Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

by Jessica Soffer

  For a moment, I considered telling Victoria that I’d been lying all along. That my mother had died and that’s why I’d come to her, to find the family that my mother and I never knew. And I’d spin her a beautiful story of my mother—of how she was meant to be a mother, born to love and care for a child. Victoria could feel proud that she’d had something to do with that quality. But it was a hateful, horrible thought and it repulsed me as soon as it popped into my mind. I repulsed me.

  The next night, after my lesson at Victoria’s, during which I’d kept my mouth shut for once, didn’t say anything about my mother, and tried to just let things happen as they might, I headed to the bookstore, figuring that Blot would still be at the coffee shop next to it and I’d get a glimpse of him and Greta together. I put myself into position across the street and tried to see in, which I could. Easily. But he wasn’t there. Neither was Greta. I crossed the street and walked by briskly just to confirm it. I was right.

  I had two options. I could wait an hour and a half in the freezing cold until I was supposed to show up and hope that they would turn up at the coffee shop, or I could go inside the bookstore now. I was sure they’d be in there. I wouldn’t let him see me. I’d hide behind the Winter Favorites table. And on the off chance that he did see me, I could simply say that I wanted to do some browsing and figured he’d still be at the coffee shop. But he wouldn’t see me. I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d be sneaky. Easy as tarte à la poires.

  At first I was cautious, peering into the aisles before making my way through them, running my fingers over the book spines halfheartedly, just in case. Eventually, I moved faster, more carelessly. I couldn’t hear Blot. The bookstore was very quiet. And when I found him in libros en español, not with Greta but restocking a shelf, I wasn’t terribly surprised. He was all dressed up in a nice shirt, blue with buttons and tucked in, and he wore different khakis than usual: slimmer and ironed and belted against his very straight stomach. He had a silver pocket chain, which swung against his leg as he moved. His hair was back in a ponytail and a gray headband. And for the first time I could see his whole jaw, and it made the insides of my cheeks hurt. His man jaw, man neck, man chin.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  He turned. The left side of his face smirked and his dimple responded.

  “You had a feeling too?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I said. “I was just walking by.”

  I realized I didn’t have my story straight.

  “Well,” he said, before I could make a fool of myself. “That’s that.”

  I wanted to tell him that I was sorry. That I knew all about waiting for someone. And waiting. And waiting. I knew all about not being able to stop waiting, even when it became ridiculous to keep on. I knew that he probably still hoped—even now—that Greta would show up somehow, running toward him, all limbs and hair. But she wouldn’t. It was too late. But I understood how impossible it was to cut out that hope. It would die inside him. Scar tissue. I understood.

  “Hungry?” I said instead.

  I held out a takeout container of bamia, which I’d brought from Victoria’s.

  “So he’s not your boyfriend?” Victoria had said when I told her I was going to meet Blot at the bookstore. I left out the part about Greta and about my plan to spy on them.

  “No,” I said to her, definitely blushing. “Not my boyfriend.”

  “But you’re going to all this trouble?” she said. And then, when I didn’t respond, “I see.” And it was very clear that she did, which felt flattering and thrilling at the same time.

  “I could eat,” Blot said now. He sat down and put the books next to his feet and slumped against the bookshelf. His legs fell to either side in a pose that looked like yoga. He took off his headband and wrapped it three times around his wrist. His hair fell into his face, and he pushed it back, held it firmly against his head, and took a deep, long breath.

  I wanted to tell him about Victoria and me. And not. I knew it wasn’t appropriate. And yet, I was aching to share. Aching for his advice. I had done as I’d planned and not told Victoria anything yet. I hadn’t let on. I wanted to be totally sure first. I wanted the moment to be just right. I wanted to tell Blot how careful I was being—and I wanted him to feel in on the plan, crucial to it. Patience is a virtue, he might say and give me the thumbs-up. I sat down across from him and gathered my legs so as not to intrude on his space. His face was sapped of color, like tuna poached. I passed him a spoon, a napkin, and then the container, which he held up to the light.

