How Sweet It Is (23 page)

“Miss her,” I offer.

When he sighs, his face holds a vulnerability I haven’t seen before.

We let the silence spread itself between us until I feel the need for conversation.

“So no one has come close to being as wonderful as her?” I regret the question the second it leaves my lips. What am I aiming for? Zack to suddenly sweep me in his arms and tell me that he loved her, but he now has found another love, and that love is, my goodness—me?

He says, “I have Jonas. Not everyone understands that he isn’t just my brother.”

“You raised him when your parents died.”

Zack lets out a low laugh. “Is that what he told you?”

“He said that even though he’s older than you are, you raised him.”

“He raised me. It might look like I have to do all the taking care of, but Jonas takes care of me.” Softly he adds, “If it weren’t for Jonas, I wouldn’t be grounded. He keeps me balanced.”

My eyes fill with tears, the sudden ones that come on unexpectedly. I try to blink them away. What is happening to me? Ever since I’ve been in Bryson City, I’ve given in to tears. Don’t my eyes remember that I don’t cry easily? I wipe away a tear that has made its way down my cheek and hope Zack doesn’t ask me if I’m crying. If he does, I may be tempted to be like Bubba and say, “Duh!”

He doesn’t ask, but his face holds a rich kindness in between the lines of worry that stretch across his temples. “Not everyone understands Jonas.”

I sniff again. “What is there not to understand? He’s priceless.”

Zack grins and, to show his satisfaction with my statement, gently touches my arm.

His action sends warm flutters throughout my body. Even my toes curl in my Reeboks. I could easily—oh, so easily—rest my head against his chest right now. As though in protest of my affectionate thoughts, I quickly cross my legs and sit up straight. Mom would be proud.

We listen to doctors being paged, which makes us aware of our institutional surroundings.

Zack stretches his legs, and then looking into his coffee cup says, “I was thinking that hospitals are difficult places.”

No piece of cake, that’s for sure.

“I’m sure it’s hard to be back in one after your accident.”

I am not expecting this from Zack. I don’t know why; he’s always been considerate, the model citizen for thinking of others and their feelings. “I’m okay.”

“You’re strong, Deena.”

Strong? Strength never has been one of my outstanding characteristics. When I was nine years old and had to have a tooth pulled, I moaned for three days, and those were the three days
before
the tooth came out. After surgery, I complained of a sore mouth for at least a week, allowing Mom to make me special foods to sip through a straw. Andrea, if I remember correctly, called me a
little baby
.

Zack smiles. How many colors are dancing in those eyes?

Glancing at the painting of the fruit, I ask, “Did you know that my grandfather kept a lemon in his refrigerator at all times?” I bring this up just to make conversation, to use this as a way to distract me from falling completely in love with this wonderful man seated across from me.

“Yeah, I knew that.”

“Really? He told you?”

“We had lots of conversations. Your grandfather and I went hiking together in the park. Jonas came with us a few times.”

“So?”

“What?”

“What’s the story behind the lemon in the fridge?”

Zack grins. “He didn’t tell you?”

“My aunt was going to, but she hasn’t yet.” I’m sure she will, at some wonderfully inappropriate time, like when she told me about finding Giovanni.

“Well.” Zack stuffs the empty paper containers of sugar into his coffee cup. “It signifies contentment.”

When Zack stops there, I cry, “That’s all? Regena Lorraine told me that. There’s supposed to be some story that goes with it.”

“There is.” He stands, walks toward a metal trash can by a row of chairs, and tosses in the items from his hand. He reaches for my empty coffee cup, takes it, and throws it away. When he sits again, he rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and gives me a long look. “You really don’t know the story?”

“No.” I never got to go on a hike with my grandpa, either. Seems I missed out on a lot. I did get the letter left for me. I think about the meaningful words my grandfather printed on the paper, the page I have read many times and yet shared with no one, not even Regena Lorraine. Some words are more intimate when they are kept secret.

“So I’m going to tell you about your own grandfather?”

“That’s right.” I smile. “Hurry, before the suspense kills me.”

His eyes show flecks of green, and something inside me wants to stare into them. I don’t stare; I look at my hands, wait.

“When Ernest was little, the family didn’t have much money. The kids wore hand-me-down clothes and ate oatmeal for every meal. The winters were bitter in Erie. Sometimes there wasn’t any coal to light the fire in the house. All their shoes had holes they patched by shoving plastic into them. He really did walk a mile to school every day. His parents were poor and sick a lot.” When Zack stops, I look up at him. “You want me to continue?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You really have never heard this? Any of it?”

I think of telling him that my mother is not one for hard-luck stories. She probably convinced Dad over the years that keeping a happy profile is the way to live, without focusing on a sad past. So that’s most likely why my father never shared this story with me. “I want you to continue. I haven’t ever heard this before.”

Zack looks tenderly at me, a look identical to one I saw him give his brother in the hospital room. He moistens his lips and says, “One day a woman from their church brought them a basket of fruit. The basket had apples, oranges, grapes, and lemons. Ernest took one of the lemons, smelled it, and carried it to school in his pocket. It was durable and didn’t spoil quickly like the other fruits. He kept that lemon for weeks. He asked God to heal his sick parents and make it so that he could be smart enough to finish high school and go on to college and med school. He wanted a chance to change the world. He wanted to give his parents a better life in their old age. He prayed to God a lot after that.” Zack pauses, and I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him say so much at one time.

“What else?” I ask.

“He bought lemons by the crate. Everywhere he went he always bought lemons. Truman said he wanted a chicken in every pot. Ernest wanted a lemon in every refrigerator.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Ernest said that for him a lemon signified three things: prosperity, contentment, and memories. Even after becoming a doctor, he never forgot those who had less than he did. He loved to gift people with fruit baskets. In fact, every Christmas, that’s what each of the kids at The Center received from him. His method of operation.” Zack smiles at me.

