The Language of Cherries

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  the autumn when I was ten,

  they are still putting on shows,

  as you and I both well know.

  My family wasn’t just together

  in the pond a few days before they died,

  my family is still together.

  In my heart.

  Always.

  My mother wasn’t walking away;

  she was telling me to walk away.

  To chase dreams

  and maybe love,

  the same way she did.

  And finally,

  the hand holding the heart-shaped locket

  should be you.

  And I

  should

  live.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Evie

  Evie felt like a lab rat in a New York City–shaped maze.

  It had taken her until the end of her second week of school to figure out the subway schedule. From her mother’s apartment (she still refused to call it home) in Queens, she took the bus nine blocks to Public High School 87. Magnet Arts had rejected her on the basis of a late submission.

  Though she hadn’t made any friends yet, people were strangely accepting. It was a completely different experience than Saint Bart’s had been. It was nice to be in a sea of diversity, rather than stuck with a bunch of entitled rich people. Maybe her father had known this all along when he’d planned to send her here.

  Then again, maybe she gave him too much credit.

  After school, she took a twenty-minute train ride, then walked a quarter mile east to the Waterside Retirement Community in Flushing. It was a sprawling brick building that took up three city blocks in the combined residential and commercial area. They had an aquatics program, a culinary program, a billiards room, and a twenty-four-hour on-call memory program staff.

  Rhona had found it.

  Evie didn’t believe that a handful of good deeds would erase a lifetime of their fractured mother/daughter relationship. But it was a good start. Ever since she’d been living with Rhona, she’d started to see things in a different light. She’d begun to get to know the woman that was hidden inside a shell of depression all those years before.

  Evie waved to Mr. Peterson, the kind old doorman, as she entered through the automatic doors into the lobby and signed in. After an elevator ride to Abuela’s third story apartment and a knock on the door, a young nurse she hadn’t seen before let her in.

  “You must be Evie.” She smiled. This staff was a far cry from the grumpy women that worked at the old one. The ones who couldn’t be bothered to set up a damn video call. “She’s waiting for you. I was just leaving.”

  Abuela was perched on her recliner, crossword puzzle open on her lap desk. Her pen hovered over the boxes, face contorted into a frown. Evie braced herself for whichever Abuela she’d meet today.

  She wasn’t always coherent. Some days the confusion was mild—she’d call Evie Rhona, or forget they were in Queens instead of Little Havana. Other days, she’d cry until she fell asleep. Evie would stay with her on those days, hoping and praying for better days to come.

  “Hola, my Evie.” She smiled. Thankfully, this wasn’t one of those sad days.

  Well, it was still sad. Things would never go back to the way they used to be. She’d stopped longing for things she couldn’t change. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She had to accept that sometimes, shit is grim.

  “What’s on your mind, nieta?”

  So much. But it wasn’t about her anymore. It was about Abuela.

  “Not much. How was your day? Did you go swimming again with that cute memory care therapist?”

  Abuela dropped her pen next to the crossword puzzle and pulled her glasses off. She pinned Evie in place with an irritated expression. “I don’t want to talk about me, nieta. I want to talk about you.”

  Evie shrugged. “Nothing much to talk about.”

  “Have you spoken with your papá?”

  Evie avoided her eyes. No, she hadn’t. He’d made it clear he was busy with work, which was the reason he’d been trying to ship her here for months now. He hadn’t called her, so she hadn’t bothered, either.

  “He’s only trying to do what’s best for you, nieta. All that working is for you.”

  Yeah, well. She wasn’t going to trash talk her papá to Abuela. That would be a losing battle. She’d discuss it with her priest, if she ever made it back to Mass. Rhona wasn’t exactly the religious type, so Evie would have go on her own time.

  “They’re both only trying to do what’s best for you.”

  At this, Evie laughed. This level of lucid was almost inconvenient, but she wasn’t sorry for it.

  “You have to forgive them both. If you don’t, you’ll spend years and years in pain.”

  Evie looked up at her then.

  “Were you mad at your parents? After they sent you to Miami?”

  Abuela’s eyes shone with something—tears or impending laughter, Evie wasn’t sure—and she smiled. “Mad doesn’t even begin to explain it, nieta. I didn’t understand why they would send me away. How could I be safe anywhere they weren’t? With nuns who didn’t know me? Every week at Mass, I had to confess my unwillingness to forgive them for abandoning me.”

  Evie swallowed a lump in her throat. That was scarily familiar.

  “It wasn’t until you were born, nieta, that I realized they did me a favor. If I hadn’t come here, I would’ve never had your father. He would’ve never met your mother. We would’ve never had you. Everything is a result of something else. Sometimes bad things can yield very good things.”

  Evie thought about that for a moment. She’d resented where she came from for so long. She’d clung to Abuela’s legacy because it was something she could be proud of. It was a story of triumph, of overcoming adversity, of making a new life.

