Author: India LaPalme
The orchard had always been her favorite place. There, she could enjoy the wind on her face and the grass between her toes without guilt. Mother Nature—unlike everyone else in her life—demanded nothing save her presence.
Perhaps it was foolish to be so attached to a place that didn't even belong to her; if her husband knew, he'd laugh the way he had when she ventured to mention that month’s unpaid rent, shaking his head with a knowing expression that made her burn with shame. But he didn't know about the orchard—and never would, if she could help it—and so he couldn’t take it from her.
On sunny days, when the sky was achingly blue and the air crisp and sweet as a Gala, she watched the clock, unblinking, ‘til her eyes burned, every cell in her body willing the sluggish second hand to move faster. Then, when her shift was finally over, she drove to the elementary school in the beat-up Ford that was older than her marriage. The children waited for her on the front steps, their faces alight with excitement; seeing them so happy made her forget her fatigue, at least for a few moments.
She kept a stash of loose change in the glove compartment for such occasions, so they drove to the gas station, where the children inspected the cooler’s contents like soda aficionados, scrutinizing each Coca Cola before finally settling on the perfect bottle.
As always, she chose a Hershey’s bar, spurred by the memory of her own childhood: hoarding her allowance until she had enough for a trip to the candy store, slowly savoring her chocolate while her brothers devoured theirs. If only her parents could see her now. They’d had such high hopes for their little girl, but those dreams had disintegrated the day she walked down the aisle.
When they reached their destination, everyone piled out of the car like it was on fire; the children raced to the wooden fence with its peeling white paint, eager to see if the apples had ripened, but their mother lingered, relishing the quiet. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was a girl again, delighting in the crunchy sweetness of a home-grown apple, laughing as she played in the summer sun.
Once they’d regained their breath, the children urged her to hurry up; and she sighed as she obeyed—but they all knew she didn't mind, not really. As much as she longed for the past, it was gone forever; this was her life now. The orchard had never been more alive.
Leaning against her favorite tree, a sturdy specimen she’d nicknamed Big Mac, she nibbled her treat until she was drafted for a game of hide and seek; the four of them kept at it, dodging behind tree trunks and concealing themselves in the dry, brown grass, until everyone was covered in sweat and fireflies alighted in the meadow, bright beacons in the gathering dusk.
As they headed home, the children fell silent, so she turned on the radio; banjos twanged as a man reminisced about his squandered youth. If only he knew...As her headlights illuminated the driveway, the front door flew open and her husband emerged, red-faced.
Where the hell had she been? Bitching to her mother again? He’d told her to stay away from that old hag; in fact, he'd call his mother-in-law tonight, tell her to mind her own damn business. And why wasn’t dinner ready? She knew he worked his ass off all day to provide for his family, and this was the thanks he got? He ought to just leave her, let her fend for herself.
If only he would…The words crowded in her throat until she almost choked on them, but, conscious of the children’s presence, she hung her head, murmuring apologies. He sneered, and for a moment, she was certain he meant to strike her; she raised her chin, determined not to show her fear.
But, to her relief, he only muttered something about dumb bitches, then whistled for his; the dog vaulted into the passenger seat of his shabby pickup with the air of a seasoned traveler and her husband followed, tossing a few parting epithets over his shoulder. Not once had he glanced in the children’s direction, not even as he peeled out of the driveway in a spray of gravel.
She watched the truck pause at the stop sign—the tail-light was out again—before it turned the corner; only then did the children dare to emerge from the car. They dashed inside as though the devil themselves was after them, the screen door slamming in their wake. She followed, latching it behind her; it wouldn’t keep him out for long, but it made them all feel a little safer.
That night, when the children were all abed and the chores completed, she sat on the porch in the rocking chair her husband had given her as a wedding gift—the only present she’d ever received from him, not counting the bruises—nursing a cup of coffee as black as her mood and dreaming of the future.
Sometimes, she fantasized about inheriting a fortune from some distant, elderly relative, others pawning some valuable family heirloom without her husband’s knowledge, but the result was always the same: after divorcing him, she’d leave this house behind forever and purchase her own orchard, a place that would be hers, and hers alone.
She'd build a house of her own: a place where she could sleep without fear of waking to harsh words and heavy blows, where the children could play in a yard free from beer bottles and rusted appliances. She could plant a garden, silence the blaring TV and listen to the bird song instead. It had been a long day and her eyes were heavy; she closed them for a moment, picturing the place in her mind...
She awoke to the sensation of eyes on her; her husband stood there bleary-eyed, his expression unreadable. Heart pounding, she rose from her seat, but he brushed past her; a moment later, the porch light went dark, leaving her alone with the scent of stale beer. She waited several agonizing minutes for his snores to sound, staring into the dark as she tried to recall the dream he’d interrupted. There had been apple blossoms and the sound of laughter...She sighed and shook her head, tip toeing past her sleeping husband.
Slowly yet inexorably, autumn supplanted summer, and the orchard-goers returned home rosy-cheeked. If her husband suspected anything, he never said a word, only scowled and drained his beer in one long swallow.
As the days grew shorter and the leaves more colorful, she sewed their Halloween costumes, spending long hours hunched over her stitching even though this further curtailed her too-brief sleep. But every sleepless night was worth it when the children insisted on wearing their ensembles to school; she watched them go with pride, waving as they boarded the bus, knowing that when they went trick or treating, none of the neighbor’s candy could compare to her famous caramel apples.
Winter came and with it, the holiday season: cocoa, caroling and, of course, Santa Claus. She scraped together what money she could and borrowed the rest, rewarded on Christmas morning with radiant faces and a living room littered with bows and wrapping paper. She bought nothing for her husband—he wasn't home, anyway, returning the next day smelling of smoke and spirits.
While the orchard was blanketed with snow, she busied herself shoveling the driveway and helping the children construct a snowman; sometimes she drove past on the way home to admire winter's handiwork—the icicles hanging from the trees, the pristine powder covering the ground—and to remind herself that soon enough, it would melt. Meanwhile, her husband confined himself to the den, blaring infomercials the only indication of his presence.
Then came spring, and with it, incessant rain that made her feel even more trapped than the snow had. But it, too, abated; now, she could finally return to the orchard, listen to the drone of bees and admire the apple blossoms. Wildflowers were everywhere; and the children presented her with handfuls of daisies and black-eyed Susans, which she displayed in a vase on the kitchen table as proudly as if they were roses.
As the evenings lengthened once more, she found herself thinking of the one that had changed her life forever, the night she danced with the boy all the girls flirted with—the boy who had eyes only for her, the plainest of them all. They talked for hours, ignoring the boys who asked her to dance, the girls who batted their eyes whenever he looked their way.
That night, she had her first kiss, and it was even better than she’d expected; that night, she whispered the name of the only boy who'd ever made her feel beautiful until sleep claimed her. It wasn’t until much later that she realized the other girls had known what she had not: that the wild boy who’d stolen her heart was as dangerous as he was alluring, someone to admire from a distance, but not to love.
On a summer evening two years later, with her infant son slumbering in her arms, she'd confronted the reality of her failed marriage, realized that things between them were not only bruised, but rotten: a shiny apple with a worm inside, rancid to the core.
Body aching from his blows, heart hurting from his words, she fled the house, exhausted and heartsick, driving in circles with the baby slumbering in his car seat until she stumbled upon an unfamiliar dirt road. She parked her car beside the fence and climbed out, cradling the baby in her arms—and knew she'd found a place to belong: a place where nothing, not heartbreak or sorrow or anger, could touch her—if only for the length of time it took to eat an apple.
