Luscious Lemon

by Heather Swain

  We lie and cry together, twisted up, all arms and legs. Every ridge and bump of his body familiar against mine, and welcome. Fitting together, my hip, his waist, shoulder to shoulder, elbows wrapped. Eventually, we calm down. Our tears dry salty on our faces, and we are shy with one another, but we don’t let go. I rest against his chest. Breathe him in. Inhale his scent. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. I could drift away in this position and sleep for days.

  “What’d you think they’ll name it?” Eddie whispers in my hair.

  “Who?” I ask dreamily.

  “Trina and Chuck,” he says. “What do you think they’ll name the kid?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t really care.”

  “Nicotina?” he says cattily.

  I laugh, an unexpected giggle. He laughs, too.

  “Sorry,” Eddie says. “I’m not helping, am I?”

  “Actually, it’s nice.” I rub my hand against his bare forearm. I’ve missed this arm. All the curly hair from the wrist to the elbow. “I thought I was only one who had those kinds of small-minded, petty thoughts.”

  He looks at me and smirks. “I’m a pretty small-minded, petty bastard myself.”

  “That’s why I like you,” I tell him. He chuckles and pulls me into a hug. We are happy in our meanness. “But I feel kind of bad,” I admit. “I always thought I’d be a bigger person about something like this.”

  “You expect too much from yourself,” says Eddie. “We’re going to be pissed off and sad for a while. That’s okay.”

  “Are you?”

  “Pissed off and sad?”

  I nod.

  “Of course,” he says.

  “You haven’t acted like it.”

  He lays his chin on top of my head, and I bury my face into his shirt. “I was trying to be strong for you,” he tells me.

  “That’s not what I need from you.”

  “What do you need, Lemon?”

  I nuzzle his neck and let my cheek rest against his grizzly face. “Just you,” I say.

  He scoots my body closer into the folds of his. It’s the first time I’ve welcomed Eddie so close to me in weeks. Now I realize how much I’ve missed his skin, his warmth, his smell.

  “Why do you think we lost it?” he whispers to me. He bites his lip and waits for my answer. I see the uncertainty in his face. I’m sure he’s afraid of upsetting me again. But I want to meet him here, straight on, so we can finally look at this thing that’s happened to us rather than constantly skirting it, as if it will shrivel up and go away.

  “The doctor said it was probably some chromosomal problem with the fetus,” I tell him slowly, unsure how he’ll react. “Probably Down syndrome.”

  “Jesus,” says Eddie. “How could that have happened?”

  “Happens a lot, I guess.”

  We’re quiet for a while. Both of us digesting the reality of what we lost and how it affected us. Then Eddie says, “Maybe we were lucky.”

  “What was lucky about it?” I hear the edge of anger in my voice.

  “I don’t know that we were ready to have a kid like that. We’d have to give up a lot.”

  “I would have loved that baby regardless.”

  “Maybe it’s lucky that you didn’t have to.”

  These are the words of someone who’s never known bad luck, but maybe he’s right. Maybe I am lucky. I can’t help but wonder, though, if luck evens out. Maybe I lost this baby as karmic retribution for having it too easy lately. For having Eddie in my life, for having been at the right place at the right time to start Lemon.

  Who do I think I am to evade bad luck anyway? How very middle-class of me. Dead parents, and I think I’m off scot-free. What about the chronically unlucky? The stupid, ugly, poor people? The homeless? The insane? Ride the subway for five minutes, and you’ll spot them. They ride with looks of regret etched onto their faces. They shuffle in and out of the cars. They rock with the rhythm of the train. They never put up a fight. They sit on their fat haunches and wait for the day to end.

  Am I on a run of bad luck? Has it streaked me like a skunk? Is it something that suddenly befalls a person? One minute you’re on top of the world, fated for a better life, a higher calling, a bigger cut of the pie. The next minute you’re plunging over the side of a bridge toward an icy river or crawling on your hands and knees to the toilet, losing the baby that you thought would be in your life forever.

