by Luanne Rice
Turning back to his job, Dylan looked for the old tree’s first scaffold whorl, then set his ladder, climbed it, and went to work on the light slot—a place where branches were pruned to allow light to reach all lower leaves and fruit.
Late March was prime pruning time—the dormant season, after the last severe freeze and before the start of new growth, time to remove all dead and diseased wood, all dried apples, time to clear the light slots on as many trees as he could get to. Dylan often worked from first light till last—sometimes till just after dark, when the moon was full—trying to bring the orchard back to what it once had been.
The dormant season. When things sleep. Sometimes they slept just until the spring thaw, when the sap started running again; sometimes they slept much longer.
Balancing on the ladder, trying to ignore the way his leg throbbed and was numb at the same time, Dylan reached for his pruning saw. He thought back to when he was a boy, out here with his father: It might have been this very tree.
“Follow the rule of thirds,” his father would say. “Remove about a third of the excess limbs each year for three years. It took the tree more than one year to become overgrown. It will take more than one year to correct.” The lessons were good, and came between swigs from a jug of hard cider.
It was from his father that Dylan had learned about pruning during the dormant season.
The train whistle had jarred Dylan awake today, this chilly March day with the first hint of springtime sunshine. The sound was distant now, the train probably pulling into the Twin Rivers station. He wondered who would be getting on, who would be getting off. There were probably families reuniting, even now.
Some families. Lucky ones. Others weren’t so lucky.
The dormant season.
Jane Porter rode the train, her forehead pressed to the window. The landscape was bone-familiar to her. She knew these rolling hills and open meadows the way she knew her own breath. There were too many new houses, too many trees cut down, but she looked past that to the wild acres, the apple orchards, the gnarled old trees with their branches turning pink for spring.
Leaving New York, she had felt detached about this trip. She didn’t like to fly, so she took the subway from her Chelsea apartment to Penn Station, then climbed aboard Amtrak for the pleasant ride along the Connecticut shoreline to central Rhode Island. Part of her hoped that she would just go home, help Sylvie get their mother into the nursing home, and leave as soon as possible. That part of her hoped she’d just take care of business, then leave.
The other part of her, the part that had hung the “Gone Fishing” sign on her bakery door, helped her assistant find a new job, and left a message forwarding her customers to a friendly competitor, knew that wasn’t possible.
Didn’t the sages say, “You can’t go home again”? Jane had grown up in the country, back when Twin Rivers was rural, before the malls and all the new houses, and she had watched the birds build nests. She would climb the trees, to count the eggs, and she would watch the babies hatch, then fledge, and then finally fly away.
“Why don’t they come back?” she remembered crying to her mother, inconsolable because the three baby robins that had hatched in May had disappeared by June.
“It’s the way of the world,” her mother had said, hugging her. “Baby birds learn to fly, and they go off to dig their own earthworms and lay their own eggs. Just like human babies—you’ll see.”
“I’ll never go away,” Jane had promised that day.
“You will,” her mother had said. “Just the way you’re supposed to.”
Jane had shaken her head, stubborn about her mother’s words the way she was about everything.
“Station stop Twin Rivers,” the conductor called through the train. “Twin Rivers, forward end of the car. Watch your step getting off the train, and thank you for riding Amtrak.”
Jane stood by her seat, pulling her bag down from the overhead rack. Then, carefully, she reached for the big cake box. Stiff from the ride, she slung her knapsack over one shoulder and began to make her way toward the front of the car. When the conductor offered to help her, she shook her head. She was too independent for that; let him help someone who needed it.
At the train door, she shielded her eyes, looking up and down the platform. A few people were here to meet the train; she saw Sylvie right away. Emotion seized her heart. Her little sister.
Jane hadn’t seen Sylvie in two years, and she looked exactly the same: blond, radiant, as gorgeous as a movie star. But of course Sylvie didn’t know it, and still dressed like a Depression-era waif in her long floral dress and blue wool coat.
