The Language of Cherries

by Jen Marie Hawkins

“It’s okay,” Rhona said, holding a perfectly manicured hand up to hush his impending lecture. “She has a right to feel that way.”

  Evie narrowed her eyes. What manipulation was this? She wasn’t falling for it.

  “Please just go. Abuela needs her family, and you are not family.”

  “Evelyn,” her papá said again, more stern than before. “School starts soon. I have to take care of this situation with Abuela. Your mother is here to take you back with her.”

  Evie stared at both of them in horror. They both towered over her, threatening. If they thought she’d leave again, before she knew if Abuela was okay, and after she just got here, they had another thing coming.

  “You can both go to hell.” She grabbed her purse and stormed out of the hospital room, ignoring them as they called after her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Oskar’s Journal

  Pain swims hot

  like the magma beneath my feet.

  I would welcome emptiness at this point.

  I’d invite it in, let it engulf me

  with its freezing cold flames.

  Whatever shred of hope she made me feel,

  it left when she did.

  The axe dangles,

  trembling

  afraid of what it’s about to do.

  I grip it tighter

  hold it with both hands.

  To prevent it from getting away.

  Regret, rage, humiliation—

  they all swirl at odds with one another.

  I swing the axe.

  Make contact with the bark.

  It makes a gash,

  a tiny wound in comparison

  to the ones I wear inside.

  I swing again.

  Cherries fall around me.

  They hit me in the head

  as the tree shakes

  under the weight of my axe.

  I’m d-d-doing you a fffavor!

  I scream.

  The past should be the past.

  We never use these cherries, anyway.

  It’s as useless as dreams

  and only invites more pain.

  I swing

  and swing

  and swing and swing

  and scream and scream and scream.

  Until

  something thick and heavy hits me,

  pins me to the ground.

  I flail around, pinned beneath the weight.

  When I look up,

  I meet Agnes’s watery green eyes.

  My own tears sear hot trenches in my face.

  Guh-guh-go away!

  I scream at her.

  My voice cracks.

  Agnes pins my arms to the ground,

  speaks with unprecedented sternness.

  Stop this. You have to stop this.

  It’s this tuh-tuh-tree!

  It’s torturing mmme!

  It’s the reason she spent the summer here!

  My own voice is foreign to me.

  They all loved you, Oskar.

  But you have to let them go.

  Didn’t you understand the message you were supposed to get?

  Go look at those pictures the lass painted.

  Really look at them!

  There’s a message in every single one.

  There’s a lot of life out there for you, Oskar!

  My throat burns

  as I choke on the sobs.

  She squeezes my arms.

  Shakes me.

  We survived, Oskar!

  The accident didn’t take us.

  The tears roll off her face and drip down to my neck.

  We are meant to go on.

  We must keep living!

  She gathers me up in her arms

  and hugs me,

  a desperate embrace.

  And for the first time since she arrived in Iceland,

  five years ago,

  I give up and hug her back.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Evie

  Her skin stuck to the vinyl cushion beneath her.

  Though the sun had retreated a few minutes ago, behind the safety of the horizon, the remnant heat hung thick in the air, so hot she couldn’t breathe. Her hair stuck to her temples, and tears cut paths down the side of her face into her ears. Sweat pooled at her throat, between her breasts, behind her knees. She missed the cold.

  Every three seconds, the swing squeaked.

  Evie used to lie on her back in this swing when she was younger—eyes closed—trying to imagine the squeak noise was something besides a swing, that she was somewhere else, in some other place. She was on the back of a safari truck while a baby elephant called for its mother in the distance. A flock of low-flying seabirds squawked overhead as she sunbathed on the beach. A sailboat pole creaked under the pressure of a sea wind. That last one was her favorite. Paired with the rhythm of the rocking motion, she could imagine herself lying in the bottom of a boat, somewhere at sea, totally adrift.

  All those times when she was younger, she had fantasized about being somewhere else. Now, she just wanted to be here. She wished Abuela was inside, baking pastelitos, or mopping the floor and screaming for her to come pick up her Barbies before she threw them in the trash—interrupting her daydream. She’d only wanted to be on that boat.

  She was adrift now, to be sure. In a sea of unwelcome change.

  When she left Miami less than two months ago, she had a best friend. A quasi-boyfriend. A father she’d propped on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. A mother who was too far away to cause further damage. Most importantly, she had Abuela. With less gray hair and more mental capacity.

  The summer, or time in general, was a cruel bully.

  She knew it was them when she heard the engine approach and felt the warmth of the headlights on her face. Still, she kept her eyes closed. Even as they slammed the car doors and climbed up the creaky wooden steps. Evie kept her foot firmly planted on the porch railing, using it to keep the swing moving.