  “Well, no matter what you think,” Eddie says to me, “I know that I’m lucky to have you.”

  “You sure you still feel that way?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says and kisses me. “I’ve never doubted it for a second.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Seven

  I stay away from my grandmother’s house the next day. I know each of my aunts will be by to tell their version of Trina’s daughter’s birth. The story will be repeated over and over again until every detail has been formed into some coherent piece of family lore. And somewhere in there will be a footnote about how poor Lemon had a miscarriage and cracked up at Trina’s shower, then had to stay away.

  In the morning, after Eddie leaves, I realize that I’m sick of wandering around in my ratty sweatshirt and cargo pants, eating bright orange Cheeze Doodles from the bag. I don’t even have Livinia and my crochet hook to distract me. I want to do something today. I want to make something. I want to cook.

  The cupboards are as bare as the fridge. We’ve got exactly one brown banana and two slices of moldy bread plus some condiments that are just crusty layers around the rims. I shower before three o’clock for the first time in weeks, put on clean clothes, throw all my dirties in the laundry basket, and leave the apartment in search of inspiration.

  I’ve never shopped in Park Slope for groceries. I’m looking for simple ingredients, good organic produce, fresh mozzarella, decent cuts of meat, some herbs. I find what I need at a good cheese shop on Union Street, a couple of Italian delis, a little butcher, and by browsing through the bodegas and organic markets. I come home with sacks stuffed with the makings for a feast that Poppy would have loved.

  As I’m mincing garlic in the kitchen, the phone rings. I’m distracted, so I answer, forgetting that I don’t want to talk to anyone, until I hear a familiar southern voice say, “Well, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re home!”

  I cringe. “Oh, hi, ’Scilla.” I drop my knife on the counter and begin to pace, looking for an out. “Actually, I’m just on my way…” Where? Where could I go?

  “Lemon, dear, I’ve been trying to find you for weeks now. Didn’t Eddie tell you?”

  “Well, we’ve been sort of, you know…” I could fake the door buzzer ringing or tell her I have a doctor’s appointment.

  “Honey, I’ve been so worried about you. Just thinking of you all time. This whole thing has put me in a state. An absolute state. I had to take to my bed.”

  Of course, this conversation has to be about her. Well, I’m not going to apologize for ruining her luncheon schedule with my ill-timed miscarriage. “Listen,” I say firmly. “I’ve got to be at—”

  “Honey, what you’ve been going through is pure hell,” she says, and I wonder what makes her think she’d know. “And I’m sure Eddie has been no help at all. God love him. I know he tries, but men, darling, believe me, men are not capable of understanding what it means to lose a baby like that.”

  “Oh,” I say and shut up. ’Scilla is the first person to come out and confirm that I did in fact lose a baby. A baby that I may have never seen or held alive, but a baby in my mind, in my body. I drop down into a kitchen chair.

  “Pregnancy’s a funny thing for men,” ’Scilla says. “When they’re not lusting over your ever-expanding bosoms, as if it’s all for them, they’re turning into Mr. Safety, pecking around for any ounce of control they can find in the situation. Bucky was awful. Just awful. Always telling me to sit down, drink water, hold onto handrails, as if I was some kind of moron who would tumble blindfolded and dehydrated do
wn a flight of stairs.”

  I snort a little laugh, thinking of Bucky trying to boss ’Scilla around. I’m sure he had no more luck than Eddie does with me. I dab my finger over toast crumbs on the tablecloth as ’Scilla keeps on yammering.

  “Oh, but they’re sweet,” she says with a sigh. “And how are you, darling? How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay,” I tell her. I make a little pile of the crumbs in front of me.

  “Well, I don’t know that I believe that, Lemon.”

  “Why?” I ask defensively. “What’d Eddie tell you?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “That’s the problem. He says you’re fine, too. But you went through something tough. Takes a lot of time to start feeling better. And you don’t need to rush yourself for anybody’s sake. Certainly not my son’s. He needs to be taking care of you right now.”

  “He’s trying,” I say. “It’s just that—” I stop. I’m not sure what I want to say, or if I want to say it to ’Scilla.

