The Language of Cherries

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  I wish I could take back.

  Like that doll he used to carry around—

  the one he found in the bathroom

  at the National Museum.

  It had ice blue eyes and long blond hair,

  and wore a red and green Christmas dress.

  He named her Annika.

  I made fun of him.

  Told him boys don’t carry dolls around.

  She’s my friend, he argued.

  But she wasn’t.

  She was a doll.

  I was his friend,

  but I didn’t act like it.

  He only wanted that stupid, fucking doll

  so he wouldn’t feel alone.

  Rain hammers my car.

  An unending blur of gray

  swirls beyond the headlights.

  Regret precipitates in my gut

  until I can’t separate it

  from the weather.

  My tires hug the curves of the road

  up the hills and back down

  into a stone tunnel

  and through a gust of steam.

  I turn next to a row

  of brightly colored postboxes

  and follow a winding road that dips

  into the bowel of the valley.

  Bjorn’s A-frame shack

  sits on the edge of a stream.

  I stall in my car,

  puttering engine idling,

  wipers squeaking,

  waiting for the drizzle to dissipate.

  I didn’t call.

  Bjorn might get angry

  that I just showed up again.

  But it’s worth a shot.

  There’s not a chance I’ll fall asleep tonight

  without some herbal assistance.

  I climb out the door

  and dart through the mist.

  The boards on the old porch creak underfoot

  as I raise my fist to the door.

  I pound the wet screen.

  He opens it.

  Electronic music spills out into the rain.

  Heyyy!

  Bjorn’s bloodshot eyes squint

  and a sloppy grin unrolls over his face.

  He grabs me by the shirt.

  Yanks me.

  A chorus of snickers greet me

  as I stumble inside.

  His ragtag crew

  camps out in a circle

  around a neon green hookah.

  Hooligans, Agnes calls them.

  I quit going to school with them years ago

  when Agnes hired Edvin to teach me.

  Might be a better environment for you, lad.

  She was right; it had been.

  Until it wasn’t anymore.

  I haven’t seen any of them

  except Bjorn

  in a couple of weeks.

  I’ve managed to miss them

  each time I’ve come by.

  They aren’t really friends,

  because they don’t know anything about me,

  just the stuff they’ve concluded on their own.

  They’re more like props in my life.

  They are to me what Annika was to Ivan.

  Where’ve you been mate?

  You been hiding, Oskar?

  Yeah, Oskar—where?

  The last voice drips whiny with expectation.

  She’s the only girl here,

  mousy-haired and sick-skinny.

  Sana Stansdottir.

  Bjorn’s sister.

  She’s slept with all of his friends.

  I was last.

  He doesn’t know.

  Doesn’t need to.

  She thinks we’re something—me and her.

  Because I haven’t spoken up

  to tell her that we’re not.

  Sometimes clarification

  takes more effort than I have.

  I have a script I stick to with different people.

  Sides of myself I keep separate from the rest.

  It keeps the broken strings in check.

  I play a part.

  I don’t feel like playing it right now.

  So I stick to the main agenda.

  G-g-gras? I ask Bjorn.

  Already?

  I nod.

  Come on.

  I follow him down a dark hallway

  that smells like piss.

  People or animals,

  I can’t be sure.

  There’s only one clean room here.

  The underground bunker.

  We jog down the stairs

  to a door covered in foil.

  Bright light floods the stairwell.

  I squint as we enter the room.

  Tiny greenhouses line rows of industrial tables.

  Plants twist upward to fluorescent lighting so bright

  I almost forget the gray

  that awaits me outside.

  In the back corner,

  a tabletop showcases

  a heap of tight green buds

  laced with burnt sienna leaves.

  They dry under warm ultraviolet rays.

  Bjorn lifts a bud and twirls it

  between his dirty-nailed fingers.

  A smug grin parts his dry, cracked lips.

  He outstretches his hand.

  THC concentration in this batch is the highest it’s ever been.

  I don’t know if it’s a fact or a sales pitch.

  But I take it, inhaling the bittersweet aroma.

  Exactly what I came for.

  He accepts the crumpled króna notes from my pocket.

  You can still get in on this, mate.

  I’ve got some men up north who want to buy in bulk.

  I could use another leg man.

  Mmm-ma-maybe.

  It’s what I always say.

  Some extra cash flow

  could connect the electricity at the lighthouse.

  But I don’t stay and discuss it.

  I save business talk for another day

  and leave out the back door

  to avoid goodbyes with the others.

  When I get back,

  I park my car

  down the road from the shop

  and walk through the rain

  to the empty lighthouse that has no lights.

  I prefer the respite of the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Evie

  Evie paced a groove in the wooden floor.

  Though very little damage had been done inside the guest cottage—she guessed these buildings were built for frequent earthquakes—there was no way of knowing how it affected Papá with the internet down and no way to contact him. She’d asked him to add an international plan to her cell phone before they left the states. Too expensive, he’d said. Just use your computer to talk to your friends. It made no sense to her that he couldn’t afford it. She checked at the guest office for a message. Surely he was wondering if she was okay. But there were no calls from him.

