Lost in Love (The Miss Apple Pants series Book 2)

by Charlotte Roth

  “She’s not happy?” His eyes darted up to Mrs. Rockefeller, who had pulled out her lipstick again.

  “She misses her son,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the last syllable.

  “Can’t she just go see him?” Once again, his eyes darted to Mrs. Rockefeller, now applying an extra coat of lipstick.

  “I hope she can soon. We’ll see. Okay, just give Mommy a few more minutes. Okay?”

  He nodded and I stood up and held my phone up. “You want to see?”

  Mrs. Rockefeller took a deep breath and nodded and I stood right next to her.

  “I posted a comment about our new plans to go to Liverpool instead, and Martha wrote a long comment back, of course quoting at least a few Beatles songs.” I looked up at Mom, who was nodding with a knowing smile on her face. “Aaron loved her comment, and my comment, and this is what he wrote back.” I handed her my phone, and for the next couple of minutes, Mom and I watched as she stood still as a Rock, staring at the screen. When she was finally done reading his comment, she looked up at the Lennon painting.

  “His father, Richard, was such a stubborn conservative prick. All he wanted for his son was to play soccer and join the same wrestling team in school that he was once a part of himself. But, poor Aaron, he had no interests in sports whatsoever. All he ever wanted was to act, make music, and sing. Classic father-son complex, I guess. And how he loved to sing and listen to music. He was very inspired by the Beatles, Paul McCartney in particular, as any aspiring singer-songwriter, I reckon. But, of course, Richard was not a big Beatles fan. He didn’t like their long hair, somewhat socialistic world view, and rude remarks about Jesus and religion. He was a Rolling Stones fan, he said, being called The Rock and everything. But looking back now, I’m starting to think it was all an act. He was only pretending not to like them. He was only pretending to like The Rolling Stones instead, just to tick Aaron off. I never heard him play one Rolling Stone song at the house. I don’t think he really cared for anything but classical music. But Aaron, my sweet little sensitive boy, he loved everything music, musicals in particular. In sixth grade he was once cast as John Travolta in Grease, and he ... he loved it, and he was quite good at it. No, he was damn good at it.” She stopped to clear her voice, and I noticed a tear slip down her cheek and settle in the thick coat of lipstick. “But I never told him. I never told him out of my loyalty to Richard.” Her hand flew up to her mouth and for a moment we all just stood there, silence and sadness slowly filling the walls around us. When she finally continued, she made no attempt to hide the tears or anger in her voice. “Richard wanted him to be a real man, which in his narrow-sighted world was a man who had a real job—a lawyer, a doctor, an engineer. Acting was for pussies, not his son.” She pointed up at the painting of Lennon. “John Lennon might not have been around much, but at least he was out chasing his dreams. Richard was home, well, from time to time, but he did everything to show and tell Aaron not to follow his dreams. And I ... I didn’t say anything. We chased him away—from his home, from us ... from me. At one point, he started referring to Richard as sir, and, um, he stopped calling me Mom.” She handed my phone back to me, her eyes clogged with emotions. “Thank you so much for this, Eleanor. I was quite mad with you when I first found out about this, I mean, it was such a naive idea that just because he would see a few pictures of me on Facebook, travelling through Europe, he he... but I-I... This makes me quite happy. It makes me think that maybe, maybe there is a way for us to re-connect. Maybe this is a sign that he wants to see me again. One day.” She closed her eyes and gasped for air.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Rockefeller. Come here.” Mom circled her arms around me and Mrs. Rockefeller and pulled us closer. “He’s right. Lennon was right: all we need is love. The rest is just stuff.”

  Mrs. Rockefeller nodded into my shoulder. “Like my big heavy suitcases,” she said, the beginning of a smile in her voice. “I know what you think about them. Aaron used to joke about it too.”

  “They are a bit much.” I looked past Mrs. Rockefeller’s shoulder at Mom, and we both smiled.

  “Maybe it’s time to let go of the load you’ve been carrying around for so many years now.” Mom took a small step back, her hands slowly letting go of us.

  “We’re not talking about the suitcases anymore, right?” Mrs. Rock asked in a feeble voice.