Coming forward, Sylvie waited at the bottom of the train stairs. Jane dropped her knapsack and gently lowered the cake box, then threw both arms around her sister. Sylvie’s hair smelled like orange blossoms. She was blushing, and her cheeks were wet. So were Jane’s. They both surreptitiously wiped their tears on each other’s shoulders, then raised their faces, dry-eyed.
“Your train was late,” Sylvie said, making it sound more like conversation than accusation.
“I know. Sorry.”
“Did you have a good trip?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“What’s this outfit?” Sylvie asked, smiling slightly, plucking Jane’s black leather sleeve.
“Um, my jacket?”
“You want to look like one of the kids? Or are you trying to be tough?” Sylvie asked, smiling to take the sting out of her words. It was a Porter family tradition.
Jane smiled back, holding off on her response: “You want to look like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm till you’re forty?” Instead she picked up her bag and the cake box; Sylvie didn’t make a move to take either of them from her. They headed toward the parking lot, and Jane asked, “How’s Mom?”
Sylvie’s smile evaporated. “Not very good,” she said. “She had that fall, and she really gashed her leg. With her diabetes, there’s always an increased risk of infection. Plus, the doctor who stitched her up commented about all her bruises.”
“Maybe he’ll report you to the state.”
“That’s not funny, Jane!”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Jane said quickly, but Sylvie’s cheeks and lips were tight with hurt. “I know you take great care of her.”
“I gave up my career to do it.”
Jane nodded. No comment, she thought. Instead, she said, “I was just kidding. It was stupid. Let’s not fight.”
“We’re not even in the car yet,” Sylvie said. “It starts the minute you get home.”
“I know,” Jane said, feeling tension pop between her shoulder blades. “I’m really sorry.”
Sylvie nodded. She opened the hatchback, and Jane threw her bag inside but held on to the cake box. They both reached up to close the door, and Jane saw their hands together, side by side: They were the exact same size and shape. Sisters’ hands. She wanted to hug Sylvie again, and never let her go. Living in the city, she missed having relatives nearby. She missed having the blood connection of family. More than anything, she missed her sister.
“Be careful with Mom,” Sylvie said warningly. “Don’t go seeking out the past or anything, okay? She can’t take much upset.”
“I won’t upset her,” Jane said.
“Good. Because she can’t take it.”
“Fine.”
“I suppose there’s a cake in that box,” Sylvie said, casting a glance down at Jane’s lap.
“Yes.”
“Did you forget she’s diabetic?”
Jane didn’t reply. Her earliest memories included seeing her mother inject herself with insulin. She also remembered her mother having the occasional cookie, piece of pie, slice of cake. Not often, but sometimes. “I wanted to bring her something. It’s the only thing I knew to make . . .”
“She’s very forgetful—she’d never take her insulin if I didn’t give it to her. Her feet are in bad shape. And she wobbles. That’s how she got the bruises. She’s going downhill, Ja
ne . . .” Sylvie’s voice caught.
“We’ll figure it out, Syl,” Jane said. She looked her sister deep in the eyes. The connection was ancient and didn’t really need words. In fact, words got in the way. So soundlessly, without any more speaking, they got into the car. Sylvie adjusted the radio to something classical. Jane tuned it out, turning her face to the window and holding the white cake box on her lap.
She scanned the windows of houses and cars, the faces of people on the street. She couldn’t help herself. Ten minutes in Twin Rivers, and already she was doing something Sylvie wouldn’t approve of. Jane wasn’t sure exactly where to look, but she was seeking out the past.
If Sylvie would let her borrow the car, she’d drive to Crofton tomorrow.
CHAPTER 2
Margaret sat up in bed, the white wicker tray over her legs, staring down at the most exquisite cake she had ever seen.
“It’s too busy to eat,” she said, hands held together prayerfully.
“Pretty,” Sylvie corrected.
“Yes,” Margaret said, staring down at it. The cake looked like a bird’s nest. Brown twigs and grasses woven together, spun-sugar sticks protruding from the sides and top—and three blue eggs resting inside. “A robin’s nest.” She looked up at Jane. “And you carried it all the way from New York?”
