Madapple

by Christina Meldrum

  The window behind Sanne is fully snow-covered now, the stained colors hues of white. I can hear the wind ripping at branches, stripping them of the straggling leaves—just a handful left per tree, all iced and brittle-stiff.

  “Well, the number twelve, for instance—Jesus’s twelve disciples. The number was important in the pagan world. Pagans referred to the twelve signs of the zodiac repeatedly. And to the Pythagoreans, a formation of twelve circling one represented God. Then there’s the name Jesus—that was no accident, that the Jewish god-man was named Jesus.”

  I hear footsteps; I hope they’re not the preacher’s. “What does the name Jesus have to do with numbers?” I say, but softly. The preacher knows I read what Sanne asks me to read, that I translate what she asks me to translate, but she doesn’t know how interested I am in Sanne’s words and Mother’s mind. I don’t want her to know this.

  “In the ancient Greek alphabet, every letter represents both a sound and a number,” Sanne says.

  “Jesus was called Iesous in Greek?” I say, and I listen. Is the preacher coming?

  “Right,” Sanne says, with what seems a raised voice. “When you add up the numbers of the letters in Iesous, you get eight hundred eighty-eight, another sacred number. All the letters in the Greek alphabet, added together, equal eight hundred eighty-eight.”

  “But Jesus would have been Yehoshua in Hebrew. Iesous is just the Greek version of Yehoshua.” I hope the preacher hears me now—hears my challenging Sanne. I want her to know: I don’t believe everything Sanne tells me.

  But Sanne says, “That’s exactly my point. Early Christians referred to their god-man as Iesous, not because it was based in fact, but because the name was sacred according to pagan gematria, sacred math.”

  It’s Rune, not the preacher, who walks into the sanctuary, into the vault where we’re talking. “The lights went out,” he says.

  “Really?” Sanne says again, and I know she’s needling him this time, but she looks at me.

  It’s a month shy of the winter solstice, the birthday of the sun god, or Christ; a time of holly and ivy and evergreen. And mistletoe. In my dream this night, Rune comes to me carrying mistletoe. He lays it around the bed and in my hair.

  I wake early to a day that is not yet day, and to a wave of nausea that rolls through my middle, into my throat, then settles in my gut like too much water, before rolling anew: I’m sick. I’m sick again. When Mother was alive, sickness was Mother, not me. But now it seems this part of her has seeded in me.

  The air inside tastes stale; my breath tastes stale. I need to swap this air.

  I dress and find my way through the dark hall, up the dark stairs, into the dark sanctuary. No light passes through the stained glass to bathe the sanctuary in bent rays. No sounds wave from the floor or bounce from the stone walls. I step onto the floor with my socked feet, and waves roll from me, and in me. I reach the door and slip on boots; I try to distract myself from myself with the promise of fresh air, and with hope of spotting a tree sparrow or cedar waxwing or hawk owl. In winter in Hartswell I’d sometimes see one of these birds in the early morning from the back porch while Mother slept, so delicate against the bitter backdrop of snow and ice. So delicate, yet so buoyant and able, undeterred, it seemed, by the harshness all around it. Like the mallards, I think, and the harlequin ducks and eiders, which I know still speckle the harbor, despite the cold. Perhaps I’ll walk there, to the harbor. Breathe in the cold. Watch them.

  But I can’t open the door. The snowdrifts are so high, I can’t open the door, and the first snow seems a dream. I push, hard, but the snow weighs against the door, and the waves roll and weigh against me. I retreat breathing the same stale air to my bedroom to breathe the same stale air. I’ll sleep, I think. And I’ll dream of the sparrows and owls and eiders.

  My robe lies disheveled where I threw it, spilling from the foot of the bed as if struggling against the bed’s embrace. The paper and pen sit on the makeshift nightstand. My clothes from the prior day lie strewn across the floor. The glass still rests near the bed, the last drop of schnapps condensed in its basin, forming a small stone of sticky crimson.

