Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm. Rebecca Raisin
worst kind of irony, promising Mom I’d leave on this impromptu adventure and not making it there because of a bus crash? The thought alone was enough to make me stiffen. I’d never considered something bad happening to me—Mom was always at the forefront of my mind—but what if it did? Then who would look after her? Aunt Margot wouldn’t stay forever. I’d have to be careful, and not take risks if I could avoid them.
“Sure as God made little green apples Jimmy’ll have a few more gray hairs by the time we reach Ashford.”
The woman brought a sense of peace with her no-nonsense attitude.
“He just might,” I said, my mouth dry. “I think my first gray might sprout up of its own accord too.”
She tutted, giving my hair a cursory glance. “Nothing gonna dim that blonde mane o’ yours.”
The young woman in front of me rested her head on her friend’s shoulder. Across the aisle a spotty-faced teenage boy wiggled in his seat, balled up his sweater, pushed it hard up against the window as a pillow. Everyone was settling back down, but I was too keyed up to do anything other than sit there, mildly panicked at how close we’d come to crashing.
Was it a sign that I was choosing the wrong path? It felt like a warning somehow. Even though I’d promised Mom I’d explore for twelve long months, a half-day into the journey, I was regretting the decision with every ounce of me. The excitement of not having to pull double shifts at the shabby diner had dimmed the further away from Mom I got. When I’d quit work, the manager had barely raised an eyebrow. The other waitresses gave me small smiles, some heavy with envy, some full of hope that maybe one day they’d get out of there too. Right this instant, I’d swap with them in a heartbeat, and pretend this journey never happened.
It was hard to forget Mom’s dazzling smile when I went to say my goodbyes. She’d radiated happiness. It was almost palpable, like she’d been cured, or something miraculous, but it was all because of me. She was overjoyed my travels were beginning in earnest, though in actuality, I’d have to stay in one place half the year to save for the rest of the trip, if I found a decent job. When it was almost time to leave it took all my might not to clutch her and sob, telling her I didn’t want to. Instead, I’d held myself tight like a coil, and said I’d do my very best to enjoy myself. In an effort to lighten up a somber situation we played the “Remember When” game.
Remember when we slept in the lighthouse that night? Remember when we swapped our homemade dream catchers for a crate of apples? Remember when…
After that the Van Gogh Institute Scholarship came up about a hundred times, but I shrugged her off. I needed time. At this stage I didn’t know if I’d make it without her.
“Where you from?” the woman asked, bringing me back to the present. She crossed her arms over her midsection, as we bounced softly along.
With a smile, I said, “Detroit.” I pivoted a fraction to face her. She looked like the type who would chatter on regardless.
“Ah,” she said, “the birthplace of Motown? Ain’t that something?”
“It is.” I missed it already. It was home. Where my heart was.
She studied my face intently. “Why the long face?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t about to share my story with a stranger. Besides, there was no way I could say Mom’s name. I held on to the promise I made as though it was something tangible, my secret. “Just saying goodbye.” I tried hard to make it sound breezy and bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stay focused and not well up. Honestly, I was like a child going off to camp the first time. I knew Mom wanted me to “find myself” but I didn’t think I was lost. She did.
With a raise of her eyebrows she said, “Goodbyes…surely are difficult. But sometimes, you gotta take the plunge. Life is for living.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. My mom had said something eerily similar when I’d visited the hospital to say my goodbyes.
Snatching her purse from under the seat, she rifled around in it, before brandishing a brown paper bag full of something spicy-scented. “Here, eat. You as skinny as a rake.” She handed me a chocolate-dipped gingerbread man. “Ashford—where we goin’—is about the nicest place on earth. Problem is, once you visit it’s kinda hard to leave.”
“That so?” I took a bite of the cookie, ravenous now I’d awoken. “I’m not staying for good,” I said. “Just stopping by for a while.”
She hemmed and hawed. “That’s what they all say.”
I smiled at the woman in thanks, all the while thinking maybe the bus simply slipped off the road because of a deer, and not because I’d made a bad decision walking away from my mom, when she needed me so badly.
“Did you make this?” I asked, holding the remnants of the gingerbread man, just his little chocolate-dipped legs.
“Why I most certainly did. I work at the Gingerbread Café. I’m CeeCee.” She held out her hand.
“It’s delicious.” I shook her hand. “Lucy. Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t like me to chitchat so easily. Mom was the extrovert, the babbler; I took a while to warm up. Instead I people-watched, always lost inside my mind with how I’d paint the planes of their faces, or whether I could catch the question in their eyes, their own unique gaze.
I guess it was a safety mechanism of sorts, my lack of involvement with people. We’d moved so often, it was easier not to make friends than risk losing them. But alone, maybe I’d have to change that.
“We be seeing a lot more of each other, mark my words.” There was something comforting about the woman, the way she spoke, the warmth in her.
***
After snatching some nap time, I awoke, squinting. The sky had lightened. The bus burbled along, making its way to Ashford. My sketchy plan was to find a job, anything. The money Mom had borrowed from Aunt Margot, I stubbornly refused to take. I used it to pay her rent a paltry few more weeks, and restocked her fridge and freezer—a surprise, for when she got home. All I had was the wages from the last few shifts at the diner to see me through, but I knew how to be frugal, and how to work hard.
I had to find a job quickly, and hoped at the end of each week, there’d be enough left over that I could save and send some home. I’d sleep better knowing my mom had a back-up plan and some independence when it came to money.
Resting my head against the cool glass, I watched as meadows dotted with the odd home or two flashed past.
The driver hollered out, “Ashford’s ten minutes away, folks.”
I nodded to him as we made eye contact in the rearview mirror. His face was lined with fatigue. He was probably dreaming of bed, while commuters snoozed fitfully behind him.
In the distance a property appeared. It was flanked by lots of trees, bare of leaves, and stood out beside the rolling snow-drizzled meadows.
As the bus lumbered closer, I pushed my face up against the glass again. My breath fogged up the window; I hastily wiped it with my hand. As we neared, I could make out an old cottage, decayed with age. Twisted vines snaked around porch poles like skeletons.
I pulled at CeeCee’s sleeve. “Would you look at that place!” It was mesmerizing.
She sat up straighter, popping specs on the bridge of her nose. “That there’s the Maple Syrup Farm. It’s gone and got itself a new owner too. A real handsome guy but he tend to keep to his self.”
“Why’s that?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Folk say he’s just one o’ them lonesome types.” She clucked her tongue. “Whatever that’s ‘sposed to mean. He ain’t been there long, a month or two maybe. Still trying to make sense o’ the place. As you can see, it needs a lot o’ work. The cottage itself is over a hundred years old.”
The driver slowed for