a pear tree

I was just a few days old when Gran planted a pear tree in front of the hotel. She was the owner of it, a descendant of a wealthy aristocrat who’d gone to the grave cursing himself for never having had a son.

Gran and I lived in a mansion adjoining the hotel, overlooking a wide roaring river, with views to a grand 18th century bridge crossing it. Our house had high ceilings with intricate patterns carved around it. The rooms looked majestic, royal even.

We were very well off, and growing up, I'd never experienced financial difficulty. I’d even go as far as to say I was spoiled. I’d had a personal driver since age four, when I started going to nursery, all the way up until I finished High School at age seventeen. Whenever I needed or wanted anything, I was given it without a second thought. Oftentimes, I would arrive home after school to see new clothes, books or other accessories laid out on my bed. As a child I used to be overjoyed by these gestures, but the more I grew, the overbearing display of materialism started bothering me.

I was mostly raised by our housekeeper, Hilda. The only times I spent time with Gran exclusively were dinner times and organised outings. Whenever I mentioned the neglect I felt from her, I was always assured by Hilda that when I was a baby, Gran had spent much more time with me, but I, of course, had no memory of that, hence it meant nothing to me.

Gran was a firm businesswoman, very invested in the daily running of her hotel. On workdays from eight to six, she could always be found in her office next to the hotel bar. On the weekends, she would take trips sponsored by her many gentleman friends, not that they needed to, her wealth was always far superior compared to these men, but as she put it “men need to feel needed.” When I was younger, I had often been invited along, but my desire to spend my weekends with Gran and her endless milieu of admirers shrank the older I got. I once asked her if she’d ever been married. As a reply she laughed and told me, “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”

She was emotionally distant and mostly showed her affection by buying me things. She used to always say “You have everything you could ever wish for, what more do you want from me? Just be glad you’re not rotting in a dump somewhere,” I never understood what she meant by that, but grew accustomed that it was just her way of caring.

Having been raised with riches around me, I’d never had to work for anything. Gran brought me things, Hilda cleaned after me, and the hotel cook made my food. School was the only place I ever heard of doing things for myself.

My bedroom was the highest room in the house. It was a converted attic with a narrow wooden staircase leading up to it. My room used to be a smaller one downstairs, but when I turned eight, Gran decided to renovate the attic and turn it into my bedroom since I had been spending so much time up there.

It used to be my hiding nook where I went to escape from the world to read and paint. I’d protested at first, because I’d loved the simplicity of the dusty space filled with old furniture, disregarded boxes and retro posters stapled to the walls, but Gran said it was dirty and she wasn’t going to allow me to be there unless she fixed it up. Reluctantly I agreed, but my only condition was that the staircase couldn’t be changed, so the only reminder of what this room used to be was the creaky wooden staircase leading up to it.

Despite being an attic, it was actually rather large in size, with three big windows. Two triangle shaped ones and a round one. A while after the renovations, I discovered they had put hinges on the windows, making them openable. The roof became my new hiding spot. I’d go out the window, climb over the chimney and be shielded from everyone. The view of the pear tree, our town and the rolling hills behind it were the only witness to me being there.

*

When I was 20 years old I found out I was adopted. It had slipped out of Gran’s mouth whilst I’d been visiting her during Christmas in my second year of university. She’d thrown a party and had been quite drunk, rambling incoherently, bragging loudly to another one of her gentleman friends. I was sitting next to them, sipping my first glass of wine versus her seventh. The man had been congratulating her for the success of her hotel.

“You’ve juggled raising your granddaughter and running this hotel very well.”

“She’s not my granddaughter,” she laughed hysterically.

“That’s true, I’m more Hilda’s granddaughter than hers,” I said as Gran threw her head back and laughed.

“No, no,” she downed her glass and looked me straight in the eye, “I never had children. You are the daughter of a hooker who has no relation to me whatsoever. I only took you in because I pitied her.”

I looked at Gran with shock, “You said my mother is dead,” I’d asked about her daughter, my mother, ever since I’d been a little girl. But all she’d ever told me was that my mother was dead and to stop asking about it.

“Oh, she’s dead, all right. Died of an overdose eight years ago. But she’s not my daughter.”

I look at Gran with hurt, eyes welling up, “You’re lying and drunk.”

“Actually this conversation is rather starting to sober me up. Allan, pour me another drink, will you, darling?”

