Memory Tree

by Pittman, Joseph

  They exchanged a quick look, one understood by best friends.

  He was missing Annie Sullivan. So too was Cynthia, and in more ways than one.

  “She’s here,” Cynthia silently mouthed, gazing about the farmhouse.

  He offered her a smile before saying, “So shall we get this celebration started?”

  “I have just one question,” Janey asked.

  “What’s that, sweetie?” Brian asked.

  “Well, I mean the holidays are here, but we haven’t had any snow yet and so it doesn’t feel right. It’s not even that cold outside. During the parade on television this morning, even Santa Claus looked warm in his red suit. How can his sleigh even land when there’s no snow?”

  There came a couple of genial chuckles from the elder folks. Janey wasn’t arguing the logistics, just indulging the fantasy that all children embraced at this time of year. Christmas had to be just perfect, from the tree to the gifts to the setting. And if one knew anything about Janey Sullivan, one knew she was expecting an answer.

  “That’s why they call it the Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street,” Brian told her.

  That got an even bigger laugh, until Janey, unaffected by the amusement around her, said, “I sure hope your cooking is better than your humor.”

  That got the biggest laugh of all from the group. Suddenly the festive celebration began in earnest, even with no snow falling and no cold wind, no fireplace blazing to warm their hearts. Cynthia realized that the warmth filling the farmhouse had nothing to do with the weather.

  How she was going to miss Linden Corners.

  “I’m stuffed.”

  “Couldn’t eat another thing.”

  “The turkey turned out great, Brian, very moist.”

  “I could take a nap.”

  “That’s from the tryptophan,” Janey stated, staring across the table at Thomas.

  “No, I need a nap because I’m old,” he replied. “If you’ll excuse me for a bit, it’s been a lovely meal.”

  Thomas wasn’t kidding, as he shuffled his way from the dinner table to retire to his chair in the living room. Jake was resting near there too, thankfully, which had allowed Cynthia to enjoy her meal. Which she had, as evidenced by her near-spotless plate. She’d even splurged on seconds, thirds for her beets. Most had skipped them, but it was a favorite recipe of hers, the vegetables straight from her garden. She wouldn’t have that next year, she doubted she’d have the chance to even plant seeds. Life would take a while to regrow. As young and old alike refreshed themselves, she rose from the table, started to take plates in her hands.

  “Cyn, you don’t have to do that . . .”

  “Relax, Brian. You cooked; I’ll clean.”

  “You cooked too,” he reminded her.

  “Shush yourself, Brian Duncan,” Gerta told him. “Me, Nora, and Cynthia will clear the table and get dessert ready. You menfolk can watch football or whatever it is you do.”

  “How’d I get dragged into cleaning?” Nora protested.

  “And what should I do?” Janey asked.

  “You go have fun until dessert is ready. We’ll call you.”

  “And then before we cut the pie, we play my Thanksgiving game, right?”

  “Ugh,” Travis said with a roll of the eyes.

  “What’s that?” Nicholas asked.

  “Oh, it’s a tradition I learned two years ago at Brian’s parents’ house, where we go around the table and everyone gets to say what they’re most thankful for.”

  “Sounds perfect. I know I’m thankful for much,” Nicholas said.

  Cynthia noticed he was staring at Nora when he said those words. A wineglass, tipped to her lips, hid Nora’s nervous smile, making Cynthia wonder if there was trouble between them. Nora was a cautious, reserved woman by nature, and it had been surprising for them all to watch the effortless charms of Nicholas Casey steadily win her over this year.

  But Janey’s game of thanks would have to wait for Gerta’s famous pies to be set out. For now, Janey and Travis went outside into the falling light of the day if for nothing else than to escape all those adults, while the men—Bradley, Brian, and Nicholas—dodged KP duty. So the kitchen was full with Gerta, fussing with the six freshly baked pies she’d brought over, and Nora, pouring herself a fresh glass of wine, keeping Cynthia company as she attacked the dishes like a woman on a mission. A plate went crashing into the sink, the sound unmistakable. She’d broken it.

