Fruit of Life

I am sitting cross-legged, my back leaning against the strong trunk of the pear tree in front of the family home. The sun is shining, the heat of summer causing sweat to roll down my spine. My throat is dry, and I long for something to drink, but I am stuck out here. Again I am locked out of the house, kept from the cooling comfort of the air-conditioning and television, waiting. I am thirteen, and this has been my life for as long as I have remembered. It is the consequence of unreliable parents.

I glance at my wristwatch, a cheap Timex I found at Walmart, and sigh. My mother was supposed to be home hours ago before I even finished the summer program at the library down the street. It has been like this the entire summer. Unkept promises plague me. I should be grateful they continue to provide me with food and water, a place to sleep, but I want more. I look around the neighborhood to the other children laughing with their parents, playing in sprinklers and on swing sets. I want that. I want to feel loved. In reality, I feel more and more like the pear tree I am sitting under.

From the moment we moved in, the tree has been there. Every spring, it flowers, but it has never managed to produce fruit. I was four then, and I remember my parents angrily trying to get the tree to sprout fruit. Eventually, they stopped screaming at it and chose to ignore it instead. In a way, they did the same with me, screaming at me until they eventually got bored with it. I look up to the green leaves, gently blowing in the light breeze that does nothing to help with the heat and humidity. Rain is on the wind, and I fight the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes. I refuse to cry over them, but it wouldn’t be the first time I was left out in the rain.

I see the black BMW my neighbor drives pull into their driveway, a happy couple getting out. They wave, and I offer my best smile, though I know it is meek.

“You alright?” The blonde woman calls to me, and I can only nod. I’ve learned not to make a scene, not to allow others to see my weaknesses. Immediately I see the concern on her face. “How long have you been locked out? It’s sweltering out here.”

I shrug. “It’s not that bad,” I say, but even I hear the crack in my voice. Her face softens more if that’s even possible. I want to climb up the tree, hide from the world, and escape the confrontation from overly concerned neighbors. This will only cause me trouble with my parents, and that is the last thing I want. Before I can stop her, the woman approaches, a kind smile trying to reassure me. I’m old enough to know it is a feeble attempt to hide the pity building in her. I should be used to it, but it always bothers me.

“What’s your name?”

“Savanah,” I say, trying to offer a smile, though I fear it comes across as more terrified than kind.

“Well, Savanah, would you like to come over and wait for your parents at our house? I can make us some lemonade.”

I hesitate. I shouldn’t go. I know it will cause trouble, but I’m thirsty, and a cool place to wait for them sounds terrific. I want to get out from underneath this pear tree and into a home with friendly people. I hate my indecisiveness, the fear of punishment. But, I hate my parents more. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

I grab my bag and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from my shorts. “I’m Vanessa, and that’s Mark. We’ve seen you around and want you to know you are always welcome to come over anytime.” I nod. It is the first time I have felt wanted, and it is a powerful feeling. Instead of being shouted at, if the tree felt this loved, this appreciated, maybe it would finally produce fruit. After all, I’ve read you attract more flies with honey. I want to feel this more, to embrace it, and I smile, for the first time, a genuine smile. This is turning out to be a perfect day.