That’s the last I remember from that conversation. I left the room after this, marched right up to the attic and cried myself to sleep. In the morning when I asked Gran if she remembered what we’d been talking about the night before, she said she recalled nothing other than the exquisite taste of the wine. She told the cook that she’d be taking breakfast in her office and asked Hilda to bring her some painkillers.

That’s when I started working in the hotel. I became depressed, dropped out of university and started looking for a job. Gran told me to stop being ridiculous at first, but after a month of convincing she realized I was not going to budge and gave me a job as the head waitress in the hotel restaurant.

I was a terrible waitress and I could tell the other workers hated my guts. After all; I had never had a job before. I had to ask how to do things on multiple occasions and despite the fact that I’d lived in the house adjourned to the hotel all my life, I had no idea where anything was. Even though I was awful at the job, no one complained. They knew I was the owner’s grandchild and everyone was scared of Gran.

My days became monotonous. I went to work early for the breakfast shifts, had an afternoon nap during lunch and went back to work in the evenings for dinner shifts. At night I’d have dreams about running in dark alleyways, shouting for my mother. Sometimes I found her dead on the street, but usually I never found her. I always woke up in cold sweats and in the middle of panic attacks.

About four months after I started the job, I woke up from another nightmare and found Hilda sitting by my bed. I must have looked very afraid, because she shushed me and told me everything was okay.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

She came and sat on my bed, “I check on you most nights,” she explained, “You started screaming in your sleep a few months ago and I heard it all the way downstairs.”

I held my gaze, not knowing what to say, then, without warning, burst into tears. Hilda took hold of me and I wound myself tightly in her arms. I sobbed in this position as she stroked my hair. A while after I quieted down, she broke the silence, “I need to tell you something.”

I looked up, untangling myself from her, “Gran is not my grandmother,” I say.

“No, she’s not,” she nodded.

“Who is my mother?”

“Her name was Niara. She was an immigrant, and spoke very broken English. I only saw her a few times.”

“Why?”

“Gran found her in the streets one day when she was about 6 months pregnant with you. She was high on drugs and had no clue where she was. Gran took her in and put her up until you were born, paid for special nurses to help her manage the addiction, so you wouldn’t be stillborn. The first few months of your life, you were having drug withdrawals and had to be monitored every minute. It was a close call that you survived. Niara went to a rehabilitation center after you’d been born, promising to get her life back on track and Gran organized and paid for all of it. Niara’s favourite fruit was pears, and she planted the pear tree in front of the hotel as a symbol, so when Niara felt hopeless, she could think of the pear tree waiting for her. Gran hoped it would give her the strength to keep going and know that she would have something pleasant to come back to. Gran promised to take care of you until Niara returned.”

I looked at Hilda’s face, taking in the words she’d just said.

“Niara never returned. She ran away from the rehabilitation center just two weeks into it. There was a search party looking for her for years, but she was nowhere to be found. After then, Gran gave up on ever having her return. She knew you were now hers to raise and she didn’t ever want to hear Niara’s name uttered in the house,” Hilda let out a long sigh, “Niara’s body was found a few days after your twelfth birthday. You probably don’t remember this, but Gran spent a week locked in her study. She closed off to the world even more and the drink became her only companion.” I looked at the silent tears streaming down Hilda’s face. “We wanted to tell you when you turned sixteen, but after she died, Gran couldn’t bear to. She blamed herself for Niara’s death, blamed herself for ever giving up on her, for letting her go. And she was ashamed of herself for not telling you whilst Niara was still alive. I know it was wrong and we should have told you, but you know Gran, she’s a hard person to reason with. She was trying to do what was best for you. I am sorry.”

I close my eyes, put my hand on her arm and whisper through tears, “I forgive you.”

*

The next morning I woke up early, went into Gran’s room. There was a half full glass of brandy next to her bedside table. I looked at her sleeping face. For the first time I saw her for who she is. She was the woman who gave so much and took so little. I tiptoed to her bed, kissed her on the cheek, smiled and left the room.

I went outside and walked to the pear tree. The morning sun was streaming on it and as I stood underneath it, I saw the light beam through the leaves. Tiny raw pears dotted the branches. I wrapped my arms around the trunk tightly and closed my eyes as the emotion in my chest swelled, “Thank you for giving me life,” I said.