I wish I could hug my grandfather right now. I want to call my father and tell him that I’ve heard the story of his dad and that I love his dad so much. Mom needs to hear this story. Why didn’t she like my grandfather? How could anyone not adore a man who loved lemons and gave them away?

We head back to Jonas’s room, where a nurse has just taken his vitals. “He’s fine,” she whispers to us as Jonas falls asleep once more.

“Jonas is always fine,” says Zack.

Just like his brother, I think.

————

As the owl cries in the treetops, a solo of evening peace, I open my journal and write about my concern for Jonas’s health. After two paragraphs, I close the book. Something isn’t complete, though, and I know that there is no way I can go to sleep unless I write a little more. Opening to a clean page, I write
Zack.
I’m not sure what else to put on the page. So I pretend I’m in sixth grade and draw little hearts around his name. Then bits and pieces of conversations we have had come to me like little appetizers on a silver platter. No one will ever read this, so just write from the heart, I tell myself. Hurry, write so you can go to sleep.

   He is cute, but there is more to him than that. He has depth.
He cares about those who are less fortunate with a passion and love that is so rewarding just to watch. Where do I fit in? I am unfortunate, that’s for sure. Perhaps he just feels sorry for me. But that’s not how he operates. He holds empathy, but he doesn’t feel sorry for any of us. He accepts us where we are and seems to see the potential we hold to become better people. When he told me that I am a strong person, I felt I needed that reminder. I spent too much time thinking of how much Lucas ruined my future. But when Zack takes the time to tell me something I need to hear, I see that he looks beyond what individuals try to convey. He tells me to open up and not be afraid.

I am afraid.

I am terribly frightened to feel something besides pain.

thirty-two

A
t the end of a warm August, school starts again. The kids now spend only part of the afternoon at The Center, getting dropped off by the school bus a little after three. When they enter the building I am usually there. I find it easier to already be standing in the kitchen, equipped to start my class. I guess it gives me more control. Another thing I’ve learned is to ask the kids to tell me what they’d like to make. If they suggest it, chances are they’ll be more eager to actually prepare the dish. Charlotte raises her hand today and says she’d like to make a pie.

“What kind?” I ask.

“Peach.”

“That’s my favorite!” I gush. “We can make that next week.”

“I hate peaches,” says Joy. She sticks her tongue out for emphasis. It’s blue from the flavored lollipop she ate on the bus ride over.

“Joy,” I breathe, “you have a lovely name. It’s one of the fruits of the Spirit.”

“Duh,” says Bubba. “We see the sign every day.”

I look at Joy, her round, soft face so often contorted by morbidity. “Be joyful, Joy.” Then I smile. My motivating side inwardly cheers.

I think I see Darren lift his head and give a grin, but I could be wrong.

Thanks to Zack’s suggestion, I have told the children that they need to take turns cleaning up the kitchen after class. A few moaned that they didn’t want their fingers to get “pruney” from the dishwater. Bubba said he was allergic to doing dishes. I stood with my shoulders back and said, “Doing dishes makes you more handsome and more beautiful.” I don’t know why I chose to say this; it just came out.

Bobby ran his fingers down his wide torso. “I’m already so handsome,” he announced to the class. “But if I do the dishes, I’ll be a regular ladies’ man.”

While Charlotte and Lisa are in the kitchen washing out cake pans, Miriam invites me into her office. She has a carafe of coffee and some half-and-half on her desk and asks if I’d like a cup of coffee. Then she closes the door to the room.

Nervously, I pour a little of the beverage into a mug, add three drops of half-and-half, and then sit on a leather chair next to her desk.

She sits on her swivel chair and tells me she can’t talk long because of a board meeting in twenty minutes.

I hope this is not about the receipts for my class’s ingredients. She probably thinks I spend too much on them and is going to remind me that The Center is a nonprofit organization. I sip the coffee, wish it were Starbucks, and wait.

Her blue eyes flash. Clasping her hands together, she says, “The kids want you to go camping with them.”

What?

“The other day we were talking about chaperones for the camping trip in October, and they said they want you.”

“Camping?” My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. Is this what she brought me in here for?

She opens a drawer and stuffs a few loose papers into it. “First weekend in October. Smoky Mountain National Park.”

The kids said they wanted me? I clear my throat. “How long do they camp?”

“Two nights, Friday and Saturday. We have permission slips for guardians to sign. We document the medications the kids with prescriptions need, bring a first-aid kit, cell phones, and that takes care of it.”

She says a few others things, but I don’t hear them because my mind is so heavily wrapped around this request. The kids want
me
to go camping. “Who else is coming?”

“Rhonda. Have you met her? She’s Bubba’s caseworker.”

Oh yes, I’ve seen her around The Center many times, and we conversed a little at the bake sale. She’s shorter than I am, blond hair, plenty of cleavage, no noticeable scars. She talks to Zack all the time. Bubba clearly loves her. I’m not sure if Zack does or not.

Miriam opens a binder, takes a page from it, and closes it. “Oh, and Robert. He went last year and enjoyed it.”

I can’t fathom that Robert enjoys camping with the kids. He’s married and has two kids of his own. Why would he want to spend time away from his family with these wayward children?

When Miriam answers her ringing desk phone, I gaze out her office window at a cluster of lopsided pinecones and ponder the situation. The kids want to go camping in the Smoky Mountains National Park. They’ve asked Miriam if I will join them. I don’t have to, do I? Grandpa Ernest didn’t put in his will that I have to go on the camping event, did he? I went camping once with Sally’s parents and brother. I remember waking up to wetness. It had rained, the ground was mushy, and my sleeping bag was soggy.