Lost in Love (The Miss Apple Pants series Book 2)

by Charlotte Roth

  Pete nodded, then kicked lightly at the big suitcase. “I’m afraid this is not.” He looked over at Mrs. Rockefeller. “You might need to, um, herpakken.”

  “Hair parkin?” Mrs. Rockefeller looked at Dad for help.

  “Re-pack. Lose one of the suitcases.” Dad offered her a small smile.

  “One of my suitcases?” She placed both hands on top of her bosom, then looked over at Mom. “But but how, I mean, I can’t. I’m not like you, travelling all light, like a romantic teenager. I need my stuff.” She looked over at the pile of suitcases and a small yelp escaped her mouth.

  “You’ll be fine. You’ll be just fine.” Mom placed a hand on Mrs. Rockefeller’s shoulder and nodded. “Think of it not as getting rid of something but like gaining something.”

  “Like what?” She didn’t sound convinced at all.

  “More freedom to travel. When you travel light, you have… how does it go, Frank?” We all looked over at Dad, who had sat down on one of the heavy suitcases.

  “‘If you wish to travel far and fast, travel light,’” he began, like he was reading out loud from a book. “‘Take off all your envies, jealousies, unforgiveness, selfishness and fear.’” He looked as proud as a kindergartener reading out loud at circle time for the first time.

  “Or…” Mom picked up Ava from the stroller and kissed her on the head, “one could just say: ‘let’s get re-packed fast. Travelling light doesn’t do shit if one misses the plane.’”

  “One penny,” Ava added in a proud voice, looking down at Alfred still sound asleep in his stroller.

  ***

  It took us a while, but we finally managed to persuade Mrs. Rockefeller to herpakken and leave the broken suitcase behind. In other words, she was down to only two big suitcases and, apparently, it was very stressful to her. Since boarding the plane, she kept listing things she should have brought with her and not left behind at the hotel.

  “And my extra Solano.” She sighed, shaking her head with disappointment.

  “Solano?” I inquired, not sure if it was something to eat or wear.

  “My blow-dryer.”

  “You brought a blow-dryer with you. To Europe. In a suitcase?” Mom mused.

  “Stonehenge,” I said through a fake cough, hiding my big smile behind the fancy travel folder.

  “Yes, of course, I brought my own. A poor quality one will burn your hair. And hair is a rare commodity when you reach my age.” Gently, she cuffed the rare commodity of fine hair and narrowed her eyes at Mom. “I never did have an abundance of hair like you two. Yours might be red and on the frizzy side, but at least you’ve got it. Plenty of it.”

  “Thanks, I guess?” Mom turned in her seat and peeked at me between the two seats, and mouthed, “What the heck?”

  “I just like to surround myself with things I like, things I know. It’s like I feel naked without them.” Mrs. Rockefeller straightened up in her seat and smoothed the front of her shirt. “It beats me how you can survive with a small backpack for two weeks,” she continued, her voice slightly elevated. “And an even smaller carry-on.” She looked up at the luggage compartment above her sparse hair and shook her head again.

  “We travel light, as Frank said so poetically.” With the mentioning of Dad’s name, the tears were back in her voice. Even though it was only for a few weeks, Mom had been very emotional saying goodbye to Dad, who we had left behind at Schiphol airport, with the windmills. And pot pies.

  “I know, it’s silly,” she had whispered into our big family goodbye hug, “but, I’m not used to not having you around. It’s just … I’ll really miss you, babe.”

  “And I’ll miss you, babe,” Dad had whispered back, “and you and you and you.” He had kissed me on the top of my head before he knelt next Alfred and Ava and kissed them too. “Take care of your moms, okay?” They both looked up at us and nodded, a conspiratorial look on their cute little faces.

  “Frank, what did you tell them, or more correctly, what did you promise them?”

  “Um, nothing,” he lied, which had made Alfred and Ava giggle.

  “If you say so.”