  Rune stands over me holding a rose in his teeth. It’s not a wrinkled rose or a swamp rose or a dog rose. I wonder what kind of rose it is, and where he got it in winter. And then I think, No rose grows in winter, in snow; I’m dreaming. I dreamt of Rune last night decorating me in mistletoe, and now I’m napping, dreaming of him holding this rose. I’m molding him into the plants of Hartswell. Trying to make him more integral to my life than he is.

  But when I sit up and look around the room, I see it is as it was before I lay down, and I realize he’s real. The rose is real.

  Rune removes the rose from his mouth with his webbed hand. “‘If she had been the mistletoe,’” he says, “‘and I had been the rose.’” He lays the flower on my belly; its petals are yellow, tipped with red.

  “Why did you say that?” I say. “Why did you say that about the mistletoe?”

  “It’s from a Dickinson poem,” he says, his eyes no longer smiling. “I was bringing you a rose….” He sits down on the bed near me, and I feel gripped. “Mor said she checked on you when you didn’t get up. That you were still sleeping. She thought you might be sick.”

  He folds his hand around my wrist. I want to tug my arm away. How did he know about my dream, about the mistletoe?

  “What’s wrong, Aslaug?” he says.

  I do pull my hand back. “I don’t feel well.”

  Sanne steps into the doorway, a glass of water in one hand, a plate with bread in the other. “You don’t feel well? Mor guessed right,” she says, and she walks inside. “Did Rune wake you?”

  “I brought her the flower,” Rune says, but he takes it back in his webbed hand.

  “Well, I brought you something useful. I’ve learned something from Gudinden about caring for the needy.” Sanne sets the water and plate on the table, on top of the paper. She picks up the schnapps glass, smells its remains. “How can you drink that stuff?” She tries to set the glass back down, but she rests it askew; it tumbles to the floor and cracks in chunks. “Rune’s been preparing your tray since—how shall I say?—since Mor took the bite of the apple.”

  Rune’s moved from the bed to his knees to collect the chunks. “Shut up, Sanne,” he says.

  “It’s probably Rune’s fault you’re sick. What did you give her, Rune?”

  “Very funny, Sanne,” he says. “Why don’t you pick this mess up?” But he’s already picked it up and holds the chunks against the rose. He sits, again, on the bed, but at its foot.

  Sanne fakes a smile, turns back toward me. “Do you have a fever?” she says. She touches my forehead. Her hand feels moist and cold against my skin; her eyes look moist and cold. And a pinkish orange is making its way from the white of her collar to the white of her face; her words jerk out with what seems uncertainty. She’s worried about something, I think. Is she worried about me?

  “I’m tired,” I say. “Nauseous.”

  “Nauseous?” she says. Her fingers find her hair, twirl a strand; she rocks her long body like a windblown reed; and the pink-orange further stretches itself into her milky face. “See. It was Rune. I told you.”

  Rune stands and walks out of the room, still embracing the chunks, embracing the rose.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Sanne says.

  Peppermint flowers are lavender to pink, and whorled. In marshes and ditches and alongside brooks, and in wet meadows splattered with their pale color, the scent of peppermint is common in Maine, common in summer. Mother and I would gather the plant and boil its leaves to make tea. And sometimes we would add its flavor to baked goods and stews. The smell of peppermint reminds me of Mother, of her grip around a hot mug, the scent of peppermint wafting with the steam, and of her breath.

  I smell the peppermint before the preacher steps into the room; I think I smell Mother. “Rune said you’re nauseated,” the preacher says when she enters
; her fingers circle a mug and the steam circles the air. “Fader used to make Maren and me tea with peppermint oil for upset stomachs.” It’s only the second or third time she’s mentioned Mother since telling me of my birth.

  “Apparently you learned some things from Bedstefar despite yourself,” Sanne says.

  The preacher’s mouth tightens into Mother’s mouth, but she doesn’t address Sanne. She holds the mug to my lips. “I gathered some fresh peppermint this summer. Made the oil. Try to drink this tea, Aslaug. It should help.”

  But nothing helps. Certainly not the peppermint. I’m sick the rest of the day, and the next. I can’t eat; I can barely hold down the tea, although the preacher brings it to me again and again. Rune doesn’t return to visit me, but I see him in my mind as I lie in bed, as I try to drink the tea. I hear him recite the poem, and I see him spread the mistletoe in my dream.

