Page 113 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“Ali.” She smooths down the front of her shirt. Presses shaking fingertips to sweep back the wisps of hair near her temples. “I believe your doorbell is broken.”

My mouth is open. I snap it closed. “It hasn’t worked in years. What are you doing here?”

She swallows again. “I would like to come inside. If that is all right.”

I widen the door.

Mom steps through the entrance and into the kitchen, landing uncertainly on the linoleum. She smooths down the front of her shirt again. Her gaze darts around the room, touching briefly on the portraits, the old fridge rattling in the corner, the gingham wallpaper. I think this might be the first time she’s stepped foot in this house since she was in her twenties.

I still have no idea why she’s here.

“Are you thirsty?” I ask uncertainly. “Can I get you a water or something?”

Mom swallows. “Tea, if you have it.”

I nod and pull down the tea bags from the cabinet while she lowers herself to a countertop stool, back ramrod straight. We wait for the kettle to boil, the room silent and unsteady until the steam screeches. I fill a ceramic mug—the one with a pickle for a handle and Kind of a Big Dill printed on the side. It couldn’t look more out of place in her manicured hands. Still, she takes a grateful swallow, then lowers the mug uncertainly, not letting it touch the counter.

I’d never once seen my uncle use a coaster and the kitchen countertops have the panoply of stains to prove it.

“You can just, uh, set it down,” I tell her.

She eyes the counter and, as though exerting great effort, releases the ceramic onto the Formica.

I lean against the sink, again wondering why she’s here. But Mom’s uncertainly fingering the tea’s paper tag, and even though I remain more confused about her presence than happy with it, I don’t want her to bolt.

“Do you…” I start, just as Mom clears her throat and says, “So, I—”

She snaps her lips closed as I trail off.

“Go ahead,” I say.

Her eyes go slightly wide, like I’ve just caught her off guard by asking her to continue the sentence she started. She clears her throat again. Is this the first time I’ve ever seen Mom at a loss for words and experiencing what seems to be unmistakably discomfort? Or am I now recognizing something I haven’t before?

“You mentioned a problem with the fruit?” she asks.

I blink. “Yeah. It’s, um, hard to explain. I can show you instead?”

She draws another steeling sip of tea before pushing to her feet. “Please.”

Chapter Thirty

Mom toes off her loafers and cuffs her linen pants at her calves. I hand her my smallest pair of boots, which fit adequately when paired with a double layer of wool socks. A few minutes later, we trudge into the trees, and her back stiffens. Refracted light in yellow, sapphire, and rose scatters across the front of her white blouse, where her jacket parts. Her eyes flicker wider, and I encourage her onward with a small nod.

With me trailing a few paces behind, Mom picks her way through the rows, occasionally turning tight circles to peer higher in the branches. Starlings flit from tree to tree, disturbing the crystal pears. They spin and shake like Christmas tree ornaments in a drafty room, clinking together and filling the air with their discordant song.

When we crest the first hill, Mom pauses to tug off one of her gloves and lift a pear with her fingertips, as though testing its weight.

“I guess you never saw anything like this when you were a kid?” I ask.

She holds the pear for a moment longer, then retracts her hand and replaces her glove. “No. The orchard’s affliction was never this obvious before.” Abruptly, she wheels on me. “Why has it happened?”

My neck prickles under the sharp question and her harsh scrutiny, especially because the answer is so tender.

I swallow and fold my arms, burrowing deeper in my down jacket. “It’s complicated.”

Mom regards me, lips pursed, as she picks a lint ball off her jacket.

“Is it—” She coughs into her glove. I have the distinct impression she’s processing something or trying to find the right words for something difficult. Finally, she says, “They remind me of something my mother used to collect.”