  “We do,” they had all said at the exact time, like they had rehearsed what to say and how to say it if Mom would ask that exact question (which was highly probable). And I had almost cried, right then and there, thinking that, even though I had the most perfect family right there, I wanted what Mom and Dad had more and more for each day that passed—a loving and almost telepathic relationship with my babe, with my half. I wanted to share my life with someone who got me like Dad got Mom, and vice versa. I wanted to share my life with someone who would finish my sentences, just like Mom and Dad, and just like in that song from Frozen with Anna and the guy whose name I couldn’t remember. I wanted all that and a dad for Alfred.

  “Well, the two of you might be able to survive a trans-Atlantic trip with two small bags, but I on the other hand…” Mrs. Rockefeller’s voice snapped me back to the airplane and the apparent never-ending conversation about the size or amount of travel gear or missing thereof. “It just makes me a little nervous, like something’s missing. Like I’m not in control. It’s like travelling with with…” She stopped mid-sentence and stared straight ahead at the blond waitress with the piercing eyes making her way down the narrow aisle, carrying a small tray.

  I looked at the back of Mom’s head. She was nodding, like she always does when she’s listening to the words that are not there. When she’s clearly feeling the words that don’t come easily.

  “I know,” Mom whispered in Mrs. Rockefeller’s direction. “My mom feels the exact same way, always travelling with half her closet. I, on the other hand, I’m still a teenager in many ways.” She reached over and placed her hand on Mrs. Rockefeller’s shoulder and that’s when I suddenly remembered what she had said when she had told us about her last Europe trip with Aaron… “He said that all he needed was a hat, flips flops, and a pair of clean underwear. Always so carefree, which is what started the trouble with his dad. And of course, I had to secretly pack all his stuff behind both their backs.” I looked at her profile and imagined her sneaking in to her teenage boy’s room, rummaging through his messy drawers. Poor Mrs. Rockefeller. Maybe that was why she had been so upset about the broken suitcase, and why she was so obsessed with her belongings and had brought, like, half her wardrobe? Maybe, even after all these years, she was still packing for him, too?

  “Frank is right, you know? Travelling light might be a challenge for you, but it might be good for you.” Mom looked at me over her shoulder. “Oh, Dad,” she whispered, tears already pooling at her eyes, and just like that, I was back with Mom and Dad at the airport, back with Anna from Frozen and what’s-his-name—longing for someone to finish my sentences.

  “Excuse me?” The blond stewardess with piercing eyes was hovering over me, waving a small brown bag over my head. “You want a sandwichsss?” she asked with her funny accent, short of rolling r’s and heavy on the ‘s’s.

  “That’s it,” I blurted out, not quite meaning to. “His name was Hans. They sang, ‘finish each other’s sandwiches,’ not sentences.” I looked up at the stewardess and found her staring intensely at me, and I could hardly blame her. I was making no sense at all.

  “Oookay. So, you want a sandwichsss, or no?” She handed me the warm brown bag, then offered Mrs. Rockefeller one, probably relieved she could move on to the next less-crazy guest.

  “Yes, dear. Please.” Mrs. Rockefeller sniffed the sandwich, then placed it on the empty tray next to her empty seat. “I know,” she said, looking in my direction now. “I know his name is Hans. Remember our little talk?” She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening in on our conversation. “About the birds and the bees.” She smiled and with a lowered voice she added, “About the sex.”

  “No, yes, I mean, not that Hans. The guy who sings the song with Anna.”

  “Who?” Mrs. Rockefeller’s eyebrows shot up to her thinning hairline.

&nb
sp; “The Prince,” I explained, which really didn’t help a lot from the look on her face. “The guy in Frozen. His name is Hans.”

  “Oh, that guy. The one that was her true love but didn’t turn out to be. He was such a coward. I knew something was fishy about him the moment I saw him.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Why are we talking about Hans again?”

  “Never mind, it’s just… I was reminded about that song at the airport, is all.” I looked out the window and felt a surge in my stomach. Hans—the real person and not some cartoon prince —was down there, somewhere, maybe building a house—if he had already become the architect he wanted to be. But, of course, things didn’t always go as planned. I should know, of all people. I didn’t plan to get pregnant and I sure didn’t plan to sit on a plane to Europe, four years later, trying to locate Alfred’s dad. And even though he was Alfred’s dad, there was no guarantee that he wanted to be his dad. And just because he was his dad, it didn’t necessarily mean that the three of us had to become a family. What was it Thomas had said? “Being his dad doesn’t give him a free admission ticket to your heart, or whatever it’s called in German…” Would a guy whose first language was German ever be able to finish my very American sentences? Or sandwiches? How did you know if a guy would ever be able to?