  “Whoa, Cyn, you all right?” Nora asked.

  “It slipped from my hands,” she said, again her voice betraying her. It seemed everything that came out of her mouth sounded unconvincing, not least during dinner, when Janey, sitting beside her, had told her how happy she was that the Knights were with them today, her especially. Cynthia knew that Janey missed her mother, Annie, every day and every starlit night, and while Cynthia had tried to be there for her best friend’s impressionable daughter, she feared that since Jake’s birth she’d been less attentive to Janey’s needs. The rest of the meal had lingered, which had Cynthia feeling like she had a hole in her stomach; perhaps that was why she’d eaten so much, a poor attempt at filling it. She allowed herself a rueful smile at her own joke, knowing the emptiness she felt stemmed from what was still to come, not just today but in the coming weeks.

  “Here, I think you need this more than I do,” Nora said, handing over a glass of red wine while taking over before the sink.

  Cynthia accepted the glass, took a sip before setting it down.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she feeling so guilty about her choices?

  And besides, it wasn’t just about her, but about Bradley and Jake as well. Their family.

  Change was unavoidable; it was coming as sure as tomorrow was.

  The scent of baked goodness stirred her from her inner turmoil. Just then she saw Gerta peeling the tinfoil off her signature strawberry pie, its fragrant smell filling the kitchen. She realized that as much as life changed with each rising sun, there were moments in time, slices of life, that were just like Gerta’s pies—unforgettable. Cynthia made her way over to Gerta and gave her a sweet hug.

  “My goodness, dear, not that I’m complaining, but—”

  “That’s it,” Nora said, tossing down a wet dishcloth onto the counter. “Cynthia Knight, tell us right now what’s going on.”

  “I . . . I . . . can you wait a few minutes? Bradley has an announcement.”

  “That sounds . . . ominous.”

  Cynthia grabbed for the glass of wine, not really drinking it, just using it to hide behind. Two could play at that game, she thought as she watched Nora’s brow furrow. But all answers would have to wait, as Janey came in from outside, her cheeks reddened from running down the hill toward the windmill and up again, announcing that she was starving and so was Travis. Kids, full of energy, growing fast, needing a refuel of sugar. Gerta smiled with anticipation, telling them to round up the rest of the troops, and moments later the friends were gathered back around the table, where pies were laid out in formation, coffee cups and plates at the ready.

  And so began their game of Thanksgiving testimonials.

  “Well, I suppose I’m thankful for another year,” Thomas Van Diver began, “and to have another holiday spent inside the place I once called home. I suppose there’s not enough thanks in the world.” Gerta, sitting next to him, agreed with him, thankful for the gift of another year and for the year she had spent with her daughter and grandson, ending by thanking everyone for being there, especially Brian for hosting.

  “I do have three other daughters and six more adorable grandchildren,” Gerta added, “but today of all days I know that family means more than blood relatives.”

  Travis was thankful for the food and six kinds of pies, his shadowed eyes unwilling to meet others. Thirteen years old, a child of divorce, he was perhaps the most unsettled of them all here, and Cynthia could hardly blame the boy for his reserve. The exchange progressed to Nora, who was thankful that her life had s
ettled down and that her business, the consignment shop A Doll’s Attic, was seeing some decent traction in an otherwise depressed marketplace, and watching her son blossom in his new school. Then she paused, looking like she’d left something out, and then gazed over at Nicholas.

  “And for Nick, who somehow puts up with me.”

  Nicholas Casey appeared to take her comment in stride. “I’m very thankful for being part of this celebration, something the fractured Casey family doesn’t seem to value much. So thanks to all,” he said, “and to Nora, and Gerta, I’m thankful like Travis for your fabulous pies despite the protests coming from my waistline.”

