How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [69]
“So I’m going to tell you about your own grandfather?”
“That’s right.” I smile. “Hurry, before the suspense kills me.”
His eyes show flecks of green, and something inside me wants to stare into them. I don’t stare; I look at my hands, wait.
“When Ernest was little, the family didn’t have much money. The kids wore hand-me-down clothes and ate oatmeal for every meal. The winters were bitter in Erie. Sometimes there wasn’t any coal to light the fire in the house. All their shoes had holes they patched by shoving plastic into them. He really did walk a mile to school every day. His parents were poor and sick a lot.” When Zack stops, I look up at him. “You want me to continue?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You really have never heard this? Any of it?”
I think of telling him that my mother is not one for hard-luck stories. She probably convinced Dad over the years that keeping a happy profile is the way to live, without focusing on a sad past. So that’s most likely why my father never shared this story with me. “I want you to continue. I haven’t ever heard this before.”
Zack looks tenderly at me, a look identical to one I saw him give his brother in the hospital room. He moistens his lips and says, “One day a woman from their church brought them a basket of fruit. The basket had apples, oranges, grapes, and lemons. Ernest took one of the lemons, smelled it, and carried it to school in his pocket. It was durable and didn’t spoil quickly like the other fruits. He kept that lemon for weeks. He asked God to heal his sick parents and make it so that he could be smart enough to finish high school and go on to college and med school. He wanted a chance to change the world. He wanted to give his parents a better life in their old age. He prayed to God a lot after that.” Zack pauses, and I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him say so much at one time.
“What else?” I ask.
“He bought lemons by the crate. Everywhere he went he always bought lemons. Truman said he wanted a chicken in every pot. Ernest wanted a lemon in every refrigerator.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Ernest said that for him a lemon signified three things: prosperity, contentment, and memories. Even after becoming a doctor, he never forgot those who had less than he did. He loved to gift people with fruit baskets. In fact, every Christmas, that’s what each of the kids at The Center received from him. His method of operation.” Zack smiles at me.
I wish I could hug my grandfather right now. I want to call my father and tell him that I’ve heard the story of his dad and that I love his dad so much. Mom needs to hear this story. Why didn’t she like my grandfather? How could anyone not adore a man who loved lemons and gave them away?
We head back to Jonas’s room, where a nurse has just taken his vitals. “He’s fine,” she whispers to us as Jonas falls asleep once more.
“Jonas is always fine,” says Zack.
Just like his brother, I think.
————
As the owl cries in the treetops, a solo of evening peace, I open my journal and write about my concern for Jonas’s health. After two paragraphs, I close the book. Something isn’t complete, though, and I know that there is no way I can go to sleep unless I write a little more. Opening to a clean page, I write Zack. I’m not sure what else to put on the page. So I pretend I’m in sixth grade and draw little hearts around his name. Then bits and pieces of conversations we have had come to me like little appetizers on a silver platter. No one will ever read this, so just write from the heart, I tell myself. Hurry, write so you can go to sleep.
He is cute, but there is more to him than that. He has depth.He cares about those who are less fortunate with a passion and love that is so rewarding just to watch. Where do I fit in? I am