  “I’m guessing this is not masgouf,” he said.

  “You guess right,” I said.

  He pretzeled his legs, opened the container, and balanced it on his ankles, then used Victoria’s spoon like a shovel to bring the food to his mouth. He stared at a spot on the carpet as he ate, blinking slowly, at a particular pace. I didn’t ask if he liked it, though I wanted to. It was clear that he didn’t not like it. He was eating heartily. I winced at the irregular okra shapes. Every time he took a bite, he leaned all the way forward, folded himself entirely in half so he wouldn’t spill. I considered helping, holding the container closer, but (a) he didn’t ask for my help, (b) I’d never seen such a flexible boy before, and (c) he seemed so deep in his thoughts that I was afraid of what might happen if I said anything. I imagined the stew flying everywhere. They say never to wake a sleepwalker.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” he said. For a moment, I felt selfish, not knowing what he meant: Greta or Victoria.

  “Let’s talk about you,” he said. “What do you think?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “You were right,” I said.

  He put down the spoon, moved the bamia aside.

  “You asked her?” he said.

  “No,” I said. I was smiling.

  “Well?” he said, and shook his hands at me, like Out with it, young lady.

  “It’s just that she asks so many questions,” I said.

  “How many?” he said.

  “A lot,” I said, wanting to tell him about my mother too, but he wasn’t through.

  “Per minute?” he said, and took out his pocket watch. On your mark, get set. “Go,” he said.

  “When did we move to New York,” I said. “Did I know that my parents were unhappy. Had my mother met anyone else. Did I have a relationship with my grandparents. Did my mother. Were my aunt and my mother close. Did I cook with my mother. How long had she been working at Le Canard. What is my favorite thing to cook. What is her favorite thing to cook. Did I go out to dinner with friends. What are my friends like. My school. What is for lunch at school. My mother never packed me lunch for school? My mother slept till ten A.M.? What did I like for birthday cake. Had I ever tried tongue.”

  Phew. I exhaled. Blot stopped timing me.

  “There’s something else,” he said. “Tell me.”

  “Well,” I said. “I asked my mother last night about why she loved the masgouf, and she said it was because it reminded her of family.”

  “Family,” he whispered and then put one hand over his mouth. He shook his head in disbelief. He wasn’t faking it. And seeing his emotions, I felt my emotions suddenly surge. The enormousness of the whole thing. The alarmingly bizarre way that it had happened, and how quickly. I reached out and grabbed his arm. I couldn’t help it, was so excited. And before I could get embarrassed, take it away, he slipped his hand around mine and held it in the air between us. He squeezed it. The muscles in my thighs clenched. Soon, though, his eyes glazed over and I knew he was remembering Greta. He let go. My pulse returned to its normal rate. I tried not to make a noise as I exhaled.

  “You’re lucky,” he said.

  “I know,” I said too quickly, not wanting him to hate me.

  “Go on,” he said. “Tell me more.”

  I could see that he needed me to talk now, so that he didn’t have to, so that he could be reminded of something better. That it was my story, my family,
that would provide this kind of comfort felt very strange. A little bit like I was lying, actually. His eyes were glued to mine, so intensely that they almost shook. But I couldn’t say anything. Words were not forming in either my head or mouth. I was the burned bits that adhered to the bottom of a pan, stuck.

  Blot shifted his legs so they were under him and he was kneeling. He was more alert this way, and taller than me. He folded his hands to his chest, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly.

  “Okay,” he said. “Start from the beginning. You said that your mother never looked for her biological parents.”

  I nodded.

  “She told you that?” he said.

  Finally, my mouth worked. “No,” I said. “My aunt told me that.”

  “But your mother did look for them, right? And she found them at the restaurant?”

  “I guess,” I said. “But the thing about my mother is that she’d never fully reach out. She likes everyone to come to her. Wait for her. I bet she sat at that table at the Shohet and His Wife thinking that if they didn’t somehow recognize her, she wouldn’t go any further.”

