Far from the Tree

“I want you to understand,” she said.” This is not some kind of punishment. In a way, it’s an honor if you think about it.”

“An honor?” she asked incredulously. “Being thrown out like an old shoe?” Tears streamed down her brown cheeks, and she refused to give them a voice. Instead, she held her breath and counted silently to one hundred.

While counting, she couldn’t hear the words flowing from her mother’s mouth like garbage meandering down a junkyard mountain. But, while the numbers rolled by in her head, they successfully blocked the pain she was feeling. Her heart was breaking. She could feel the shards piercing her chest cavity.

So, she kept counting.

Miranda had always been a spiritual child. She sensed things. Often, she saw calamity coming a mile away. Like the time she noticed her dog Clover was panting more than usual. She tried to tell her mother and her mother’s current boyfriend that something was wrong with her beloved companion. “It’s a hundred and hell outside, girl,” Mike, or Mark, or whatever his name was sneered. D.C. was built on a swamp, you know. You’d be panting too if you were covered in fur.” The following day, Clover curled up at her feet didn’t wake her as he usually did. Miranda wasn’t surprised to discover he had stopped breathing in the middle of the night.

“Huh, what do you know?” her mother had quipped as they carried the dog outside and buried him in the backyard.

So, if Miranda was honest with herself, this latest development was not a shock. Seeing it coming, however, didn’t mitigate the unfairness of it. It didn’t shield her from the blow, as it hit her like a 90 mile per hour fastball from Max Scherzer in the 2019 world series.

“Wipe those tears girl, you’re too grown for that.” Her mother turned and left her standing in the doorway of her room. “You’re Grandma is gonna love having you at her house.” She threw those words over her shoulder as she sauntered down the hall, her full hips swaying from side to side as if pulled by a sea-saw, back and forth.

The problem, Miranda’s mother had explained to her, was that she was expecting another child. Her fifth. And there simply wouldn’t be enough room or resources to care for everyone in the house. Since Miranda was the oldest, at age 12, she had to go. It was simple math. Miranda, her mother had pointed out in matter-of-fact tones, was mostly independent anyway. “I don’t know who is raising who at this point…girl, you are too grown!” She laughed the way she always did when she was trying to convince herself of something. Loud and shrill, accompanied by a knee slap. “Who says a 40-year-old woman can’t wear a tube top? I look good! (insert laugh) “I’m sure none of the kids have all of their supplies on the first day of school. We’ll get them on payday” (insert laugh). “I don’t think he’s married, but we’re about to find out!” It went on and on. That laugh.

***

Lydia Hastings awaited the arrival of her granddaughter, Miranda, who was being exiled from her mother’s house. Poor child. What must she be thinking right now? Lydia had enlisted the help of some of the young men at her church to empty the attic lay some carpeting down and apply a fresh coat of paint on the walls. She had considered making a space for her in the basement but thought an attic would be less scary to a twelve-year-old girl than a basement. Attics were romantic. Poets wrote in attics. Painters created works of art in attics. Serial killers lived in basements. The room was plain and sparsely appointed, but Lydia thought it was homey. The girl could add her own touches to the bed, nightstand, and wardrobe in the corner. Maybe they would go the farmer’s market on the weekend and find a lovely lamp or an area rug. She contemplated these things when she heard a car approaching on the gravel road that led to her house. “Well, let’s meet you then, little Miss Miranda.”

***

In all of Miranda’s twelve years on this planet, she had never set foot outside the Washington D.C. metropolitan area. The world outside of the DMV; D.C., Maryland, and Virginia did not exist as far as she was concerned. So, when her mother told her she was going to Yakima Valley, Washington, Miranda hadn’t even known how to respond to that.

She fired up her tablet and googled the place. It was on the other side of the country, as far as she was concerned, it was the other side of the world. While she was investigating, she decided to google her grandmother as well. She didn’t expect anyone her age to have a heavy social media presence, but it was 2021…you never knew. She didn’t find any social media accounts. She did, however, find several articles on the YakimaHerald.com website about Lydia Hastings and her award-winning jams and jellies. Interesting. She thought. Not only did the apple not fall anywhere near the tree, but it also appeared not to even be born of its branches. Her tears were dry, and her curiosity piqued; the only thing left was to pack her things.

Miranda heard her mother and the man she was currently sleeping with discussing the best way to get her to her grandmother’s house. First, there was talk of buses and trains, but her mother insisted it wasn’t safe to send a twelve-year-old on a 2,674-mile journey unsupervised. Part of Miranda was genuinely touched that her safety was even a concern. Then, there was a discussion about making the 40-hour drive. Still, that plan was discounted because if they wasted a week of vacation days making the trip, they wouldn’t be able to spend the July 4th holiday in Las Vegas as planned.

