The Memory of Lemon (21 page)

And then the dark years for the O'Neil family. The little boy who died of cholera on the canal.

Generations of men easing their pain with whiskey. My brutish great-grandfather Thomas who beat his son, George, who then grew up to be a mean drunk who died young.

The damage went deep.

I drew the quilt around me and shivered. I had never met my grandfather and now I was glad I hadn't.

Gran and her terrible premonition about the girl with blue hands. The taste of bitterness, the hopelessness. The same dream that haunted my father now. What did it mean?

I had started the day with a homeless father whose reasons for leaving our family had been a mystery and a grandmother so lost in the fog of dementia that she couldn't tell me more. Now I had seen.

As I let the stories wash through me, I began to understand.

All the difficulties with this “hillbilly” wedding had been necessary to get me to this place, so I could connect with a past I didn't realize I had.

It was up to me to find a way forward.

The memory of lemon had given me clarity.

Such sadness. Such loss. But such love. That was what endured. Love was the current that ran through every story. I wanted to reach through time and space and tell my father that. It was all about love.

I sat back down in the rocker, feeling my body pulse with
energy. Unlike the women who had lived in this cabin, I had no violin. I had no song to call my loved one to me.

But I had the memory of lemon, the flavor that would send the signal for me, a beacon of hope and comfort for my father.

I held it on my tongue, in my mind, the flavor he would recognize as love. I closed my eyes and opened my heart. I sent my dad a silent message.

He was loved.

It was safe to remember.

The typhoon. The helicopter crash. The girl with blue hands. The little boy with a goat. The dark hut. The smell of urine. What happened in the deep and inky night that had swallowed him whole.

It was time to bring that story out of the darkness. Hold it up to the light.

And come
home.

AUGUSTA, KENTUCKY

“You two look cozy!” Roshonda beamed as she walked up to our table the next morning. “If a little worse for wear.”

Ben and I were sitting across from each other in the breakfast room at the River Landing Inn the morning after the Ballou wedding. Since my dress had still been damp, I had put on my rumpled pastry chef jacket and jeans.

Ben's stubbly cheeks and wrinkled shirt told the same story. We had had better things to do.

But now we were starving. Ben's plate was heaped with eggs, sausage, bacon, cheese grits casserole, and biscuits from the buffet. Mine was a smaller version.

“Don't let that scrumptious food get cold,” Roshonda said. “I've already had breakfast.” Roshonda gave me the once-over.
“What happened to the magnetic, charming, sexy woman we were going for?”

“She got a little waterlogged in the storm last night,” Ben said.

She turned to Ben. “So you didn't drive on to that boutique hotel after all,” Roshonda said. “The one where I had to pull strings to get you the room with the skyline view.”

“What boutique hotel?” I asked between bites of egg.

“The one we didn't stay at,” said Ben, buttering a biscuit. He smiled at me across the table. “Plan A. And thank you again, Ro. But believe me, I'm more than happy with how plan B turned out.”

“Oh,” I said softly and reached across the table to take his hand.

“Don't let me keep you,” said Roshonda tartly. “Some people have to work. I've got a wedding to dismantle.”

“That's why they pay you the big bucks, Ro,” Ben said.

We said good-bye to Roshonda and finished our breakfast.

Ben leaned back in his chair and sighed contentedly. “Now what?”

“Hey, your letter said that you're a planner.”

“Okay.” He sat forward, his forearms on the table. “Here's the plan. Let's get rid of that nice leather chair in your office and replace it with my ratty old recliner.”

I leaned forward, too. “Sounds good. But let's lounge around in that leather chair a little bit before we give it the boot.”

“I'm starting to love plan B.”

—

A week later, on a Monday morning, I arrived at the bakery later than usual, all Ben's fault.

Dad's letter was waiting for me.

Dear Claire,

I remembered. I feel terrible.

I know that's how this works. You have to feel worse before you get better. The guys in my group said I have to feel the feeling. That I did everything I could to land a disabled helicopter in violent weather. That I already had two strikes against me. That I brought that thing down, and Jimbo and I were both alive when the flight ended. What happened after that was not on me.