  “What, hon? It’s just that what?”

  I add more crumbs to my pile while I search for words.

  “Listen, I’m not trying to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything,” she says. “You have your whole family to listen and support you.”

  “They don’t really understand,” I say, and am surprised that I’ve admitted it. “Even though they’re very sweet, and they really try.”

  “Sometimes that’s the way it is. The people you think are going to be the most helpful just aren’t, for whatever reason. Either they’re too caught up in their own lives, or they only tell you how to get over it.”

  “That’s just it!” I say to her and scatter the crumbs across the table again. “Everyone wants me to be all better now, but I can’t seem to get over it. Sometimes I’ll feel okay. I’ll almost forget for a while. I’ll feel like me again. And then it’ll hit me, like a sucker punch in the gut, and I’ll remember.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “This isn’t something you get over. It’s just something you get through, and then you carry it around with you for the rest of your life. It’s part of your story now. Part of your history. It’ll always, always hurt. Just not quite as bad someday.”

  We both sit silently and breathe together. I am grateful for this covenant. For this unexpected moment of understanding and connection from so far away. She’s the only person who’s said anything that’s made sense to me lately.

  “ ’Scilla?” I ask her after some time. “Did you lose one, too?”

  She’s quiet, then she says, “The past was a long time ago, honey. And we’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I know from the sound of her voice that she’s been in this exact same position.

  “Me, too,” she says. “I’m sorry, too. But let me tell you something. Someday you will have a child, and when you hold that baby for the very first time, all this sadness will shrink down to an itty-bitty pea.”

  Then the door buzzer really does ring. It startles me out of my chair. “ ’Scilla, I’m sorry, but someone is at my door. Can you hang on?”

  “Oh, well, I should be letting you go anyway. I know you have things to do.”

  “I’m really glad that we talked,” I tell her. I walk to the front of the apartment and peek out the window. I can’t make out who’s on the stoop. I think it’s a woman with dark hair, but not one of my aunts. They almost always travel in a pack. Maybe it’s a Jehovah’s Witness. “You’ve been incredibly helpful,” I say. The buzzer rings again.

  “Any time, darling. Any time at all. You just call me up, and we’ll have ourselves a little chat.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You take care of yourself, now.”

  I hang up the phone and push the intercom for the door. “Who is it?” I ask warily.

  “Hello, Lemon? This is Makiko.”

  “Makiko!” I nearly yell into the intercom. “When did you get back? Come on up!” I jab my finger against the button, then yank open the door and scurry down the stairs to greet her.

  We meet on the second landing. Makiko looks great in a little vintage plaid swing coat and red woolly scarf around her neck. I open my arms and hug her. She’s stiff but allows this outpouring of American affection to be visited on her.

  “Sorry to barge in,” she says. “I should’ve call you first, but I couldn’t find your phone number.”

  “Shut up,” I tell her. “It’s great to see you. I’m glad you came. Come upstairs.”

  “I won’t stay long. I wanted to bring you some omiyage from my trip to Japan.” She holds up a big box by a string handle.

  “You didn’t have to bring me anything,” I say, but of course I’m dying to know what it is. “Come up and have some tea so we can talk. I want to hear all about your trip.”

  “It smells so good in here,” Makiko says when we walk into my apartment. “What’re you cooking?”

  “Just some old recipe for cannelloni with artichokes that Little Great-Aunt Poppy taught me.”

  “You have to teach me some good American home cooking,” Makiko says.

  “I’ll teach you some if you teach me how to cook Japanese food.” I take her coat and toss it over one of the chairs in the living room. I glance around and see how unkempt the place is. Magazines and newspapers slump off the coffee table onto the floor. Empty mugs and crumby plates cover the end tables. My shoes are kicked off and abandoned in random places around the room. For the first time in weeks, the disarray annoys me. “Sorry for the mess.”

  “Your apartment is nice,” she says. “Homey. Cozy.”

  “You mean messy and filthy,” I say and laugh.