  His attempt at levity energized the room, and Cynthia found herself smiling, even as she realized the round-robin game was fast making its way to her and Bradley. Even Jake was part of this moment, sitting on his father’s lap, his blue eyes seemingly transfixed by the flicker of the orange candle in the center of the table. But before it came to them, it was Janey’s turn. If this ragtag group of friends and family represented a living, breathing entity, then surely Janey Sullivan was its beating heart, and as she began to talk, a silence settled over the room.

  “First of all, I’m thankful for all of you being part of my life. I’m a lucky girl.”

  She paused, and Cynthia could see Bradley, thinking it was his turn, about to open his mouth. She grabbed his arm, caught his eye, and silently told him to wait. Janey wasn’t done.

  “But I guess I wouldn’t know any of you if not for two people, and it’s them I most want to give my thanks to,” she said. “My mother and my father, who you know as Dan Sullivan and Annie Sullivan. They gave me life and they gave me things like wishes, and they gave me the gift of hope, and they instilled in me that dreams are possible, so long as you open yourself to them. I know that when we go to sleep at night we’re supposed to allow our minds and bodies to rest, but sometimes I think . . . I think . . .” She hesitated, her lips quivering, as though she were unable to get the words out, a rare instance for the garrulous Janey. Cynthia wanted to reach out to her but knew to baby her in this moment would only make it worse. “Sometimes I think dreams are real, and that the people we see in them still exist. I dream of those I’ve lost, and so I’m thankful that they remain with me.”

  No one said a word for a moment, not until Jake opened up his mouth and emitted a cry.

  Laughter ensued, especially as Janey added one last comment: “Oh, and I’m thankful for Jake, who is like a little brother to me.”

  Cynthia’s heart melted right there, and she nearly let a tear escape from her eye.

  Bradley’s comforting hand on hers stopped it.

  “Uh, I guess it’s our turn,” Bradley said, using his best lawyer voice. “Thanks can mean many things in this world today, and not enough people express them. So I applaud Janey’s game, and her bravery for speaking so eloquently. So, on behalf of Cynthia and Jake, we are thankful for our friends, and for all that we share. But we are also thankful for memories made, memories shared. Knowing that they keep friendships alive even when we’re apart, when life takes us . . . elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?” Janey asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I guess there’s only one way to say this,” he said. “Cynthia and I—and of course Jake—have been given a new opportunity. A new job and all that comes with it, including a new home and . . . gosh, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

  It was Cynthia who finally finished his thought. “We’re leaving Linden Corners.”

  Again, silence hung over the surprised group, interrupted only by the abrupt ringing of the telephone. The scrape of Brian’s chair against the hardwood floor snapped Cynthia back to reality, and she watched as her friend—silent, confused—retreated to the kitchen to answer it. She heard him wish the person on the other end a happy Thanksgiving, and then heard several “uh-huhs” and “okay, sure,” and lastly, “fine, we’ll settle later on which day. Yup, great, we’ll talk later. Thanks. Bye.” During the entire exchange, no one said anything, and the group all turned eyes toward Brian, who looked a bit pale in the cheeks.

  “Brian, is everything okay?” Nora asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, sitting down at the head of the table. Cynthia, at the other end, held his gaze, and she could see a mix of emotions coursing through him. Had their announcement done that, was it because of the phone call, or maybe it was a combination of both? Only after he made his own announcement did Cynthia realize how upside down Brian and Janey’s life was about to become. She and Bradley and Jake might be leaving town, but company was coming.

  A door closing, a window opening. Time advancing.

  “I can’t believe it,” Brian said, his voice toneless, as though he were speaking to himself, despite speaking aloud to the group before him. “My parents are coming for Christmas.”

  CHAPTER 3

  TRINA

  On a scale of one to ten, today’s Thanksgiving celebration, if you even dared use that word, had to rank a four. She’d experienced worse and she supposed she’d had better, even though she was hard-pressed right now to recall one. The Ravens family wasn’t exactly known for its ability to bond, and this was never made truer than by the fact that the man she sat across from, her father, was a virtual stranger to her. Fortunately, there had been two other guests at the dinner table to help ease any tense conversation. Trina Winter and Richie Ravens had little to say to each other; such was the history between estranged biological father and diffident, difficult daughter.