  “You all right?” I looked up and found Mom peeking at me from the gap between the two seats in front of me. “You nervous?”

  “I am, I guess,” I admitted for the first time.

  “Well, Thomas sends his love.”

  “Thomas?” I asked, suddenly feeling all dry in my mouth. Why had she talked with him? She never talked with him alone.

  “He texted me and practically told me to keep an eye on you, off the record,” she explained, seeing the look on my face. “He told me not to tell you. Obviously, he should know better, right?” She squeezed her forehead further against the cushions and winked at me. “Anyway, he says he doesn’t want you to get hurt. Again.” She let out a big sigh.

  “Again. What does that mean?”

  “I guess he’s just thinking about how you felt when Hans left and when you found out you were pregnant. And he knows how nervous you can get with, um, confrontations.” She smiled.

  “He said that?”

  “No, he didn’t have to. He knows you pretty well. He gets you.” She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Now, try to rest a little. We’re descending soon.” She faced the other way again and left me with my own thoughts.

  I swiped my phone open and tapped on the Facebook group. Of course, Maddie had left her signature emoji—the fuck-you emoji with the following comment:

  “Very unexpected event, I must say, but respect for Ella and her little rich friend. P.S. What’s with the curlers?” she had added as a separate comment, which put a smile on my face. I scrolled down to the next comment from Dad’s friend, Bill.

  “The apple (pants) don’t fall far from the tree,” it said, followed by a peace symbol. Of course Bill would say that and, of course, he would add a peace symbol. He was as predictable as Maddie. I looked down at the screen again. Someone else was typing a comment but before I could see who it was, I already knew. It was Thomas writing from somewhere in England. I imagined him sitting in the Bed and Breakfast in his oversized Sounders hoodie and tussled hair, sipping hot coffee, overlooking the overcast landscape. He would definitely mention and/or make fun of the chewing cows outside the window. I was right. Only a few minutes later there was a long comment from Thomas.

  Thomas T. Jensen

  Sitting here in my PJ’s watching the cows outside and Mother Earth lifting her foggy skirt for everyone to see. Bristol is still cold and gray and, for a man who’s lived his entire life in gray Seattle, this gets to me right now. I don’t know why, but I have the weather blues. I know what Mom would say right now (and she’ll probably comment on this later, when she wakes up), “It’s all in your head. Shake it off. Weather blues is just a state of mind.” You’re right, Mom, but jetlag/the weather is getting to me. I know I should feel grateful and happy, being here in Europe—no work, all play—but I can’t help thinking that I should be there and not h

  Thomas T. Jensen

  Oops, I accidently hit the arrow or whatever it’s called (I’m on my phone). I’m just rambling anyway Just wanted to hear if you’re okay. Are you nervous? Don’t be. You’ve done an amazing job so far, raising the cutest boy as a single parent. I would know, right? Follow your heart, listen to your heart and not your head on this one. I’ve done that way too much, always thinking about what the right thing would be, and I’m regretting it every day. I should start eating my own medicine, huh?! Anyway, rambling again. Sorry. Take care. Luv U.

  P.S. Where do the cows go on a Saturday night? To the moooovies. Ha ha ha… remember the annoying Elmo jokes? I need more coffee

  I looked up and found Mom peeking at me.

  “What are you smiling for?”

  “Smiling?”

  “Yes.” She pointed a finger at me through the crack. “You’ve got an ear-to-ear smile pasted to your face. Are you still, um, stoned?” She shook her head in a way like she still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that I—her grownup daughter—would ever do such a “weird thing on a Tuesday night.”

  “No, it’s just, um Thomas just wro—”

  “—Thomas, oh, that explains it all.” She nodded, smiling.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Go on.”