  Mom shook her head slightly, a smile playing on her lips.

  “I figured.” Mrs. Rockefeller faced me. “I heard Frank and his smart-ass Stonehenge remark. He thinks he’s so funny, huh. Speaking of... If I’m not wrong, but don’t ask me about the mechanics of Facebook, I think someone else has left comments on the bulletin posts as well.” She gestured toward the phone in my hand and continued, “Maybe it was all meant to be—us going to Liverpool, ending up at a Beatles Hotel, of all hotels, singing and quoting lyrics from old Beatles songs. I-I...” She stopped, her eyes darting to Alfred’s and Ava’s little bare feet dangling from under the stroller. “Maybe it was meant to be that I ended up travelling with your amazing family, to get a little dose of love and kindness, to realize how I’ve poisoned my own family. Thank you.” She ran a hand over her face and sniffled. “So, who left a comment?”she asked adopting a lighter tone of voice.

  “Oh.” I swiped the phone open. When I saw who it was and what they both had written, I couldn’t help smiling.

  “It’s Dad and Thomas,” I informed the four nosy eyes staring at me. “And they both say: All you need is love.”

  “Huh,” Mom exclaimed, adding a big, loud yawn. “Clever and wonderful family we all have.”

  “Yes, clever, um fa-fa-family,” Mrs. Rockefeller agreed, clearly overwhelmed by the simple yet complex word family passing her lips.

  “And Thomas has added something weird, as in…” I held up the phone closer to the spotlight and began reading out loud, “‘Send me a postcard, drop me a line. Stating point of view. Indicate precisely what you mean to say’…Not sure what that means.” I looked at Mrs. Rockefeller and Mom for help but they appeared just as baffled as me but then, as it apparently dawned on Mom, she jumped up and down like a toddler, gaining the attention of the two actual toddlers from under the little submarine stroller. “Of course, it’s from the song ‘Sixty-four.’” She sounded all relieved.

  “Sixty-four?”

  “Yeah, you know it … ‘when I get older losing my hair many years from now,’” she started singing, nudging Mrs. Rockefeller. “Come on, you know it.” She looped her arm around Mrs. Rockefeller and together they continued singing even louder, “‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?’”

  When they were done, they both started giggling like a pair of teenage girls. Curious about all the commotion, of course, Ava and Alfred jumped out of the submarine and stared at Mom and Mrs. Rockefeller.

  “Does that mean that you are happy now?” Alfred looked up at Mrs. Rockefeller and, for a moment, she stopped giggling.

  “I guess.” She dragged out the words as her eyes darted to me.

  Happy with her answer, Alfred pulled at my pants and asked another question, “Who’s turning sixty-four? It is another surprise party?” He looked around as if to see if someone was listening.

  “No, it’s just Thomas being a little silly. He sent this song about a man who’s thinking about what will happen when he turns sixty-four and who’s gonna take care of him, like who’ll feed him and push him around in a wheelchair and stuff.”

  “Why?” Again, he pulled at my pants. “Why did he send you the song, Mom?”

  I sat down next to him and pulled him into hug. “I’m not really sure. I guess he just went with the whole sing-Beatles-songs-out-loud theme we seem to have going on these days.”

  Mrs. Rockefeller chuckled and pointed toward the Lennon panting. “Or maybe he went with the whole, ‘all you need is love’ theme that’s going around, too.” She smiled.

  “Or…” Mom’s eyes darted back and forth between me and Mrs. Rockefel
ler. “Or,” she began again, about to burst with excitement, “‘She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah, with a girl like that you know you should be glad.’” She looked at me with moist eyes. “Beatles songs will do this to you.” Her voice was full of sweet memories. “‘Make your heart remember what your head made you forget,’ and I believe that’s a direct quote from an old interview with Paul, about Linda.”

  “What does that even mean, Mrs. Beatles Encyclopedia?”

  “It means that you have to not only fall in love but allow yourself to fall in love.” She looked up at Lennon. “Right, Mr. John Lennon?”

  “Mom?” Alfred crawled up on my knee and wrapped his little arms around my waist.

  “Yes, hun.”