  The scene was the back office and makeshift apartment at the Solemn Nights Motel, just off Route 23 on the eastern outskirts of Linden Corners, and in addition to Trina and her father, assembled for their makeshift reunion were her cousin, Mark, whose late father, Harry, had been Richie’s brother, and his pregnant wife, Sara. Sara had brought dinner, courtesy of the Five-O Diner, where she worked, and Mark had brought the pie, saying it had come from some woman named Gerta Connors. All Trina had had to provide was the beverage, sparkling cider for her father and Sara, beer for Mark and herself, though Trina throughout the day found herself thinking about a healthy shot of whatever the local tavern down the street had on offer. Had she not known the bar was closed for the holiday, she’d already be making plans to escape.

  Instead, it was dessert time.

  “It’s pumpkin,” Sara said, “a special request of mine.”

  “Let me guess, a craving?” Trina asked.

  Sara rubbed her considerable belly. “I’ve had stranger.”

  “Sara, you’re eight months pregnant. I think the cravings have lapsed,” Mark said with a genial smile, dimples lighting his face. Then, as an aside to Trina, he added, “Right about now she’ll eat anything. Just look at how she cleared her dinner plate.”

  “Is that remark directed at my appetite or at Martha’s cooking?”

  “I’m not sure I’m safe with either answer,” he remarked.

  Sara nodded appreciatively. Pregnant wives always got their way, and Mark seemed to have developed an understanding of said fact to the point that he leaned in to his wife, giving her a quick kiss. Trina couldn’t tell if the two of them had just had an argument and the fastest makeup in history, or if their interaction was just how they were: cute banter, sickening display of affection. It was enough to make Trina wish she were anywhere but here.

  But that had been true since her arrival a week ago and each night as she went to sleep in her motel room right next door to the office. What was she doing here, and why had she agreed to come care for a father she barely knew? Their relationship subsisted on the occasional phone call, even letters back when they were more fashionable. No e-mails, since her father was one of those old-world men who preferred old-world ways. His only acknowledgment of the modern world seemed to be his forty-five-inch flat-screen television, which had been on all day—football games—and it was this that continued to command his attention now. He’d missed the entire exchange between Mark and Sara. Trina wished she’d i
nherited her father’s sense of obliviousness.

  “Richie, you about ready for pie?” Trina asked.

  Her father, whom she never called father because she also had a stepfather, who had been more of a role model growing up than he, gazed up absently from his frayed couch. He was sixty-seven, sallow of face, with sunken cheeks and thinning hair that had lost its battle with the bald a while ago. He also at the moment had a cast on his left leg, reaching from his ankle to his calf. He’d broken his leg in three places. “What’s that you ask?”

  “Pie, Uncle Richie,” Mark said.

  “Wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without,” he said with a nod. “Do you mind if I take it here? It’s too much effort to get up again and hobble over to the table.”

  Mark tossed Trina a quick look, as though seeking approval from her.

  Both his doctor and the physical therapist had said it was important to keep Richie active and not let him get too complacent. But Trina was too drained to argue with him at this late hour, so she gave in, her expression showing obvious displeasure. She suggested that Sara make herself comfortable in the other chair; it would be dessert in front of the Cowboys game. So while Mark helped his wife get settled, Trina made her way to the small kitchen, which required her to pass through the front office of the motel. All was quiet, the only sign of life coming from the neon red VACANCY sign in the window.

  In the kitchen, she took hold of pie plates and small forks, surprised that her father even had such specific items. His kitchen wasn’t exactly one fit for a gourmet. Figuring it was easier to serve here and carry the plates back into the living room, she set about cutting the pie when Mark came up behind her.