But that doesn't make it okay. It doesn't make any of it okay.

Here's the start of the really bad part. The girl with blue hands. The boy was her son. He had the same heart-shaped face, the same nose. He was probably around four. That age when kids start to make up their own funny little songs. I can still hear the tune, although I didn't understand the words. The little goat followed him everywhere, like a dog. He didn't need the rope.

I got to the hut and couldn't go any farther. The boy and I were drenched when we came in. When the girl with the blue hands saw me, she cried out and then covered her mouth. She hugged the boy, then put him behind her. I put up my hand to indicate that I wasn't going to hurt anyone, but then I blacked out.

It must have rained for a while. A few days? A week? Monsoon rains. But it gave me a little time. Somebody had put a splint on my leg and tied it with dark blue rags; it still hurt like hell. I had a bad cough. I must have had a fever, too,
because I kept blacking out. My skin felt clammy. The girl brought me rice and this bitter, smoky tea, as dark as ink. I could barely sit up. She'd have to hold my head up to feed me. The little boy and the goat would come over to the raised pallet I was lying on, cock their heads the same way, and look at me like I was someone from another planet.

I watched her dip lengths of cloth into a big vat of dye that was always simmering over a wood fire in the center of the hut. She'd wring out the dyed cloth and hang it up to dry from the rafters. It reminded me of my mother hanging laundry in our old cellar. Dipping the pillowcases and sheets in blue rinse water so they'd stay white, wringing them out, hanging them up to dry.

The last day, I was able to sit up a little bit and smile at the little boy. He smiled back. I gave him a candy bar that had seen better days. But it was all I had.

Then the rains stopped. The girl with blue hands became very agitated and shooed her son and his little goat out of the hut. She seemed to be telling them to go far away. But they didn't go far enough.

I must have passed out again. When I came to, it was all a blur. I thought it was raining again, it was so loud. But it wasn't the monsoon. Shouting and screaming and Viet Cong tearing everything apart in the hut. When I tried to sit up, one of the gooks slammed me with the butt of Jimbo's rifle that I was still using as a crutch. I thought my jaw was broken. I didn't have ammunition or they would have shot me.

I was too weak to even stand up, but I had to do something. I put my hands up to surrender.

Two guys pulled me off the pallet and started kicking me in the ribs. I could hear the girl with blue hands screaming and her little boy crying. Hell, even the goat was bleating.

It was madness. And then suddenly, it was silent. I heard a sizzling, hissing sound. I looked up slowly. I could see a river of dark liquid trickling down to the embers of the fire and evaporating in a terrible plume of smoke. Two of those damn gooks were wiping their bloody machetes on the banners of dyed cloth hanging from the rafters. They had slit the girl's throat. They all but decapitated the boy and the goat; I can still see their dead eyes. So much blood. So much blood.

I brought this on them. And I've had to live with that.

When you were little, Claire, I would rock you to sleep and sing songs. You didn't know I was lying the whole time. Those lullabies are all about “Go to sleep, I'll watch over you, you're safe.” But who was I kidding? I couldn't keep you safe. I couldn't keep anyone safe.

At first, I drank to get away from the bad dream and the bad feelings. But after a while, that didn't work. And then I drank because I was ashamed. You and your mother deserved better.

You still deserve better.

I'm so sorry, Claire.

I love you.

Dad

I sipped my Cuban coffee and felt a wave of sadness move through me.

Oh, Dad
.
Oh, Dad
.

I could picture the girl with blue hands, the little boy, the baby goat. They were real to me.

How would I have handled that? I, who had been thinking my dad was the problem. What if I had had to carry that terrible pain for all that time? What if I had tried to forget, to put it past me, to live a normal life again, but couldn't? What if the only way I could figure out to protect my family was to leave them?

There was a reason for my dad's defection, and it wasn't me. It wasn't Mom. It wasn't Gran. It was the girl with blue hands and all that happened on that terrible day.

