Honey Girl(64)

“You getting up?” Mom asks. “It would be mighty nice to go for a walk with my daughter and catch the sunrise.”

She rolls over, blinking in the early light. “Do I have to?” she asks, even as she gets up. “I would rather stay in here and feel bad about myself, honestly.”

Mom sits on the edge of the bed as Grace stumbles around the room, looking for something to put on over her flimsy sleep top. “That’s not very good for you,” she says. “You wanna hear a little story?”

Her first thought is no. She’s done with stories. She’s done with stories that say she is made up of the same stuff as the cosmos. She’s done with stories that say she is a lonely creature looking for more.

But Mom used to sit in that same spot and tell Grace stories to get her to sleep. She used to tell Grace stories about the roots of trees, and how they found friends beneath the soil and dirt and earth. How they held hands and became strong, strong enough to grow like lightning out of the ground and reach to the top of the clouds.

Grace does not want to hear any more stories, but she sighs and says, “Yeah, sure,” as she pulls a T-shirt on.

“My therapist gave me the idea, actually,” Mom says, and she winks. “What? Kelly got me into it. Drinking away my problems only works sometimes, Porter. It’s just not sustainable. Anyway, this was, I don’t know, maybe a year, year and a half ago. I was thinking of selling this place.”

“You never told me that,” Grace says, sitting down hard on the bed. “You never said anything.”

“What would you have done?” Mom asks her. “That steel-backed Porter will is good for a lot of things, but it wouldn’t have changed my mind. Not much could.” She leans back, eyes distant, like the memory is drifting right in front of her.

“What did?” Grace asks quietly. She always thought Mom had just as much a connection here as Grace did. Even while she tried to find herself in spiritual healing and wellness retreats around the world, Grace never thought she would want to leave this place behind for good. “What made you change your mind?”

“It was so funny,” Mom says. “My therapist said, ‘If you go, what will happen to all the oranges?’ And I said, ‘Lady, I don’t care, honestly.’ I just wanted to get away, I think. I’ve never been like your father in that way. Too much rigidity and planning and rules make me run for the hills. Make me feel crazy, you know that.”

Grace snorts, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

Mom looks at her. “But it got me thinking. What would happen to the oranges? Whoever I sold this place to, they’d still sell to the grocers, I’m sure, right? But would they still go to the fresh market in town? Would they haggle with Mrs. Pinkerton, or Tracy, who’s got those three little boys all by herself? Would they peel a few of ’em and let the kids get juice all over the stand? Would they help their parents get some fruit and vegetables that won’t leave them broke until the next paycheck?”

She shakes her head. “It got me so fired up. I thought, there’s no way some rich businessman is gonna partner with the local fruit box company and send all the bruised and too-small oranges out at a discount. He would just let those oranges sit and rot and spoil the earth, wouldn’t he? And I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t stay in bed and feel bad for myself. I had an orange grove to run.”

She bumps Grace’s shoulder. “Sometimes your mom can be very dramatic, you know? But, I’m still here, so I guess all the drama worked out. And I know exactly what kinda homes these oranges are going to. Sometimes you just need to know that what you’re doing makes a difference, at least for some people. Now c’mon. C’mon.”

Grace follows her outside, but her thoughts are on stray oranges. Her thoughts are on bruised things being left to rot, unless there is someone to pick them up and give them somewhere to go. Her thoughts are on taking care of people who take care of you, and not leaving, because who will take care of them if you go?

The night dissipates, and everything is glowing and orange: the sky, the trees and the sun creeping past branches that look like they go on forever. Mom keeps humming a little tune that Grace picks up, both of them like two chittering birds in the early light.

She checks her phone. There are messages from Yuki’s roommates—Grace’s friends—she can’t bring herself to read. Ximena, Agnes, Raj and Meera spammed the group chat overnight. Grace grits her teeth at the wave of guilt that rips through her. They have their own lives, their own problems, but here she is wishing they could solve hers, too. To hold her hand and stroke her hair and say they’ll fix everything.

Agnes
3:01 a.m.
what have you done now, dumbass
Raj
3:15 a.m.
i should have brought you back with me
Ximena
3:18 a.m.
call me now!!
Grace isn’t calling her. There’s nothing for her to say. I am too scared to come home. I am not as strong as you thought I was.

I am running. I am running. I am running.

“Think you’re ready to talk about it?” Mom asks.

“I just—” She waves her phone. “I’m letting so many people down.” She clenches her jaw tight enough that it hurts. “I worked so hard and so many people believed in me. I’m letting everybody down.” She curls in on herself, gasping through the words.