  “I miss Thomas,” he said, loud and clear, which made my heart sink into my stomach. “I miss the way he’s always teaching me new stuff, like when he helped me build the Mickey Boat.”

  “The LEGO one?” I asked, barely able to speak.

  He nodded into my breast.

  “Or he set up the lemonade stand for us. I earned two dollars, did you know, Mommy?”

  I nodded. Of course, I knew. When I had talked with him on the phone that evening, it was all he talked about—that and Thomas’s neighbor’s three-legged dog, Mike.

  “Mom, look at all these coins,” he had said in a high-pitched voice when I came to pick him up just moments later. “My first sa-sa—”

  “—salary,” Thomas had helped him, holding up a Ziploc bag for him to pour them into.

  “We sold—how many was it?” He had looked at Thomas for help.

  “Four cups of lemonade and three cups of Gatorade.”

  “And how many cups did you have?” I had asked Thomas, already knowing the answer.

  “Five, maybe six.” Thomas had rubbed his belly and smiled. “Next time, we’re doing adult beverages,” he had joked, obviously. “On Thursday.”

  “But I don’t have any classes Thursday.” I had picked Alfred up from the floor and placed him on my hip. “This Thursday you’re home with me, buddy.”

  “But I just told him we could have a movie night, that is, if that’s okay with you.” Thomas had looked past me and winked at Alfred. “We’re watching Cars. On my computer. Under the stars outside.”

  “And mac n’ cheese,” Alfred had reminded him.

  “Yes, that too.” Thomas had grabbed onto to Alfred and sent him flying in the air above his head. “And if Mommy behaves, she might be invited.”

  “But you said, ‘no girls allowed,’” Alfred had interjected.

  “Yes, I said ‘no girls’ but your mama is not a girl anymore but a fine lady.” Alfred had then wrinkled up his nose and crossed his arms as if not agreeing with him. In his world, I—the Mom—was clearly not invited to this Cars slash mac n’ cheese night.

  “I miss his gluten-free banana oatmeal cookies,” Alfred announced, pulling me from my thoughts. “He makes the best, right Mom?”

  “He does,” I agreed. I was the one who had shared the recipe with him in the first place, with the words: ‘Make these or I’ll kill you. P.S. I know where you live.’

  He had delivered them the very next day on the doorstep with a card that read: for Miss Celiac.

  “I miss his mac n’ cheese, too,” Alfred continued, “the one from the box. The mac n’ cheese in Germany, in that place, was kinda yucky.”

  “I know. Annie’s is so much better—the one we’re not allowed to keep in the house because of Grandma.”

  “Why is that?” He let go of me and placed his head so close to my face that our noses were almost touching.

  “Because it’s not good for you, according to your hippie Grandparents,” I added with a smile on my face.

  He looked at me like he had to think about that one. “If it makes me happy, how can it not be good for me?” He looked at Ava, who was now standing right next to him, trying to get his full attention.

  “Good question,” I began, but he was already off, running down the hallways with Ava, Mom, and Mrs. Rockefeller at their tails.

  I leaned against the wall and looked up at the opposite wall where the iconic photo of the Fab Four crossing Abbey Road was displayed proudly.

  I grabbed my phone and looked at the recent Facebook post and I noticed that Thomas had added an extra comment:

  P.S. I might need someone to be my eyes and ears by the time I’m sixty-four or push my wheelchair. Just saying… LOL.

  For a moment, I imagined him with salt and pepper hair and wrinkles around his eyes; and me, wearing sensible shoes as I pushed him in a wheelchair, crossing Abbey Road together, and I felt a smile pull at my lips.

  “Mom, how did the rest of the song go?” I asked as she made her way back, carrying Ava and Alfred under each of her skinny arms.

  “‘Sixty-four’”? She dumped Ava and Alfred on the floor and unlocked the yellow submarine.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Let’s see…” She started humming the song and then sang, “‘Give me your answer, fill in a form. Mine for evermore. Will you still need me, will you still feed me? When I’m sixty-four.’”

  ***

  “Eleanor, can I ask you a favor?” Mrs. Rockefeller picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. The morning sun was starting to fill up the fancy breakfast room, and I almost had to shield my eyes from the sun with my hand to look at her.