I was glad I felt strong enough right then, buoyed by love, to learn Dad's story. If he had shared this even a few weeks back, I might not have been ready to absorb it.

I realized how lucky I was.

I knew I was loved and cherished.

I knew where I belonged, where my family had put down roots so long ago.

I had seen flashes of story—how the strong women in Lydia's family, in my family, had dealt with heartache and fear. How they had risen to the challenge in every generation, finding their way, doing what they felt was right, loving and nurturing the people in their care.

Now it was my turn to be strong.

I had helped my father come this far. But there was more to do.

It wouldn't be easy. I had no illusions about that.

We all had images of each other, frozen in the past. We would
probably be shocked to see him. Dad would be shocked to see me, all grown up. And Gran so frail.

The irony didn't escape me. Dad was recovering his memory and sense of self just as Gran was losing hers.

We were running out of time.

Today, I would buy him a cell phone with prepaid minutes and a charger. I would send it with my letter.

I would send him lemon bars, lemon tartlets, lemon pound cake. The memory of lemon that brought him clarity would also help him see his way forward.

And he would come closer and closer.

Soon, I would hear the sound of his voice. We could have a conversation.

And then, one day, I would see him again.

After years of wandering, my father would come back to us.

There would be more pain, more sadness for all that we had lost, but also joy.

Over time, we would find our own meandering, imperfect way across a river that is always changing but always the same.

That's what families
do.

JULY

MILLCREEK VALLEY

Black Raspberry and Lemon Balm

My phone
burred
in the pocket of my jeans. When I looked at the number, I ran back to the baking area. With Norb gone after finishing the morning's baking and Jett still cleaning up after the midday crush, it was the only place where I'd have a little privacy.

This is really happening.

“Claire, my girl.”

“Hi, Dad,” I said quietly. To hear his voice, after all this time, felt like a miracle.

“You sound so grown up.”

“Well, I am, you know.”

I was laughing and crying at the same time. I hadn't actually talked to him since I was a coltish teenager.

“I know, sweetie,” he said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “Thanks for sending the phone.”

“I can't believe we're actually talking.”

He sounded like I remembered, a little raspier, probably from years of hard living. His was the voice of long-ago lullabies, when I sat on his lap as a little girl as he sang and I felt that all was well.

“I got the lemon bars you sent, like Mom used to make. One taste and I wanted to leave the trailer and hitch a ride all the way out there, I missed you all so much. This ‘tasty/feely' thing is coming back. But I'm not sure I like it all that much.” He chuckled, and I could hear the irony in his voice.

You could practically pave a yellow brick road with all the lemon desserts I had sent my dad over the past few weeks so he could taste and feel his way home again. Lemon tarts, cookies, bars, and little cakes were the I-love-yous that our family had savored for generations.

“Maybe we can trade selfies next,” I said.

“Whoa, I've got to get to a barber before you actually see your old man again,” he said jokingly.

I tried to imagine what he looked like now. Thinner? Weathered? Gray haired? I certainly looked different than I had at fifteen.

“You might actually see me sooner rather than later,” he said, nervously.

My heart started beating even faster. I wanted him to come home, but now?

“Still lots of red tape,” he said. “It probably won't be right away.” I could sense that he was giving me an out if I wasn't ready.

“They have to find a halfway house for me, a place that can handle veterans who were homeless. And I have to have someone who will sponsor me.”

“What does that mean, Dad?”

“Someone who will be my emergency contact person. Somebody to look out for me. I don't want to ask you. You're so busy and you're still my little girl. I don't want to burden you with this. I know your mother has every right not to have anything to do with me ever again. But maybe Helen would.”

This would all be news to her.

When Dad and I had started sending postcards and then letters earlier in the year, I hadn't told Helen or my mom. They had enough going on with me.

Mom did not take well to change. She still hadn't divorced my dad after he'd deserted her all those years ago. But that didn't mean she wanted anything to do with him now.

When I sent Dad the phone, I thought I had plenty of time to take it slowly.

Now, that was out the window. I'd have to tell Mom and Helen soon.

