don’t want her to go, stupid as that is.
My brain knows this will never work,
but my body isn’t getting the message.
I crave this confusion
I feel when I’m near her,
though there’s nothing
I can do about it.
She stops on a page and narrows her eyes.
I look away and focus on a red-throated loon
preening in a nearby puddle,
more sure of itself
than I’ll ever be around this girl.
Pro-ska-dur?
she tries to enunciate.
Ripe.
She tries twice more,
playing with the syllable stresses.
The words roll around in her mouth, at home
even though she’s saying it wrong.
Þroskaður.
Can you tell me which ones are ripe?
Pro-ska-dur?
She points at the cherries dangling from the branch,
then to the words on the page.
I step closer to her
read the word over her shoulder
Silently.
The English word.
I play my game as she plays hers.
I know she knows how to find the ripe cherries.
Because she’s already been plucking and eating them.
I give her a curt nod and prop my ladder against a tree,
returning a moment later with examples of each.
I trade her the cherries for the book.
Flip it over and search my brain
for the Icelandic words
for firm and soft,
dark and light.
I’ve spoken English
almost exclusively
It was important to my father
that I know both languages.
My trouble talking
didn’t change his expectations.
Speech has always been difficult for me.
But it got worse after the accident.
When I lost them, I stopped trying.
I ran out of things to say.
I point to the words when I find them.
She points at the ripe cherries.
These are ripe?
Faked innocence.
Impressive poker face.
She’s so full of shit!
A grin sneaks across my lips
without my permission.
She smiles back.
I forget what we’re doing.
We stand here
grinning at each other like stoned cartoons
while the moment
s t r e t c h e s
too far.
I grab my ladder and turn to go,
dropping the dictionary on the ground.
Wait. Oskar.
My name on her lips
sounds different.
Musical.
Like some new chord
yet to be invented.
Somewhere between
A-minor and D-d-d-damn.
My muscles restrict,
tighten and lock down
before I let myself turn to face her.
I have one more question.
Her dark hair cloaks her shoulders
as she bends to retrieve the book.
She flips pages while walking backward,
beckoning me to follow with a nod.
I have no choice but to obey.
Well.
I have a choice.
But the part of my brain
storing that information
is inaccessible
right now.
She stands next to my tree
and points at the rock.
The one Agnes placed there
the day we scattered their ashes.
What does it mean?
Her curiosity adds smoky depth
to eyes so beautiful
I want to change my favorite color to brown.
My ladder leans against the fence.
I’ve seen this symbol on your store labels, too.
The Language of Cherries Page 6