  In the kitchen she sets the brown box in the center of the kitchen table while I heat up water and slice an apple and some cheese.

  “Was your trip home okay?” I ask.

  “It was fine. Very busy. Too many people to see. I’m tired now.”

  “Was your family sad to see you leave again?”

  “Yes, it’s very hard on my mother. She’s so old-fashioned. I’m an only child. And not married. Such a disgrace,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Not a good Japanese daughter.”

  I bring the tea and food to the table on a tray. “Did you see old friends?”

  “Not really. I lost touch mostly. They think I’m strange for leaving Japan and moving to New York. But I was always a little different from everyone else, so I don’t mind.”

  “I know what you mean.” I pour Makiko a cup of tea. “I don’t have any friends from my neighborhood anymore, either.”

  “But it’s important for me to go back,” Makiko says.

  “For your mom?”

  “Yes,” she says, then pauses. She stares down into her tea, lets the steam tendrils curl around her face. “And another reason.” She looks up at me. “I want to give you this.” She pushes the box toward me.

  I lift it off the table and onto my lap. It’s heavy, probably ten or fifteen pounds, and solid. “What is it?” I ask.

  “Please open it,” she says.

  I grab a knife off the counter and cut through the string binding the box closed, then through the tape holding the flaps together. I pull out handfuls of shredded newspaper and Styrofoam packing peanuts, then dip my hands inside and pull out a small stone statue. It’s about a foot tall, with a placid face and arms down against its body. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I say, “It’s lovely, Makiko. Thank you.”

  “This is a mizuko jizo,” she tells me. “A water baby statue. Many people have these in Japan. We put them at the temple and visit them often.” She looks down at her tea again and bites her lip. “I have one in Sawara, where I’m from. I went to visit it while I was home.”

  “Does it bring you good luck or something?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and is quiet, as if she’s trying to figure out how to explain it to me. Then she takes a breath and says, “We think that when a baby dies, it’s too young to h
ave a soul, and so it gets stranded on the banks of the river that separates life and death. So we have these statues to remember the babies and to try to make them feel better.”

  I look down into the tiny expressionless face on the statue. Where is my baby now? I imagine her by a river, peering into the water at her reflection. Would my mother look up from beneath the cloudy surface and find her?

  “We have these for many reasons,” Makiko continues. “Maybe an infant dies too soon. Maybe some women are like you and lose the baby before it’s born. Or maybe…” Her voice falters. She clears her throat and tries again. “Like me, they decided not to have a baby, and they feel guilty.”

  I look up at her suddenly. “You mean an abortion?”

  “I’m sorry if this makes you angry,” she says. “Maybe you feel like it’s unfair of me to compare my situation with yours.”

  I reach across the table and lay my hand against hers. “I don’t think that, Makiko. I thought I was pregnant once before when I was twenty. If I had been, there’s no way I would’ve kept it.” I shake my head at the memory. I was so immature then, and such an asshole to Franny.

  Makiko watches me for a moment, then she says slowly. “I was seventeen.”

  “You were so young.”

  “My boyfriend wanted me to have it. He wanted to get married. A lot of girls in my town got married young. But I didn’t want that. I knew I wanted to leave.”

  “Did your family know?”

  She nods. “I told my mother. She was devastated, but she helped me. I don’t think she ever forgave me, though. To her, having a child anytime would be a wonderful thing, because she never wanted anything else in her life.”

  Makiko’s words make me think of my own mother and everything she wanted in her life. All these years, I’ve questioned whether I was one of those things. Looking back, though, I realize how much she had loved me. How hard it was for her to leave me each time they went on the road. The sad smile on her face as I looked out the window, waving to them. Now, I’m glad that she got to do what she wanted. Her life was so short. She deserved to make herself happy.

  I’ve spent my life expecting some kind of payback for losing my parents. Now, as I listen to Makiko’s story, I understand that sorrow is a part of life. Rather than letting injustices weigh me down, like carrying around little stone statues in my heart, I could let them create some space, open me up, and become as empathetic and magnanimous as Makiko has been for me.