  “Remember the Elmo doll—the one with the little yellow chair that could sing and fall over … the one that broke?”

  “Of course!” She started singing with a bad attempt at a nasally Elmo voice. “We still have him.”

  “We do?”

  “It’s in the shed somewhere.”

  “But but but it broke.”

  “Um, not exactly. It broke.” She let out a small puff. “It was soooo annoying.”

  “Well, yeah…‘Oh, Elmo fell over, help Elmo up.’”

  “That, right there, was the most annoying part.”

  “True, but… Mom, you killed him? You killed Elmo?”

  Mom looked down at the top of Alfred’s little sleeping head. “I guess I did. Anyway, what did Thomas say?”

  “He was just reminding me of the whole Elmo thing, and the bad joke about the cows and the mooooovies.”

  She nodded. “I’m guessing they’re still in Ireland then.”

  “England. He says he feels kinda homesick. And he wanted to make sure I wasn’t too nervous, knowing how much I hate confrontations. Do I?”

  “Do you what?”

  “Hate confrontations?”

  She nodded. “It takes one to know one.”

  “Is it that obvious that even Thomas would recognize it?”

  “He would know, believe me.” She nodded, then faced the other way and left me with my own thoughts.

  CHAPTER 13

  Berlin

  “Are we at the airport yet?” Alfred sat up in his stroller and rubbed his eyes. He had slept from the minute we left the hotel in Amsterdam and missed the drive to the airport, the long security line and entire flight to Berlin. I had almost woken him up, but Mom stopped me.

  “But he loved the takeoff from Seattle,” I had reminded her, my hand already stroking his little chubby cheek.

  “Yes, but he loves his sleep even more. You will, too. Trust me on this.”

  I had, and now I had to be the one to break it to him.

  “Yes, baby, but this is actually a different airport. We already went on the airplane. You slept, baby.” I sat down and picked up his little elephant blanket. “But Telephant was awake and he promised to tell you all about it.” I placed Telephant next to his face and smiled.

  “Man, we’re in Italy already?” He was clearly disappointed but too groggy to whine about it.

  “Germany, but, don’t you worry, we have a lot of flights left on this trip, remember?”

  “Okay, Mommy, but you also said I cou
ld have one of those red pops.”

  I kissed him on his head and promised he would get one as soon as we got to the hotel, which put a big smile on his face.

  “Yay, we’re getting a red pop.” And, just like that, he seemed to have forgotten about the flight. He pushed forward in his stroller, searching, I guess, for Ava.

  “She’s in the restroom with Mom, I mean, Grandma and Mrs. Rock. Oh, speaking of.” We both watched as they strolled down the big aisle, Ava pointing at every single thing they passed on the way.

  “We’re getting a pop!” Alfred squealed. “And we’re already in Italy.”

  “Germany,” Mom, Mrs. Rockefeller, Ava, and I said at the exact same time.

  Alfred looked up at me. “What’s in Germany again, Mom? Is this where they invented pizza?”

  “No, dear, that’s in Italy.” Mrs. Rockefeller looked over her sunglasses and smiled. “And it’s delicious. In Germany, they have sausages, sauerkraut, and some very old buildings and sites, like a piece of the old wall.” She held up a small bag of mints. “Anyone?”

  “Yes, please.” I held out my hand. “Anything to get this horrible taste out of my mouth.”

  “The wall?” Alfred tugged at my pants and looked up at me.

  “Remember I told you we were going to a place where they once built a wall to separate a country in half. That was in Germany. It is in Germany. Here.” I spread out my arms.

  “Was it like a fort?” He stretched his head and looked at Ava. They had built too many forts to count together.

  “Kinda like a fort. But they tore it down again.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a complicated story. They became good friends again, I guess.”

  “Huh.” He looked up at me and scratched the back of his head. “So, what else is in Germany? Is Dad here?”

  “Dd-add?” I almost choke on my mint.

  “Granddad,” Mom clarified when she saw the look on my fear-stricken face. “And no, honey.” She sat down next to Alfred’s stroller and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “He’s still back in Holland. He’ll meet us in Denmark, remember?”