  SOLOMON’S SEAL

  2007

  —Cross-examination, Counsel?

  —Yes, Your Honor. Hagen, given you’d moved away from Bethan and were no longer attending the Charisma Church, there’s no way you could know for sure whether Aslaug was living at the church, is there?

  —Well, like I said, my sister, you know, Rebekka, was living there. She would have told me if Aslaug was living there, too.

  —But you didn’t talk with your sister much during this time period, did you?

  —Not a lot.

  —In fact, your parents had prohibited you from talking to her at all, hadn’t they?

  —What Rebekka did was really hard on them. They were upset.

  —Hagen, please just answer yes or no. It’s true, isn’t it, that your parents prohibited you from speaking with Rebekka during the period when Rebekka was living at the Charisma Church?

  —Yes.

  —In fact, you’ve spoken with Rebekka only three times in the past four years, isn’t that right?

  —That’s not right. Before we moved away, I spoke with her all the time.

  —But after you and your parents moved from Bethan, during the years when Rebekka was supposedly living at the Charisma Church, you spoke with her only three times, isn’t that right?

  —Something like that.

  —In fact, you don’t even know where Rebekka is living now, do you?

  —I know she left the church before it burned down. I know she moved away.

  —But you don’t know where she moved to, do you?

  —No.

  —So it sure seems possible Rebekka could have been living at the Charisma Church with Aslaug and not mentioned this to you. I mean, Rebekka didn’t even tell you where she was moving to.

  —Objection. Argumentative.

  —Sustained.

  —Hagen, it is possible, is it not, that Aslaug was living at the Charisma Church during the period when Rebekka was living there and Rebekka just didn’t tell you?

  —I guess so.

  —Thank you. I have no further questions.

  BEE BALM

  2003

  The preacher leads me into a lobby, painted peach, so shiny the walls look wet. Like ripe cantaloupe, I think, and then wish I hadn’t—I can’t bear the thought of food. The carpet in the lobby is low shag, also peach, and the chairs are turquoise. I smell bleach. A middle-aged man sits behind a glass window, his hair thin, his jaw loose, his Adam’s apple lifting and falling. I realize he’s eating—peanuts, I think. And I try to back away, but the preacher presses her hand against the small of my back; the man wipes his palms against one another, slides open the window.

  “Yes?” he says.

  The preacher speaks. “We have an appointment.”

  “We?”

  “Susanne does.” I look at the preacher; I almost correct her. She shakes her head, barely.

  The man peruses his schedule. “Susanne Lerner. Yes, here it is.” He hands me a clipboard. “You can have a seat. Fill out the form. The doctor will be with you soon.”

  The preacher leads me to one of the turquoise chairs. “You’re underage and I’m not your mother,” she whispers. “I’m not sure the doctor would see you.” She takes the clipboard from me, fills in Susanne’s full name, hands the clipboard back.

  I try to fill out the form, but I can’t answer the questions; I don’t understand most of the questions. The preacher takes the clipboard back, fills the information in.

  A woman swings open the door near where the man sits. “Susanne?” she says. “The doctor is ready to see you.”

  I follow her through the door. Her shoes sigh as she walks and her braid tails her. I look back and see the preacher through the window, but her head is sliced from view.

  I’ve never been to the doctor before—I’ve no idea what to expect. The hallway we walk through is beige, lined with paper versions of the mallards and harlequin ducks in the harbor. And the smell of bleach is stronger. The woman pushes open a door to a bathroom, hands me a vial. “We need a urine sample,” she says.

  “A what?”

  “Read the instructions,” she says. “Inside.”

  I step in the bathroom, see the instructions above the sink: wipe, urinate, seal. I’m not sure what to do with the vial after it’s filled. I open the door: the woman with the braid stands there, hands gloved, and she scoops the vial from me and deposits it on a tray. Then she leads me into a small room that’s white and bright. “Put this on,” she says. And she hands me a large sheet of folded paper. “The doctor will be right in.”