So, as much as it pained both, they bit the bullet and purchased a one-way $562.00 plane ticket with stops in Cincinnati and Seatle. They were thoroughly convinced that the airline would guarantee her safety during those stopovers, so this was the way to go. It was a lot of money, but they would make that up in savings, not having to feed, clothe and educate her for the rest of her life. Decision made.

***

As the Uber made its way up the gravel road that led to Lydia Hasting’s house, Miranda couldn’t help but be taken in by the beauty of the place. There were flowers and trees everywhere. It was evident that someone had meticulously attended to every leaf, branch, and petal. When the door opened, and the statuesque woman appeared on the porch, Miranda was awestruck. It was almost like looking in a mirror…only fifty years or so into the future.

***

Lydia couldn’t believe how much the girl looked like her. It was stunning. It was like looking at an old photograph of herself come to life. She was all legs and arms with thick unruly hair flying freely on top of her head. Lydia unconsciously lifted her hand to check her own wild mane full of gray hairs with a will of their own. She walked down and helped unload the girls’ luggage, such as it was, from the car and sent the driver on his way.

“Well, let me look at you.” She said, holding the girl at arm’s length. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?”

“No,” Miranda replied, a frown creasing her forehead. “Mama says I look like corn beef hash. A man will take it, but he doesn’t really want it.”

Lydia threw her head back and let out a loud laugh. “There’s more to life than being wanted by men, young lady. Let’s get you inside.”

“You laugh just like Mama,” Miranda squinted up at her grandmother.

“No, honey. Your Mama laughs just like me.” Lydia led her into the house and walked her upstairs to the attic, showing her the place, she would now call home. After depositing her bags, she walked her down to the kitchen.

“Is this where you make your famous jams and jellies? Miranda inquired.

“What’cha know about that?”

Lydia asked, lifting her brows in mild surprise.

“Just what I read on the internet. Mama never told me anything about you, but I saw some articles online about how you are like the ‘reigning jam champion’ or something.”

“Well, it’s true. Lydia said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the kitchen table. “When I was a young lady. I was full of the Devil. I got myself into a heap of trouble in D.C., and I bought a one-way bus ticket heading West.

“You ran away?” Miranda's eyes widened.

"Oh, yes. I kept going farther and farther west. I’d get into one place and just buy a ticket to the next place. When I got to Seatle, I met a young man whose family roots were Klickitat people on the Yakima Indian Reservation. He bought this house, and he and I lived here together for nearly forty years until he died.”

“You weren’t married?” The look on Miranda's face indicated she didn't believe what she was hearing

“No, we never saw the need for that. Human beings shouldn’t own other human beings. That’s what marriage seemed like to us.”

“And it was ok for you to just keep living here, even after he was gone?” Miranda asked.

“Well, not quite. I did have to put up a fight. Washington state doesn’t recognize common law marriage, but it does recognize “marriage-like” relationships. They finally recognized that’s what our relationship was and let me keep the house.”

Miranda leaned in closer to Lydia, and queried in a hushed tone, “And you just stayed here by yourself?”

“I like it here. It’s peaceful, and I have my pear trees.” Lydia smiled, pointing outside the kitchen window to a small grove of trees. “I make my jams and jellies from those trees. Pies and cakes too. Although, I’ve never won any awards for them.” Lydia winked at Miranda.

A silence settled between them as Miranda seemed to ponder everything she just heard. Eventually, she spoke. “What am I going to do here?” She asked.

“Well, aside from going to school and being a good citizen until you are grown, that is mostly going to be up to you.”

“Mama says I am already grown," Miranda inhaled deeply. A look of melancholy on her face.

"That’s just not true, darling." Lydia reached out and stroked Miranda's wild hair. "I reckon you are a lot like those pear trees out there. Pears don’t ripen on the tree, you know. It’s one of the rare fruits that can be picked green and still taste delicious days or weeks later when it is finally fully ripe. You ain’t grown, child. You have just been plucked off the tree.”

***

Miranda went to bed that night in her attic room, thinking of everything her Grandmother Lydia had told her. It appeared that Mother and daughter had started out the same in life. “Full of Devil,” Lydia had said. Sounded just like her mother. But Lydia had taken a different path. Found happiness with one man. Found contentment in a simple life. And, at the ripe old age of 78, she was showing her granddaughter, there might be another way for her in life as well. Miranda closed her eyes and let the stillness of the Yakima night wash over her. Tomorrow, she thought, I’m going to see what those pears taste like.