SWEET FORTUNE

Liz turned the car off and stared at the sign. U-Pick Apples. It was hand painted, swinging from a slightly rusty hook, a rather blobby looking apple painted next to the words.

She paused, her hands resting lightly on her steering wheel, as if she might start driving again. She wasn't even sure why she had turned in to the farm's car park. It was late, she was tired, it had been a long day of work, visiting clients and convincing them they needed her graphic design services. Going freelance had not been easy.

Besides, she didn't really eat apples anymore. She wasn't even sure she wanted apples.

And yet...

Slowly she got out, not bothering to lock it as her car was the only one in the orchard's gravel car park. The sun was a golden ball in the sky, just beginning its slow descent to the horizon. There was a bite in the air now, and she was grateful for the warmth of her coat.

She walked towards the old stone barn, anticipation and apprehension churning equally inside her.

"Hey, are you here to pick apples?" A freckly teenager smiled at her from behind a makeshift counter in the barn. Mutely Liz nodded, and the teen pointed to a pile of red net bags. "Take a bag, and my brother Jeff will drive you out on the tractor. The orchards are about half a mile away. It's a bit bumpy, but nice. We close in half an hour."

"Thanks." Liz picked up the bag, threading her hands through the coarse netting. 

"Did you like the sign?" the young girl asked eagerly. "I made it myself."

Liz smiled. A real homegrown operation, apparently. "Very nice," she said. The girl nodded her thanks, smiling back happily, and Liz took her leave.

She walked past an open barn, pumpkins piled untidily, old rusted bits to tractors and tools lying in stacks. There was something relaxed and comforting about it, even if it brought a strange lump to her throat.

"Apples?"

She looked up to see a man about her own age, thirtyish, with sandy hair and a ready smile. He wore jeans and a denim shirt, work gloves on his hands.

"Yes..." She held up the bag as evidence of her intent.

"Great. I think you're the last one of the day. I'll drive you out myself." He held one hand. "Jeff Simpson."

"Liz." She shook his hand awkwardly, then climbed aboard the back of the tractor wagon, board benches on either side.

"Steady." Jeff cupped her elbow, helping her up. "Did you come from work?"

"Yes... not practical, I know." Liz looked down at her silk blouse and wool trousers with a grimace. At least she was wearing boots, even if they were soft leather, and a coat. "This was a spur of a moment thing."

She'd been visiting a client when she saw the orchard sign. She'd never even known the farm was here, out on a country road. She usually didn't come out this way, but her client happened to live in a tumbledown cottage in one of the villages. And then the barn, with its painted sign, had beckoned, to pick apples, today of all days...

Jeff hopped into the tractor seat. "I understand."

Liz nodded, but she knew he couldn't really understand. This was the first time she'd been apple picking in two years. She hadn't thought about it, about what it meant or how things used to be, on purpose. It was easier that way.

Her eyes stung with the sudden needling of tears, and she blinked them back. Silly. It was just apples.

Except it didn't feel that way.

Above her the wind whispered in the trees, their leaves scarlet and gold. Liz gazed out at the field, admiring the pastoral scene, a few cows lazily grazing in one of the meadows. "Is this your own farm?" she asked suddenly.

Jeff glanced back at her, his expression shadowed. "It was my dad's."

Was? Liz nodded silently, understanding yet not wanting to say anything. She just wanted to feel, not to think. Thinking could come later.

"Here we are." Jeff parked the tractor and helped her out. The ground was uneven, the grass long, and Liz was glad of the sure hand on her elbow.

"Okay. We have Fortunes over there, Galas right in front, and the ever popular Braeburn about two rows down on the left. I'll wait here. Just come back to the tractor when you've got the apples you want, and give me a shout if you need help." He smiled, and Liz smiled back.

"I like the Fortunes," she said, almost shyly, and headed to that row in the orchard.

She picked slowly at first, enjoying the feel of the shiny, red apples in her hand, the heaviness of the bag as she filled it up. It bumped against her as she carried it and when it became too heavy she rested it on the tufty grass, against her legs.

She kept her mind blank beyond the physical sensations of the day--the sun on the back of her neck, the sting of wind on her cheeks, the apple in her hand, hard and smooth and round.

It was quiet in the orchard, with only the whisper of wind, and she felt alone. Alone, but not lonely. It felt all right. It was a relief, to feel that way, and the tightness in her chest, in her lungs, in her stomach, eased. For a moment.