  She shuts the door, and I unfold the paper and see it’s some sort of gown. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it: I put it on over my dress. I hear a knock; the door opens without my responding and another woman steps in.

  She starts to laugh. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she covers her mouth with her hand. “You’re supposed to remove your clothes. Put the gown on then.” But she doesn’t leave to let me do this. “I’m Dr. Hoenir, Susanne.” She looks younger than I expected she would. She reaches out her hand, shakes mine; her hand is small and light, like a chick in my grip. “Would you like your mother to join you in here?”

  “My mother?” I say, and then, “No. No.”

  “Okay,” she says, but I sense she noticed my confusion. She motions for me to sit down. “What’s the problem today?” She has what I know is a stethoscope around her neck. She lifts it to her ears and pulls down the neck of my dress, puts the metal to my chest, near my breast. I can feel the instrument’s round weight, and its coolness.

  “I’m feeling sick to my stomach.”

  “Deep breath,” she says. “Good. Any other symptoms?”

  “I’m tired. I’ve been tired.”

  She moves the stethoscope to my back. “Deep breath. How long have you been feeling like this?”

  “Three, four days, maybe.”

  “Another breath. Good. Are you sexually active?”

  She’s behind me now—I can’t see her face. “Am I what?”

  She pulls the stethoscope from my dress. Pushes up my sleeve. “I’m going to check your blood pressure,” she says, and she wraps the cuff around my arm. “You’ll feel some tightening here. Do you have a boyfriend, Susanne?”

  I feel the squeeze. I shake my head.

  “Have you ever had sex?”

  “No,” I say, but I think of the dream.

  “When was your last period?”

  “My what?” I say—I don’t know what she means.

  “Your period. Do you menstruate?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes. The last time was a couple of months ago. But that’s not unusual for me. I only started menstruating last year. I don’t menstruate every month.”

  She inserts the stethoscope into the cuff. Listens. “One twenty over seventy,” she says. “Good.” She removes the cuff, writes something on her chart, wraps her hand around my wrist, looks at her watch. “Seventy-two,” she says. “Okay. Now, I’d like you to take your clothes off, put this gown back on. Leave it open in the front.”

  She steps out
of the room and I pull off my dress. I wish the preacher were with me now. I wrap the paper around my shoulders, but I can’t keep it closed. The doctor knocks and steps in.

  “You’ll have to remove your underwear,” she says, but this time she doesn’t laugh. “And your bra, so I can do a breast exam.” She looks at me in a way that makes me want to turn away.

  “Can Sara come in?” I say.

  “Your mother?” she says, and I nod. “Are you sure you want that, Susanne?” I nod again. “Okay,” she says. “That’s your choice.”

  She exits the room, and I remove my underclothes, try again to hold the paper closed, but it seems a blossom seeking light. The doctor returns with the preacher. “You can sit over there,” the doctor says to her; she points toward a chair in the rear of the room.

  “I’ll need you to sit here again on the examining table,” she says to me. “I’m going to do what’s called a pelvic exam. Your mother tells me you’ve never had this done before. It’s a bit uncomfortable—but it’s over quickly.” She turns my body on the table until I face her. “Go ahead and lie back,” she says. “Your feet go here, in the stirrups.” She positions my feet—I can’t believe what’s happening. I feel I’ll throw up. “You’ll feel some pressure now,” she says. I close my eyes—I want to disappear. And then I do disappear, to the dream, where, through some contortion of my mind, a version of what is happening to me now was beautiful. Then I feel hot tears run into the thumping in my ears; I’ve reappeared. The doctor stands. She presses her hand into my abdomen, into the home of the hairstreak, but the hairstreak has faded; it’s gone. “Okay,” she says, and she pulls off her gloves. She moves nearer my head, opens the gown on one side, scrambles her fingers around my breast and up into the pit of my arm. Then she walks around the table, scrambles the other side. “All right,” she says. “You can get dressed.” She looks at the preacher. “I’d like you to wait in the lobby.”

  “No,” I say. I wipe the water from my ears. “I want her to stay.”

  “You’re sure?” the doctor says, and suddenly I’m not sure. But I nod my head.