  “Yes, of course. Shoot.”

  “It’s just, I was thinking that …” She paused, and a sheepish look passed over her perfectly groomed face. “Are you going to update the bulletin board this morning?”

  “Why?” I asked but before she had time to answer, I had already figured out myself, and if not, it was written all over her face.

  “Well, I was just wondering if … to be honest, I’m a bit anxious to see if maybe Aaron would write something back again.” She looked down at her eggs Benedict and I noticed her flushed cheeks. “I know it’s rather silly, and I feel like a little school girl at her first dance but—”

  “—I totally get it. You are not silly at all. I’ll update as soon as I get Alfred some more breakfast and then we’ll see what happens. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good,” she echoed, relief painted on her face.

  “What time is it back home right now?” I looked down at my phone. “So, if we’re seven hours ahead, it’ll be, um—”

  “—eleven p.m.,” Mrs. Rockefeller announced.

  “Wow, good math skills right there. Speaking of math skills, looks like Mom forgot one third of her going-to-the-potty party.” We both looked at Mom and Ava circling the big extravagant buffet. When Mom looked up, I pointed toward the back of the room and mouthed, “Where’s Alfred?”

  “Shit,” I think she mouthed back as she started moving backwards, leaving Ava by the small tower of sweets and Danish.

  “Why do you ask?” Mrs. Rockefeller asked behind my back.

  “What?” I watched Mom and Alfred skip through the back of the dining area, toward Ava who was piling her plate with an abundance of all the stuff she was never allowed in our mostly gluten-free and no processed food slash refined sugar household. When Alfred saw me, he waved.

  “About the time difference?” Mrs. Rockefeller clarified. She grabbed the little China tea pot and poured another cup of tea.

  “Oh, my point is, he might not be online by then, so I wouldn’t expect him to respond, if, that is, he responds.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for starters, you have to be awake to read and write a comment.” I offered her a goofy smile.

  “Oh, of course, how silly of me.” She picked up her knife and fork again and started playing around with the food on her plate. “It’s just … I’m just a little curious. And I’m also a little, how shall I put it, emotional. I think your mom might be right—”

  “—Of course, I’m right.” I looked over my shoulder. Mom was standing right behind me, balancing a cup of coffee and three plates with stacks of pancakes, fruits, eggs, and bacon.
She handed me the cup and one of the plates and passed the rest of the plates to Ava and Alfred, who were eyeing the pancakes impatiently. “What am I right about?” She sat down next to me and looked around the table.

  “I think you’re right about this place—this hotel, with all the memorabilia, pictures, and songs. It’s as if all the Beatles songs are coming back to me like I just listened to them yesterday. Aaron used to listen to them in his room almost every day, you know.” She stopped to clear her throat and placed her hand on top of her chest. “There’s just something about songs. We might forget the places we’ve been or the things we’ve had, but somehow the songs stick with us. Isn’t that weird?”

  “Not weird at all.” Mom sat down her cup and looked at Mrs. Rockefeller. “It’s very common that even in people with memory loss, who can’t remember a lot, actually can remember music and lyrics. They did a study once and found that certain music can trigger particularly unique memories, and that music from a specific time period will trigger memories from that time period.” She picked up a big piece of pancake, dipped it in syrup, and bit into it.

  “So, Aaron wrote what he did, I mean, quoted ‘All you need is love’ because it reminded him of a particular time or feeling in the past?” Mrs. Rockefeller cocked her head to one side and looked at Mom, still stuffing her mouth.

  “It might,” Mom confirmed around her pancake. “He might have a fond memory from when he listened to it for the first time, or maybe he was just thinking about love when he saw you in a Beatles hotel.”

  Mrs. Rockefeller leaned back in her chair. “Oh,” she whispered, not able to hide the beginning of a smile in her voice.

  “And the same goes for Thomas quoting ‘Sixty-Four’?” I grabbed my coffee cup and leaned back in my chair.

  “Of course.” Mom grabbed another piece of pancake and pointed it at me. “It’s one of Martha and Frederick’s songs. Martha once told me that she played it on Frederick’s birthday party when he turned—”

  “—sixty-four,” Mom and I said at the same time.