Jane nodded. She looked thin. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her hair was straight, cut just above her shoulders. It was almost black, the color of the darkest twigs in the bird’s nest. Beside her, Sylvie’s blond hair gleamed.
“I can’t believe you baked it,” Margaret said. She poked her finger into the side, truly expecting to find scratchy dry grass, but instead finding soft frosting and cake. She was about to lick it off, when Sylvie attacked her with a tissue.
“Sylvie!”
“Your sugar is high today, Mom,” Sylvie said, wiping her finger clean. “Just enjoy the sight of it, okay?”
“Who wants to look at a cake?” Margaret asked, hurt and embarrassed, turning her eyes to Jane. “Why did you bother making me a cake at all, if you knew I couldn’t eat it?”
“I thought one slice would be okay,” Jane said.
A family powwow ensued without words. Glances between the girls, a pleading smile on Margaret’s lips, a shrug of Sylvie’s shoulders.
“One slice,” Sylvie said. “Thin.”
Jane did the honors. Using the sterling silver cake server, a filigreed reminder of Margaret’s wedding to their father, she expertly sliced off a pamphlet-sized piece onto a plate. Then she cut bigger pieces for herself and her sister, making sure to give Sylvie one of the blue eggs. “Two-day-old cake is good for one thing,” Jane said, grinning. “It’s much easier to slice.”
“Mmm,” Margaret said, letting the icing melt on her tongue. “This is delicious.”
“It is,” Sylvie agreed.
Jane smiled, pleased. The three of them ate in silence. Margaret hadn’t had a treat like this in so long.
“I have a question,” Margaret began. “Why are there three eggs?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said. “I guess I was thinking about migrating . . . about flying far away, and then coming home. Like birds.”
“Two would make more sense. One for you, one for Sylvie. My baby chicks.”
“Chicks,” Sylvie said, giving her sister a smile. “Mom’s calling us chicks. Remember when she used to call us ‘chiclets’?”
“But why three eggs?” Margaret asked, something pressing on her mind, teasing a question she wasn’t sure why she was asking. “When I have just two daughters.”
“One for Jane, one for me, and one for you,” Sylvie tried.
“For composition, I guess,” Jane said.
“Yes,” Sylvie agreed. “It’s very artistic.”
“Or one for the lost baby,” Margaret said.
Jane didn’t say anything. She neither raised her eyes nor stopped eating her cake. Margaret watched her thoughtfully collect yellow crumbs with the edge of her fork, lift them to her mouth.
“See what’s happened?” Sylvie asked accusingly. “The sugar’s too much for her.” She took Margaret’s clean plate out of her hand and set it down on the bureau with a noisy clatter. Then she went directly to the chest of drawers converted into sickroom use, rummaged inside for the test kit.
“I do feel a bit woozy,” Margaret said, glad to be resting on a pile of pillows. They were down-filled, soft as clouds, covered with white eyelet pillowcases. Sylvie knew that Margaret adored white bedding, and she indulged her mother’s preference. Margaret sighed, feeling the room spin. She knew it had less to do with the sugar than with the tension she felt between her girls.
“Mom,” Jane said, putting down her plate and holding Margaret’s hand.
“Excuse me,” Sylvie said, bumping her aside to poke Margaret with the Insta-Test lancet.
Margaret closed her eyes. Why had she even asked that question? Where had it come from, anyway? She had two daughters—all she had ever wanted. She had a picture of herself at ten, with Lolly, her beloved baby doll. Her parents had taken her on a picnic to Watch Hill. They had ridden the carousel, played in the waves, had lemon ice. And then a thunderstorm had arisen, and her parents had hustled her into the car so fast, she’d left Lolly lying there, on a bench in the rain.
“I left her behind,” Margaret said, trembling.
“Who, Mom?” Jane asked, still holding her hand.
“Lolly. My doll. Can you find her for me?”
“Your lost baby?” Jane asked sadly.