  Something had to be wrong.

  He wouldn’t just forget to check on her. Or not come home after an earthquake. The moment the Wi-Fi started working again, a full three hours later, Evie started trying to video call his work computer from her laptop. But he didn’t answer. The aloneness caved in on her then. A cold settled in that only the Florida sunshine could abate.

  It had been two weeks since she’d spoken to Abuela, and Evie couldn’t wait a blink longer. Papá made a promise they’d call her, and he wasn’t here. No more waiting. She’d just find a way to do it herself. She pulled up an international calls app on her laptop and settled into the sofa by the front door as it downloaded. When it was finished, she hammered the number into the keypad with frantic fingers, praying it would work.

  The phone rang in Florida at Abuela’s assisted-living apartment. As the echoing hum of ringing stretched on, dread piled into a heap in her gut. Maybe the whole world had been sucked inside the earth, leaving her tragically behind. She was living some Lifetime movi
e version of the book of Revelation. What saint would she pray to in end times?

  Her finger hovered over the mousepad, ready to click end, just as a sleepy, raspy voice replaced the ringing.

  “Hola.”

  Relief coursed through Evie like rip currents, dragging her out into a sea of emotion. Don’t cry, Don’t cry, Don’t cry. Tears pooled in her eyes, anyway. “Abuela, it’s me.” The words trembled over her lips.

  “What time is it?” Abuela asked her in Spanish, muffled by the sounds of swishing blankets and pillows.

  Evie glanced at the clock on her laptop. It was 9 p.m. in Iceland, which made it late afternoon in Miami, probably during her nap time. Though she should feel bad for waking her, she didn’t. Clocks had become irrelevant.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Abuela,” she lied. “I just—there was an earthquake here. Papá isn’t back, and I’m alone and I just needed to hear your voice.”

  “An earthquake!” Abuela’s voice sharpened, suddenly more alert. “Are you hurt, nieta?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. It was minor, I guess. At least here where I am. But I haven’t heard from Papá, and I don’t know how bad it was wherever he is, and I can’t get in touch with him.” The words pitched high and squeaky at the end.

  “Escúchame, nieta,” Abuela said, taking charge in that special way that always made Evie feel like everything would be okay. “Go to a center room in the house. Sit under the door frame until it’s safe.”

  “I think it’s okay now, Abuela. It’s been hours since the quake. It wasn’t—I don’t even really know why I’m so upset. Papá is probably just working. I’m just alone all the time and…” Her voice cracked as the tears spilled hot down her cheeks. “I can’t even speak the language here to make friends.”

  “Shhhh, nieta, shhhh. Escúchame. You’re going to be okay. Estará bien.” The gentle lilt of her accent worked like a lullaby. Evie slumped against the sofa pillows and drew the blanket around her, pretending it was a hug.

  “How did you do this,” Evie whispered, “when you were my age?” She almost felt guilty for crying about it, because she would get to go home eventually. Abuela never had that luxury.

  “Ah. It wasn’t easy. I understood nothing, but I learned. You will, too. And then you’ll be home. Es temporal.”

  She hoped Abuela was right.

  “Just try to enjoy your time while you’re there, nieta. Explore.”

  She wanted to tell her about Oskar, but Abuela’s tone had resumed its sleepy inflection. Then it occurred to her that she hadn’t even asked Abuela how she’d been feeling. She was a terrible granddaughter.

  “How are you, Abuela? Do you like it there?” She regretted the second question immediately. So stupid. She thought of the clunk clunk clunk of the roll-y oxygen tank next door.

  “Ugh,” Abuela grumbled. “They won’t let me have my prayer candles. It’d be so much easier to find things if I could just properly pray to San Antonio.”

  Evie sniffled. “Why can’t you have prayer candles?”

  “They think I’m loca because I forget where I put things.” Abuela laughed her raspy laugh, but without the usual humor. Anger pressed in on Evie’s sadness. Abuela was just fine. The thought of people treating her like an elderly invalid pissed her off.

  “When I get home, we’re going back to your house. If Papá has to stay here, I’m going to move in with you.” She knew she shouldn’t make promises she didn’t know if she could keep.

  No, forget that. She was keeping this promise.

  Abuela laughed again, but this time it was lighter. Happier. “Oh, Rhona. No seas tonta. Alberto needs you.”

  Evie swallowed a nervous lump in her throat.

  Evie. Not Rhona.

  She let it go. Abuela was sleepy. She’d woken her from her nap, after all. “I miss you, Abuela.”

  “También te echo de menos. Come Sunday after Mass, we’ll paint.”

  Evie sat up from her spot on the sofa in the living room, dropping the blanket from her shoulders. Abuela knew she couldn’t come over Sunday. She was a world away. Abuela was just too tired to think straight. “Thanks for talking to me, Abuela. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Sleep well. Te quiero mucho, nieta.”

  “I love you, too.”

  See? Everything was fine.