  “Your mother is nuts,” he said.

  Without thinking, I burst out laughing.

  “She takes playing hard to get to a whole new level,” he said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You must,” he said. “So it’s not really her birthday, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  We were quiet for a minute. Blot had begun nodding, looking very sternly at the books behind my head, and wouldn’t stop. “Okay,” he kept repeating. “Okay okay okay okay.”

  “Okay what?” I said.

  “I’m just making sense of it,” he said.

  I tried to do the same but my thoughts were bouncing around, refusing to stay put.

  “What do you like for birthday cake?” he said out of nowhere.

  “Sacher torte,” I said. “Chocolate, hazelnut, raspberries. You?”

  “Anything with a candle will do,” he said and winked. “The candles give me such a sense of accomplishment these days. Stop me if I get morbid.”

  “No,” I said. “I won’t.”

  Victoria

  IT DIDN’T SEEM as though Lorca was ready to discuss what needed discussing: that we were, in fact, related. That she was my granddaughter. And I couldn’t say that I was altogether upset. It occurred to me that in a million ways, she was a stronger person than me—stumbling upon my class, figuring out who I was, being prudent, being smart—and the truth was, more than ever, I had no idea of where to begin. What would I say to her? There were no words that I knew of that would suit the emotion, all of the emotion. So, despite wanting desperately to hug her, tell her how grateful I was that she’d found me—and, of course, meet her mother—I took comfort in waiting. I’ve waited years, I told myself. A few more days won’t kill me. I knocked on wood. I decided I would let her go first. I’m a coward, I know, forcing a child to take the lead. But part of me wondered if she wasn’t a bit relieved too that we hadn’t yet broached the subject. It’s a lot for a little girl to handle. Strong and capable and perfect as she is.

  We’d had four lessons in all, and one since I so horribly burned the masgouf—but what a wonderful lesson it was. We made the masgouf successfully. Excellently. So much so that I lost all inhibitions and said to Joseph with Lorca standing there next to me, “Little Lorca’s a better cook than you! Than me!” I wasn’t kidding. She was. Pride is the word that came to mind. She’s simply astonishing, I’d told Joseph when she left. And so adult, and so beautiful, and so kind. I imagined that he couldn’t be happier either.

  Yesterday, Friday, Lorca had suggested that we meet tonight —again!—so that we could go over the butterflying of the fish once more. It was time she made it for her mother, she said. I saw a little twinkle in her eye and I tried to match it. I tried not to make a fool of myself. I’m a horrible winker, but I like to think I can twinkle with the best of them.

  “Super,” I said. And then: “Fabulous.” And then: “Great.”

  I had a feeling it was going to be the big day, and I practiced my oh-my-gosh-it-is-you face in the mirror a hundred times.

  Lorca brought over some dry, pallid-looking no-name fish that she’d gotten at a Jamaican market.

  “We won’t eat this,” she said. “I just need it to practice butterflying.”

  “We definitely won’t eat it,” I said, and I had to fight the urge to open a window and surely embarrass her. It smelled like trash.

  I was right. Lorca did have an incredibly steady hand and she cooked with her whole body. Like a pro. As she cut the fish, she leaned forward, moving her shoulders and arms so that the knife didn’t depend on just one muscle as a guide.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Not too much pressure and not too little.”

  She was a quick learner and I told her so.

  “You don’t need me for this,” I said.

  And very sternly, she looked me in the eye and said, “I do. Yes, I do.”

  Whatever feeble breath I had left was taken away for quite a few seconds.

  When we finished with the fish, Lorca, the most conscientious child in the world, used bleach on the cutting board and in the sink, making sure there wasn’t a whiff of anything rotten as we moved on to zingulah and then my favorite on ice cream or toast: mango and nectarine jam.

  “I’m just going to bring this garbage to the basement,” she said.