“I'll ask her, Dad. And I'll ask about halfway houses around here. I'll work on it. Sorry, Dad, but I've got to go now.” I could see Roshonda looking for me. “Let me call you back in a little bit.” I snapped my phone shut as Roshonda rounded the corner.

“What are you going to do with them today?” she asked, sipping her caramel macchiato and pointing her French-manicured finger at the pints of fresh-picked black raspberries and bouquets of lemon balm.

We stood side by side in Rainbow Cake's baking area, leaning against the stainless steel worktable.

“I'll have to think of something,” I said.

Black raspberries had a short season—only three weeks—but they were an intense three weeks.

I was bowing under the strain of abundance, wondering how I was going to use all these berries.

I had folded the dark little gems into our breakfast cupcakes. I'd put the tiny fruits in coffee cakes, turnovers, pies, and cake fillings. I'd whipped up black raspberry buttercream frosting. And still they came.

I'd simmered them with lemon balm to make a fabulous jam. I'd made black raspberry syrup to brush over pound cake. I'd frozen some berries, to fill in for the one week that month when they'd be gone, but certainly not forgotten.

I sipped my latte.

“How's Ben?” Roshonda asked.

My smile was my answer. I took another creamy sip.
Ben
.

“And your mystery man?” I asked Roshonda.

She raised her eyebrows and sighed contentedly.

“Maybe not mysterious for too much longer. We should probably go out, the four of us. It's time.”

What Roshonda and I weren't saying, but what we both understood, was that we were both venturing into new relationship territory.

Soon, Luke would take his wandering eye back to training camp where there were, no doubt, plenty of football groupies to console him. Our divorce would be final by the fall and he could go on to more fame and fortune as TV's most eligible bachelor.

I still hadn't met the guy Roshonda was currently seeing. But I had never seen Roshonda look so good. She glowed.

“He's available,” Roshonda marveled. “He shows up. He's a grown-up.”

“And Ben does what he says he's going to do. I don't have to
second-guess him or wonder what he's doing when I'm not around.”

“It's weird.”

“Well, let me know when you want to schedule the big reveal.”

Roshonda frowned.

“I'm teasing,” I said, swaying to give her a hip bump.

“House of Chili tonight?” she asked, drinking the last of her coffee. “It's Ben, you, me, and Gavin again.”

“You bet.” I knew I couldn't face cooking, even for Ben, after yet another day of black raspberries. Besides, he loved a good five-way chili.

I walked with her to the front of the bakery and we said our good-byes. For a brief moment, I had Rainbow Cake to myself. Jett was in the workroom, Maggie had gone to pick up Emily from vacation Bible preschool. No customers.

I breathed it all in. The Tiffany blue walls. The mottled chocolate marble counters. The ambience of a Parisian tea salon.

On our feature wall, I had hung the chartreuse green curtain meant to suggest lemon balm. I loved how the pale and dark purples of the black raspberry desserts showed up against it. The showstopper of that month's display was the ombré cake, its five layers going, in varying shades, from deep purple on the bottom to pale lavender on top. It was a “naked” cake, one that had only the lemon balm buttercream frosting piped in between the layers and on top so that the sides showed the colors.

Jett, too, had embraced the black raspberry and lemon balm theme in her own way. Freed from high school dress code constraints for the summer, she had dyed her hair a black raspberry tone (suspiciously similar to her favorite Deadly Nightshade),
arranged it in several asymmetrical pigtails, and sprayed the ends bright lime green. I kind of liked it.

“Which customer do I put on the do-not-take-their-order list this time?” she asked, rolling her eyes. She set down a tray on the counter with two more ombré cakes ready for Maggie to box. “If they had any idea how much goes into these . . .” Getting to “naked” on the cake meant Jett had to tediously scrape the browned edges from each colorful layer.

“I know, I know.” I patted Jett on the back.

She actually smiled. “Two more to go,” she said as she made her way to the workroom in back.

Jett in a happy mood? Everything good for me in the relationship world? Effortless abundance? My father returning?

Moment by moment, I was discovering the sweet flavor of gratitude.

And my heart was full.