  “Your mother didn’t love you the way you deserved to be loved, Evie, I do not deny that. But it’s taken her until now to learn to love herself. Only now is she capable of giving you what you’ve always deserved. Give her a chance.”

  Just being here was a huge step, so right now that would have to be enough. She didn’t say as much to Abuela because she didn’t want to disappoint her. She just nodded.

  “And your father,” she said. “He calls me every day. To check on you.”

  Evie swallowed. This surprised her more than anything. She always had to pester him to call Abuela before. Now he did it without having to be reminded?

  “He doesn’t know I sent you that candle,” she whispered. “I never told him.”

  Abuela smiled. “He already knows, nieta.”

  Evie’s mouth fell open. She didn’t want to cry, but the pressure of it tickled the back of her lids. Her eyes swam hot and hazy. “But he talked about suing Sunny Acres…”

  “They were supposed to be screening my mail. He knew all along that the candle came from Iceland.”

  “But why didn’t he say something?” Anger took over now. He let her lie to him, outright. She felt incredibly stupid and small. Of all the things she’d done to disappoint him, that was the worst, and he’d let her get away with it.

  “Evie,” Abuela said, reaching over and taking her hand. “Promise me something.”

  She couldn’t really deny her anything in this rare moment of crystal-clear conversation.

  “Promise me you’ll learn to forgive. Forgive them. Forgive yourself. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Evie swallowed a shaky breath. “I promise.”

  She thought about that promise all the way home. Could she forgive her papá for being so focused on his work he forgot her all the time? Could she forgive her mother for checking out for her entire childhood?

  Maybe.

  But then she thought of Oskar. She’d spilled her guts to him all summer, she’d shared every secret part of herself with him, only to overhear him call it nothing. She tensed her jaw and focused on a piece of gum on the floor of the train.

  She pulled out her phone and noticed an unread
message on her messenger app.

  Loretta Devereaux: I heard about your Abuela and I’m so sorry. I’m glad she’s okay. Also, I just thought you should know that Ben dumped me. After we did stuff. Be glad it wasn’t you. I probably deserved it. I’m really sorry.

  Evie was surprised that it didn’t give her any comfort. It made her sad for Loretta, the girl who sat down beside her at lunch one day because she couldn’t stand to see her looking so lonely. You look lost, she’d said. Want to sit with us? After that moment, she was never alone again at Saint Bart’s. That was worth something.

  Evie clicked reply as she stepped off the train at her stop.

  Evie Perez: I forgive you. And no—you didn’t deserve it. Nobody deserves that. Also, I know friendships aren’t perfect. Thank you for being kind to me when I was all alone. Good luck with your senior year.

  She knew that she and Loretta would probably never cross paths again. And that was okay. Maybe some people were meant to come into your life, but maybe they weren’t meant to stay.

  Her stomach twisted when she thought about Oskar. She didn’t want to group him into that category too. But could she forgive him?

  No, she didn’t think she could. Not that it mattered, since she’d probably never see him again, anyway. She just hoped she haunted his dreams the way he haunted hers.

  She typed the code into the keypad of her mother’s apartment and the door buzzed open. Her flip-flops took the steps two at a time, slapping against the bottoms of her feet. She hoped Rhona was still working. She didn’t want to spend the evening with her mother after Abuela’s lecture. She wasn’t ready to be all forgive-and-forget with everybody. Not yet.

  Evie opened the door to the tiny one-bedroom apartment and found it in a mess, as usual. Rhona had left the futon unmade with blankets scattered everywhere. Evie didn’t let that annoy her, though it took some concentration. Rhona had taken the couch as her bed and let Evie have her bedroom. Evie was grateful for that.

  She tossed her keys on the table, next to a brown UPS box addressed to her. She glanced at it briefly and turned away. She wasn’t in the mood to see anything from her papá, either.

  But the return address made her do a double take.

  Oskar Eriksson

  Ránarbraut 1, 870

  Elskå, Iceland

  It wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to her she didn’t even know his last name. Eriksson. Maybe words weren’t all that important after all.

  She ripped the box open with a rabid urgency that gave her a paper cut. Heart beating a mile a minute in her chest, she parted the box flaps and peered down inside.

  A glass bottle with red liquid was wrapped in bubble wrap and wedged perfectly between the top and bottom of the box. Next to it, a red leather journal cushioned it in—the one he’d ripped from her hands that morning in the lighthouse. She lifted it from the box, cold against her trembling fingers, revealing the small plastic container full of fresh cherries underneath.

  And in the corner of the box, at the very bottom, was a tarnished silver locket.

  How could he know where she was? Unless…

  She opened the front cover of the journal, and a letter fell out, her name scrawled on the envelope in his neat, all-caps handwriting.

  Dear Evie,

  I’m a selfish asshole.

  There are no excuses for what I did,

  so I won’t make any.