  “We thought you’d be here,” her papá said, voice much gentler than it had been hours earlier in the hospital room.

  She didn’t respond. She’d stormed from the hospital, got a cab, and came straight to Abuela’s. She didn’t know what she’d hoped to find here. The old version of Abuela, maybe. A parallel universe she could step back into and leave the current one behind.

  Instead, she found a locked door and an empty house. Story of her life.

  “Evie,” her mother spoke up. “Abuela is awake.”

  Her eyes snapped open then. She hated that Rhona had been the one to deliver the good news. She didn’t want to hear anything from her stupid, candy-pink mouth.

  “They extubated her,” she continued. She sunk into a rocker next to the swing. “The swelling has gone down more. She’s going to be okay.”

  Evie sat up, her feet catching on the wooden boards and slowing the swing to a stop. “So you left her there alone?” She glared between her parents. “She wakes up, and your first order of business is to leave her again?” If she was being honest, she was just as angry with herself for not being there the minute she’d opened her eyes.

  “The nurses and respiratory therapists are with her now, doing an assessment. They asked us to step out,” her papá said, almost defensive.

  Good. He should be defensive.

  “She’s going to be okay, mija. The doctor thinks she may be able to leave the hospital by the week’s end.” His optimism gave her no comfort. Go where? To some other hellhole nursing facility? All alone?

  “If you want me in New York,” Evie said, “then fine.” She’d been thinking about it all afternoon, and she’d made a decision. “But only if you transfer Abuela there, too. Some place where I can visit her every day and remind her of who she is. Maybe if she gets well enough, she can move in with me once I graduate and move out on my own.”

  “Evie, the dementia… that part isn’t going to get better. We have to be realistic—”

  “I won’t g
o without her. That’s my condition. Take or leave it.”

  “You are hardly in any position to be making demands, young lady.” Papá’s forehead crinkled and his nostrils flared. “I haven’t forgotten about your tryst in Iceland.”

  A bubble of angry laughter climbed out of Evie’s throat. “My tryst? Well, Papá, it could be worse. I could’ve abandoned my family entirely, like the two of you.”

  His face morphed into an expression she’d never seen before, not even in the lighthouse. Evie had never tested his limits. She’d never talked back to him. She’d never disrespected him. This new development carved new depths of anger into his face. His mouth opened to say something, and Evie braced herself for whatever it was.

  “Stop,” Rhona said to him before he could respond. He clamped his mouth closed. Evie hated the way he always listened to her. No matter what she did to him, no matter what kind of person she was, he was still so hopelessly in love with her that he’d position himself at her feet and be her doormat as long as she had dirt to wipe on him.

  She would always have dirt to wipe, Evie was sure.

  “She has a point, Alberto. You’ll be in Iceland, and then who knows where your next assignment will take you? It might be good for Isolina to be near family.”

  “I don’t know anything about the facilities there.” He grumbled.

  “There are lots of great facilities in the city. Places we could easily take public transit to every day.”

  Evie’s mouth hung open. Rhona was actually taking her side on this. It was one for the record books.

  The car ride back to the hospital was silent.

  At least the truth was out in the open now. They both know how she felt, where her priorities were. Abuela had been the reason she’d given Rhona her respect. It wasn’t something she’d earned in any way. Giving birth to someone doesn’t automatically make a parent deserving of respect. Especially when, if not for her Papá, Rhona would’ve discarded her before she took a breath. Forget what the Bible or the priests or the nuns said. What Abuela said. Evie was nearing adulthood, and she’d never expect anyone to respect her if she hadn’t given it to them first. Only respect begets respect. Rhona taking her side about moving Abuela to New York was the closest thing she’d ever done to earn it.

  They waited outside the hospital room door until the nurse had finished assessing Abuela and giving her a bath. When she exited the room and waved them inside, Evie’s heart beat wildly. She didn’t even care that Abuela might tell them about the whole candle thing and wreck every bit of progress she made with her negotiations. Suddenly, all that mattered was telling Abuela she loved her.

  She rushed into the room where Abuela sat propped against her pillows. Their eyes met. Wrinkles creased around her dark brown eyes and she stared at Evie in confusion.

  Now she’d give anything for Abuela to tell on her. To yell at her. Any sense of recognition at all. Evie’s breaths came faster and tears spilled over her bottom lashes.

  Something changed on Abuela’s face then. A slight head tilt, then her eyes widened, ever so slightly. A smile pulled the wrinkled corners of Abuela’s mouth into a shaky grin, then an all-out, open-mouthed smile.

  “Nieta.”

  Evie collapsed on her shoulder, sobs shaking the entire bed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Oskar’s Journal

  I listen to them

  Just out of sight from below.

  I don’t know how he’ll react,

  Agnes says to Edvin.

  To which news?