  WHEN THE DOORKNOB clicked and turned at 1 a.m., she rolled off the couch and jumped to her feet in an adrenalin-fueled panic. Papá barreled in with a bag slung over his shoulder, hair disheveled, tired lines pulling under his eyes.

  “I was worried sick!” Evie’s words garbled as her lips stuck to her teeth. She rubbed her eyes. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Confusion settled into his exhausted face. “Of course I’m okay, Evie. I told you I’d be working late in this phase of research.”

  “But the earthquake…” Evie’s mouth went dry as ash. Was it a dream? Had she imagined the whole afternoon?

  “Oh.” He waved his hand in the air, dismissing. “I was at the research center in Reykjavik. We barely felt anything.”

  He dropped his bag on the floor and turned the coffee pot on. Evie just stared at him, something hot pinching deep in her chest where angry tears were always born. Never mind that she had felt something and had spent the entire day worrying he was swimming in magma.

  “Did you feel it here?” he asked as he puttered around the kitchenette, pouring coffee, not looking at her. “I called the café. They assured me everything was fine.”

  “Wasn’t bad,” she lied. No way would she break down now and let him think she needed him.

  “Did you call Abuela and tell her about the earthquake?”

  She sunk to the sofa again. “Yes. From my laptop. Why?”

  His forehead creases scolded her. “Please don’t do that without me, mija. She called your mother in hysterics.”

  “How—?”

  “Your mother called me. Said she was very upset and demanding she go pick you up, there had been an earthquake. We thought maybe she saw it on the news.”

  “I’m sure Rhona is exaggerating.” Evie gritted her teeth. So he’d answered calls from her mother, but not from her. Just great. “Abuela was fine when we got off the phone.”

  He sighed, a big-chest rattling sigh. “I’m sure you think so, Evie. But she forgets things. She gets confused. And don’t call your mother by her first name, por favor. It’s rude.”

  It’s ruder that you chose her to be my mother, Evie thought, grabbing her laptop from the floor.

  “She said she’s been trying to call you. Why haven’t you called her back?”

  “Because I can’t talk to her like I talk to you.” She’d try for flattery. Sometimes that worked with her papá, reminding him he was the favorite.

  “Call her back, Evie. Tomorrow. You two need to discuss the plans for the school year.”

  So that was it, then. His exhaustion had made him drop the pretenses. He’d already decided he wasn’t going back to Florida.

  Evie clenched her teeth. She’d just have to be firm about her plans. “Are you staying here past September?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing’s set in stone yet. But you and I both know the magnet school would be great for you. And you already have portfolio work to submit with your application. Those paintings you’ve been doing are—”

  “I’m going back to Florida. I’ll move in with Abuela and finish at Saint Bart’s.”

  He set his coffee down with excessive force. The dark liquid spilled over the lip of the cup onto the white countertop. “Evie—”

  “I don’t know how much time I have left with Abuela.”

  “—there’s no money for Saint Bart’s.”

  The new information blindsided her. The two of them stared at each other. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, like a fish dangling from the end of a razor-sharp hook.

  “I planned to tell you, but I kept hoping I wouldn’t have to.” He scrubbed his fingers o
ver his eyes, posture drooping. It had never occurred to Evie that paying for Saint Bart’s was an issue. It never had been before. They weren’t rich or anything, but her dad had a good job. She’d never had to worry about basics. Education was a basic, wasn’t it? “I was going to sell Abuela’s house, because that would make it possible. But she isn’t ready to let it go.”

  Sell Abuela’s house? A burning prickle surged into Evie’s throat. He couldn’t pay for Saint Bart’s because he was paying Abuela’s assisted-living rent. Evie remembered hearing him grumble about the cost when he set up the bank draft for payments.

  The solution was crystal-clear. Abuela’s assisted living rent wouldn’t be necessary if she lived in her own house. And then it wouldn’t have to be sold. And Evie could live with her there, and go to Saint Bart’s. She started to tell him that, but he raised his hand to stop her.

  “I know what you’re going to say. The answer was no the first time you suggested it. And the answer is still no, Evie. I don’t think you understand what’s happened to Abuela’s mental capacity. I have to do what’s right by both of you. I know you don’t believe me, but this is it.”

  Evie marched to her bedroom without a word, wishing she could smash something, cause an earthquake of her own that would finally shake him up to see how much he was hurting her.

  “Evie,” he called after her. “Don’t be upset.”

  Too late. Upset was an understatement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Oskar’s Journal

  Spending the week in a smoky haze

  doesn’t subdue the way

  she hijacks my thoughts.

  Neither does

  the unhealed knot

  on my head.

  Not even Agnes’s nagging about missing Edvin again

  can take my mind off her.

  I have nothing to say to Edvin Jonsson.

  Agnes knows that.

  He can come here a hundred times,

  and a hundred times

  my answer will be the same.

  I drag my feet through the orchard,

  cleaning fallen branches,

  picking rotting cherries off the ground,

  and glancing over the hill

  for her red beret.

  But it doesn’t come.

  By late afternoon

  I take my ukulele to the fire ring by the lighthouse

  at the water’s edge.