“Stop that,” Sylvie said.
“Sure,” Jane said. “I’ll find her for you.”
“She should have a piece of the cake,” Margaret said, smiling.
“She certainly should,” Jane said.
“Look,” Sylvie said, proffering the instant digital test. “Two forty-one. Too high. I’m glad we all had a piece of cake, but now I think it’s time to go back on the diet, right?”
“Definitely,” Jane said. She squeezed Margaret’s hand, then stood up, stretching. Her shirt untucked from her black jeans, showing a strip of her stomach. Margaret reached out to give it a tickle, and Jane smiled.
“I used to do that when you were a baby,” Margaret said.
Jane nodded. Their eyes locked, and Margaret had the wild sensation of spinning back through time, to when Jane was first born . . . an infant, a baby doll come to life. Margaret had held her in her arms, every chance she got. She had never wanted to put her down. Looking into Jane’s deep blue eyes, Margaret swore she saw all the wisdom of all the women of the ages. No baby had ever had such a clear, cool gaze. And Jane had it now, still. . . .
“You’re an old soul,” Margaret said.
“I am?”
Margaret nodded. Staring into her elder daughter’s eyes, she felt the world turning. Sylvie didn’t say anything, but Margaret could feel her watching. Her girls were lovely—smart and successful. But they could be so insecure.
Margaret took the blame. She knew there were ways in which she had shortchanged her children. First of all, by her choice in a husband. Their father had been . . . an inadequate man. A traveling salesman, a handsome charmer, he had come and gone at will. Mostly gone. Early on, Margaret had realized she would have to work to support the family. A Salve Regina graduate, she had gone back to the Sisters and asked for guidance. They had suggested she become a teacher, get her master’s degree while working part time, perhaps at a local school.
Margaret had done just that. She had enrolled in the University of Rhode Island’s graduate school while working at Audubon Elementary as a substitute teacher. Her mother, thank God, had lived close by, and the girls would spend afternoons at their grandmother’s house. What Margaret would have done without her mother, she had no idea. . . .
The girls had had a fine life; that was certain. Their father left for good when Jane was eleven and Sylvie was nine. Margaret knew the scars his leaving had caused—but surely they were no worse than those
inflicted by the years of his staying. His drinking, womanizing, disappearing; all the fights between him and Margaret; all the times they had had to comfort their mother while she cried.
Margaret consoled herself by knowing her daughters had received boundless love from Margaret and her mother . . . and they had excelled in school and at everything they did. Jane’s sudden wildness had surprised them all.
Now, gazing into Jane’s blue eyes, Margaret wondered about the things they had seen. Manhattan seemed a million miles away, such a wild choice for the little girl who had loved birds and nature so. . . .
“Where have you been, my love?” Margaret heard herself asking.
“Living my life,” Jane said softly.
Sylvie exhaled.
“But you’re home now,” Margaret said.
“Yes, I am,” Jane said.
That seemed to be all there was to say. No one spoke again. Margaret felt content. She closed her eyes, still tasting the sugar in the corners of her mouth, thinking of Lolly. She had loved that doll. No one would ever know how much she’d missed her. Oh, how she had cried that first night. . . .
“Can I borrow the car?” Jane asked.
Sylvie stood at the sink, washing the cake plates. She had filled the sink with sudsy water, and she was up to her elbows in it.
“I’m not sure you’re on the insurance,” Sylvie said.
“The insurance?”
“It’s in Mom’s name.”
“But you get to drive it?”
“Yes, because I live in the same house.”
“Well,” Jane said, smiling, “I still have a room here. For all the insurance company knows, I could be moving back home. I guess, if we had to, we could say that I live here, too. What happened to your car?”
“I sold it,” Sylvie said, handing Jane a plate to dry. “When I went on leave from the library, I knew I had to tighten my belt.”
“You loved that car,” Jane said. For a Christmas card three years ago, her sister had sent out pictures of herself at the wheel of an old green MGB with the top down, a red Santa’s hat on her head.