  Edvin asks,

  and I hear the smile in his words.

  He already knows about us,

  Agnes says with a giggle.

  A giggle!

  It’s a side of her I can’t reconcile.

  We have to tell him everything else though.

  This shoves my curiosity

  into ravenous mode.

  Tuh-tuh-tell me what?

  I ask

  from the top of the stairs.

  They both look up

  from where they sit at a table in the shop,

  huddled together like lovers.

  They exchange a look.

  Edvin stands.

  Adjusts his tie and grins.

  It seems the Westminster Conservatory

  at Rider University in New Jersey

  wants you to audition for them.

  The director called me today.

  They’re very impressed with the new video audition we sent.

  After Boston and Philadelphia turned me down,

  I retreated into solitude.

  I moved back into my bedroom

  after what happened at the tree.

  Left the paintings in the lighthouse

  because I couldn’t keep looking at them

  knowing I might never see her again, either.

  But this news about school—it gives me new life.

  I try not to let it show.

  I shrug.

  Okay.

  I jog down the steps,

  head for the orchard side door.

  I’ve been playing music nonstop,

  and my favorite place

  is by the fire.

  Even though

  I have nothing to burn

  except wood,

  since I’ve been cut off

  from my gras man.

  Wait, Oskar, Agnes says.

  There’s one more thing, lad.

  I take a few steps toward them

  and pause by a display of jams.

  The lass’s father is back.

  I saw him at the petrol station this morning.

  My mouth goes dry as bone.

  Was ssshe—

  But I can’t finish

  before Agnes shakes her head.

  She wasn’t with him. But that doesn’t mean…

  I nod,

  do an about-face,

  and take the stairs to my room

  two at a time.

  I grab my coat and hat from my room.

  The weather has taken a wintry decline

  since she left.

  Even the earth gets cold without her warmth.

  As I bound out the door,

  Agnes calls behind me.

  Where—

  But I’m already gone.

  It’s a suicide mission.

  I’m well aware.

  I’ll kill you,

  that’s what he said to me

  that day in the lighthouse.

  I looked it up.

  And if that’s what happens,

  it’s more than I deserve.

  After they all died,

  I laid awake at night,

  thinking of all the things I’d say to them

  if I still could.

  But they’re dead.

  This girl,

  the one with the big brown eyes

  that see right through me,

  she’s still alive.

  And if I don’t tell her

  in my own words

  that I’m sorry,

  I’ll never forgive myself.

  I’ll never be able to move on.

  My fist shakes

  as it hovers over the door.

  I’m a coward,

  afraid to knock.

  I stand there,

  trying to psych myself up.

  Reminding myself I’d give anything

  to be slapped by you again,

  because that would mean

  you’re touching me

  and there’s still a chance

  to fix everything I ruined.

  He opens the door before I can knock.

  It doesn’t take long to see

  he’s still pretty pissed.

  I grimace

  waiting for the blow

  that doesn’t come.

  What do you want?

  Isn’t it obvious? I want to say.

  But since he hasn’t punched me yet

  I don’t p
ush it.

  Is sh-sh-she…

  Of course I can’t even get the words out.

  The humiliation isn’t even as potent

  as the fear

  of not knowing

  if I’ll be able to see you.

  He crosses his arms over his chest.

  Grins.

  It’s pretty fucking alarming.

  He grabs the door to slam it in my face,

  but I stop it

  with my hand.

  His eyebrows arch in surprise.

  I’m sorry.

  I can hardly believe

  it came out smoothly.

  You’re sorry?

  Of course he wants me to say it again.

  I nod.

  Well, I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.

  She’s in New York, with her mother.

  Disappointment crushes me.

  I nod again.

  C-c-c-could I have her address?

  He didn’t want to give it to me.

  He called me a pendejo.

  Asshole.

  I looked that up, too.

  I deserved it.

  I am an asshole.

  He made me beg.

  I begged.

  But finally,

  he gave it to me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Oskar’s Journal

  Agnes told me

  I should listen to the message

  the Aisling tree

  had for me

  when I tried to cut it down.

  It wasn’t my finest moment, I know.

  So I have spent the past couple of weeks

  staring at your paintings,

  trying to decipher

  what they were trying to say.

  At first I thought they were literal:

  Ivan sitting bored in the shade.

  My mother planting a tree, begging it to grow.

  The northern lights swirling above the lighthouse.

  My family in the pond, together and alive,

  just days before the accident.

  My mother walking away.

  A hand holding a locket.

  But then I got really baked (haha)

  on my remaining stash

  and looked at them again.

  Ivan wasn’t bored;

  he was waiting for me to live.

  My mother wasn’t waiting for a tree to grow;

  she was waiting for me to grow.

  The northern lights weren’t just putting on a show