Then, over the sound of the wind, she heard a faint humming. She thought she recognised the tune--a Scottish ballad, perhaps? She listened, the faint sound carrying across the trees. She smiled. She knew that song.

Finally, when the bag was full, she lugged it back to the tractor where Jeff was waiting, leaning against the side of the wagon. He stopped humming when he saw her and Liz found herself saying,

"What was that song you were humming?"

Jeff ducked his head, looking a bit embarrassed. "Dumbarton Drums. One of those old--"

"I know it. My mum used to sing it." For a moment, she pictured her mother in bed, her hair thin and white, her smile tired, her eyes faded. Her voice, a thready whisper, singing, because that had brought her joy. In the end, there had been little to bring her joy.

Liz remembered the feel of her hand, the bones like a bird's, the skin papery thin. She remembered holding it, not wanting to squeeze, because that hand was such a fragile, gentle thing.

"My dad whistled it," Jeff said with a little, awkward smile.

There was a pause, and Liz was aware of her heart beating, a steady thump in her chest. She handed the net bag to Jeff, easily, as if that was what she was supposed to do. He took it, just as easily, and helped her into the wagon.

He handed her the bag, and she rested it between her feet, the apples leanings against her knees.

"All Fortunes, huh?" he said, smiling, and Liz nodded.

"They were my mother's favorite." It was if the song had opened up a door. A door she'd kept locked, for her own peace of mind. But she hadn't really had that, had she? She'd been numb, blank, without thoughts, without peace. Just existing. Not wanting to think, because that would mean feeling more than she could handle.

Yet now... she could say it. Almost easily, even if the pang of memory still hurt. It wasn't as fresh, more of an old ache. A healing wound.

"Were?" Jeff asked softly.

"Yes. She died a little over a year ago. Cancer." Liz drew an unsteady breath. "We had an apple orchard growing up," she explained quietly. "I used to pick apples for her birthday every year."

She could almost see her mum in the kitchen, turning at the door, accepting her basket of apples with a wide, happy smile.

"After I left home," Liz continued, "I'd come to a place like this and pick for her. I moved out here a year ago, after she died. I haven't..." Liz  swiped impatiently at the tears crowding her eyes. Once you started, it was hard to keep the feelings out. They surged up, an overwhelming tide of emotion. "I haven't picked apples since then." Hadn't done much of anything, except lose herself in work, make that her world, her meaning. She paused, gazing at the shiny, red Fortunes. "It's her birthday today, actually."

Still staring down, she saw Jeff lightly cover her hand with his. "I'm sorry. I know how hard it is to lose a parent."

She looked up. "Your dad?"

"He died last Christmas. He used to always drive this tractor."

"So you do understand."

Jeff nodded. "It hurts. It goes away sometimes, then it comes back. And I wonder if it will always be that way."

She nodded. "Yes. Exactly."

"I like to think he can see me, driving the tractor, doing the work," Jeff said with a self-conscious shrug. My little sister mans the till, and my mother bakes and does the produce. I like to think he sees all of us, working together. Making him proud. Corny, I know."

"No." Liz shook her head. "Not corny. We need to think these things. We need to believe."

And perhaps her mum saw her, or knew anyway, that she was trying. That perhaps she could go on, and live again, thinking and feeling all at once. Allowing the feelings to come, the thoughts, instead of bottling them away.

Jeff paused, seeming to weigh his words. "I know it's getting a little late, but would you like to have a coffee and a donut with me, in our shop? It's not much, but..."

"Yes," Liz said simply. She didn't need to say more, didn't want to. This was a start, a start back to living.

Jeff nodded and swung up into the tractor seat.

The tractor bumped slowly down the dirt road, the apples bumping against her legs.

As it came to a stop, the bag tipped over and the shiny red Fortunes rolled down the wagon bed, falling on the ground.

"Oh--I'm sorry!" Jeff looked at the fallen fruit in dismay, but Liz shook her head, laughing.

"It's all right," she said. "It's all right." And it was. It felt good to laugh, to be free. She scooped up some of the apples back into the bag.

"Apple sauce," she said. "It doesn't matter."

"Are you sure?" Jeff looked uncertain, but for once Liz wasn't. For once she knew.

"Yes." He helped her put the apples back in the bag, and Liz drew the string tight at the top. "There."

"Ready?" Jeff asked as he held a hand out, his glove off, to help her down from the tractor.

Liz took his hand, the apples under her other arm. His hand was warm and dry and firm. "Yes," she said, "I'm ready."

....END

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Copyright © 2008 by Katharine Swartz