  If you throw this away,

  without reading any of it,

  it’d be exactly what I deserve.

  But this is for you,

  not me.

  I owe you the truth.

  About everything.

  I always understood you,

  maybe better than anyone else,

  because you held nothing back with me.

  I wanted to be near you,

  but not just because of the paintings.

  You’re the most magnetic person

  I’ve ever met.

  You introduced yourself to me as Evelyn.

  But when you thought I didn’t understand,

  you showed me Evie.

  The real you.

  I want to return the favor,

  introduce you to the person who fell for you

  all summer long.

  I’ve never let anyone

  read any of my journals.

  Before now, I always threw them away

  the minute I filled them up.

  They’re embarrassing.

  Full of bad poetry,

  unfinished songs,

  and scattered thoughts of a sad guy

  who lost everyone he ever loved.

  Including you.

  They say that time heals all wounds,

  but I disagree with that.

  I think the wounds are always there,

  no matter how much time passes.

  Sometimes, someone comes along

  and becomes a balm,

  a distracting anesthetic.

  I write words, songs, music

  for the same reason you paint.

  Our bodies and souls inhabit this earth

  a short time in the grand scheme of forever,

  but our art is as immortal

  as our wounds.

  For the first time,

  I want to be heard.

  You are the reason.

  This journal starts a week before I met you.

  I just want you to see yourself

  as I see you.

  I want you to know the truth.

  -Oskar

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Oskar’s New Journal

  Agnes digs through the top drawer

  of my bureau

  and peeks over her shoulder at me.

  What about socks? Do ye have enough socks?

  Edvin steps over and shuts the drawer.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Agnes!

  Get out of the boy’s sock cubby.

  He has plenty.

  I stare down

  at the full suitcase

  on my bed.

  I haven’t left Iceland

  since I visited Scotland

  as a small boy.

  Before Ivan was even born.

  Are ye nervous about the flight?

  The flight is the least of my worries.

  Edvin answers for me.

  He’s going to be fine, mín. I’ll be with him,

  Edvin says.

  We’ll be back before you know it.

  Well, I will,

  he adds.

  They might love this guy so much,

  they decide to keep him early.

  Panic sets in around her eyes.

  They can’t do that, can they?

  You’re auditioning for the winter term!

  Relax, Edvin laughs.

  We’ll be in America for four days.

  Then he’s all yours until January.

  Agnes nods and throws her hands in the air.

  Och, what a silly wench I am!

  All these years of pushing you out the door

  and now I’m upset about it!

  I step into her space

  and give her a hug

  now that the seal has been broken.

  Thank you, Agnes,

  I whisper.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Evie

  Evie spent the weekend reading and re-reading the journal.

  She couldn’t believe he’d said such beautiful things about her. But she was stuck on one thing: if he felt that he knew her so well, why did he think a stutter would make her not want to talk to him? Nothing he wrote sounded like he thought she was that shallow—at least nothing after the first couple of times they’d been around each other.

  She read each of the entries where he’d psych himself up to tell her the truth, holding her breath, as if she was going to read a story that was different from the one she had already lived. She got to the last page, and read the very last entry one more time.

/>   “If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy. If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing. If she’s worth it, you won’t give up. If you give up, you’re not worthy. Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”

  -Bob Marley

  Evie,

  I hope this has given you

  some peace about what happened between us.

  There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t think of you.

  I’m going to be in New Jersey on Monday, September 12th.

  I have an audition at the Westminster Conservatory at Rider University,

  for admission in the upcoming winter semester.

  If you can find it in your heart to forgive me

  for being a coward, an asshole, a complete idiot

  who should have told you the truth

  a long time before now,

  I’d love it if you could be there,

  in the main theater,

  at six o’clock p.m.

  If not, I’ll understand.

  You are worth suffering for.

  -Oskar

  Evie had less than twenty-four hours to decide if she was going to go.

  As she stashed the note and journal on the top shelf of her closet, she noticed something familiar in one of the unpacked boxes on the floor. Opening the flaps, she pulled out the canvas of her self-portrait—the one she’d done in class.

  The colors were over-blended and unnatural, the brushstrokes painstakingly hidden.

  She didn’t have any of her paintings from Iceland, only the sketchbook where they’d all started—but she knew they were nothing like this. Those paintings she’d done in Iceland were created with reckless abandon, without a worry in the world about who would see them or what they would think. She hadn’t tried to cover her brushstrokes.

  But this self-portrait, she thought as she ran her fingers over the smoothness of the paint, had been created with fear. Her father was right—it did look like Abuela when she was younger. Evie had painted a lie.

  She shoved the self-portrait back in the box and reached further into the back of her closet. When her fingers found the blank canvases and the leather messenger bag, abandoned for nearly a month, she pulled them out and took them to a spot by the window. She set up her workspace, facing the mirror.