  “You don’t need to be so careful here,” I said, but she had already taken off down the stairs.

  When she came back, we moved on to the baklava, which Joseph liked with plenty of fresh butter. Into a bowl, we added three kinds of nuts, warm spices, lemon juice, rose water, and honey. Lorca held the measuring spoons and I passed her what she needed with instructions of how much of each. We went along like this, smoothly, methodically, until I remembered: my secret ingredient.

  “The vanilla!” I said. “How could I forget?”

  I didn’t use the liquid, never the liquid, but the pods. Our spices guy would bring them to us in giant canisters and I would use them in everything: coffee, desserts, even soups for just a touch of earthy sweetness.

  “Now, where could it be?” I said. I looked in all the ordinary places; I was sure one would turn up. Eventually, Lorca helped too.

  “Maybe you don’t have any?” she said.

  “No,” I said. “I never don’t have any.”

  From a drawer, Lorca took out an old remote, some batteries, a tin of cinnamon from twenty years ago. She flipped a piece of paper from one side to the other, but the words were faded or never there to begin with. She was making a small pile on the counter. Suddenly, she stopped. It went quiet. I spun around, thinking she’d seen a rat or mouse.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t an animal she’d seen. It was nothing that could be trapped.

  It was Joseph. It was from a newspaper. It was in Lorca’s little hands.

  “Is this him?” she asked. I thought I heard some shaking in her voice, but it could have been me, the shaking in my system.

  In the photo, he was a stranger. It wasn’t just the suit he was wearing, how it made him taller and more definite, or how much time had passed since it had been taken, or even how little he’d resembled this version of himself toward the end. It was that he’d kept such a secret from me. He’d met our daughter. He’d never let that fact slip. It grew like a body of dark water between us. It made his memory elusive and him somewhat unrecognizable. I noticed now the sharpness of his chin and wondered if I’d ever considered that before. Lorca’s fingernails were the tiniest cubes of ice. I imagined them melting against my old, stiff skin, jolting me, soothing me, coaxing my blood to snap to. I wanted to be robust again for her.

  The photo was from the Upper West Side Chronicle. They did an article on the restaurant and we’d framed it, though you couldn’t have paid me to find it now. All we had was the photo. What happened to things? I wondered. How did they disintegrate, chang
e color, go stale, fall to pieces, turn inside out, open and close, move across the apartment without my knowing? For so long, I’d felt like I was the only one here, the only one with a real handle on this house. Joseph had done so little. He’d been so sick. And yet, I thought now, so much had happened without me. So many changes had snuck in as I’d been downstairs, on the corner, reading newspaper headlines in my pajamas and an overcoat. He’d known our daughter. The leaves proved it. They’d spoken to each other. He could recognize her voice, the shade of her hair. He knew whether her eyes reflected the colors of Central Park. And what else? It didn’t even matter. That was plenty. So very, very much.

  Memories knocked the wind out of me suddenly, as if they’d been stored for decades, airtight and sealed on the shelf above the stove, and my focusing on them now had popped the lid, sent them shooting out, fierce.

  That night, when the people from the newspaper came, we’d put sunflowers on every table.

  I’d cleaned the toilets with a toothbrush.

  I’d chopped so many walnuts that my fingers were blistered at the tips.

  We’d hired a band.

  We looked sunburned from twirling eggplant over the flame for hours, making baba ganoosh and more baba ganoosh.

  It had been an enormous success. True, a wineglass had shattered. The sunflowers drooped faster than you could say salamat. The halawat sha’riyya was too sweet, and there were not enough pistachios. But the newspaper people hadn’t seemed to mind. They loved every bit, they said. And I believed them, as they’d asked for fourth helpings, another napkin, a definite yes to cardamom coffee and desserts.

  At the end of the night, one reporter asked if he could take a photo and I’d said, “One minute. I don’t know where Joseph is.” I looked all over for him. No one had seen him. I raced around and raced around again.