The Exploding Pear Tree

“Never go near that pear tree, some of them explode, and you could lose your hands.”

Thinking back that always makes me laugh, my grandma’s absurd plea for my sister and I not to encroach on the most prized feature of her back garden. She could’ve just trusted us to respect her wishes rather than concoct such an elaborate warning, but I suppose given how much we used to mess around on those long summer afternoons she had to scare us into obeying, especially considering how young we both were when she first came out with it.

It became a staple comment of our future visits, whenever we’d be lacing up our trainers to go and tear around her massive garden. “Remember to stay away from that pear tree, I just saw one explode this very morning when a blackbird landed on it, God rest his soul.”

Dad just laughed it off the only time we ever said to him, probably when we still actually believed it, before in time speculating between the two of us that it was simply so we wouldn’t go climbing and picking those extra-juicy pears our grandma would cook into all sorts of pastries. Like I said, she could’ve just trusted us, but if she wanted to persevere with the exploding pear tree then who were we to spoil her fun?

We kept up the pear gaff, my sister and I, our grandma’s only grandchildren, right up until she had to move out of that house after taking a tumble down the stairs one night, breaking both legs and bashing her head pretty bad. Doctors said for a woman of her age, late-sixties at the time, she was very lucky to survive.

Dad didn’t hesitate in getting our grandma the best care possible - an assisted living home some 70 miles away. He said the ones closest to us weren’t up to standard, and as a result of the distance our visits to see her became even more infrequent than they were before.

Life went on. My sister and I would always inform one another whenever one of us happened to see a pear tree, and we’d always laugh at the ludicrous nostalgia of those childhood summers; one memory in particular of us stealthily - or so we thought - creeping up to the vicinity of the pear tree, only to hear a banging on the window way behind us, and our grandma then calling for us to stay back. That was the closest we ever got, from then on always aware she’d be sat in her armchair by the dining room window, which overlooked the entire garden. Wherever we went, with the exception of a couple of chucky conifers, we’d have eyes on us at all times.

**

One night at dinner last week dad was unusually quiet, which my sister and I acknowledged through our sibling eye code, and he finally came out with he had something to tell us; that our grandma had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, and was deteriorating fast. She had started displaying a number of common symptoms a few months prior, and had been tested once, then again for absolute confirmation, which returned the terrible news. Dad didn’t go into any more detail than he needed to, as he sat there, staring at his untouched pie and mash, one hand wrapped around his cheek, close to tears, understandably.

After a few minutes of silence my sister spoke up. “I want to go and see her.”

Dad looked up. “No, Frankie, no. I don’t want you to remember her this way.”

As expected, my sister screwed up her face. Despite being 18 months younger than me, she had always been the more vocal sibling, not afraid to back down or speak up, whereas I tended to let things slide.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

I saw dad clench his fist. He’d had backchat before, but even I believed this was overstepping the mark, not to mention his heightened emotional state. “It bloody is,” he snapped, “when it involves my mum. You’d be good remembering that, and respecting what I say. You’re not going, I’m not taking you, end of discussion.”

My sister didn’t see it that way. “Dad, this is ridiculous. We must’ve only seen her four times in all the years she’s been in that home, not even once every Christmas.” She was in full flow now. “And if you won’t take us, then we’ll make our own way, won’t we, Jay?” She looked at me, taking me by surprise. I nodded, slowly. I had to agree.

Dad shook his head and huffed. “Well, you can’t. She’s not in that home anymore. I made arrangements to move her to a more specialist one as soon as I found out.”

“You did that and didn’t tell us?”

“Do you know how heartbreaking that was? Do you have any idea? Telling you and Jay wasn’t exactly top of my priorities until I knew she was settled.”

This only riled my sister up even more. “Well, I wouldn’t keep it a secret from my own kids, from the only family I’ve got. Tell us where she is, dad. Tell us where she is now and…”

I saw his clenched fist rise and - almost in slow-motion - slam down on the table. Crockery rattled and my sister shut up. “Enough,” he snarled, then softened his tone. “I don’t want you going there, either of you, confusing her even more.”

We said nothing, and he slid back on his chair, stood up, and began walking towards the door.

“So we can’t even go, even if it’s just to say goodbye?”

He didn’t even look around, and just carried on out of the door. “No.”

End of discussion, a very one-sided discussion, just like when we were little kids.

**

It’s now a week later, and just after we’d taken the bus into the city for our respective daily grind, my sister told me I wasn’t going to work today; she wasn’t heading to university; that we were heading to the train station for an important visit.

She revealed she’d skipped her classes two days prior, and taken a train and a short bus ride to the home our grandma used to be in, after failing to extract any confidential information from them over the phone. She found out where our grandma had been moved to, somewhere much closer to us it turned out, and we were heading there today, before our dad had the chance to find out and stop us.

I felt sick, quite apt for then phoning work and explaining as much, apologising for the short notice, but I knew we had to do this. I couldn’t let my sister down, and especially while there was still a chance that our grandma would remember us.

We barely spoke during the journey, which wasn’t like us. Even the twenty minute walk from the station we disembarked at was quite possibly the most uncomfortable extended silence there has ever been between my sister and I. We both subconsciously - and silently - stopped at one red traffic light, despite being on foot, only starting off again when it transitioned to green. Under normal circumstances we’d have found that hilarious, but not today. Neither of us knew what to expect upon arriving at this new home. We were both scared, like hearing about the exploding pear tree for the first time all over again.

**

We sat facing my grandma. This was after my sister had kicked up a fuss with the receptionist who didn’t have it on file that our grandma had grandchildren.

Dad had been right, she had deteriorated at an unbelievable rate, scarcely recognisable from the woman once banging on her dining room window to remind us of our pear tree promise; she was almost skeletal in her fragility, with a drained pale face, and wispy hair thinning to baldness.

As she lay there, upright in her bed, staring into the nothingness in front of her, it was apparent that - judging by her complete absence of acknowledgement, enthusiasm, and conversation following our entrance - she didn’t recognise us at all.

I noticed her wheelchair at the foot of her bed. I’d almost forgotten she hadn’t been able to walk since her accident a decade ago. So not only had her misfortune been cruel enough to take away her ability to walk, it was now depleting her mind as well, sapping away more than her independence, extracting everything that made her human, that made her our grandma.

My sister couldn’t hold back her tears as she desperately tried to elicit some sort of response. “Grandma,” she said, over and over. “Grandma, it’s us, Frankie and Jamie. We’re your grandchildren, we’re Bernard’s kids.”

She carried on in the same vein, saying whatever came into her mind, most of it indistinguishable through her sobs. I fought back tears of my own through challenging swallows, and eventually gripped my sister’s arm to gently bring her back into her seat. None of this was working. Our grandma just stared ahead, oblivious and emotionless. Which of us would be the first to admit this was a mistake?

“We’re going to go now, grandma,” my sister said, the pitch of her voice wobbling in all directions, and her eyes plastered with tears, unable to persevere for a minute longer. “I… I… I’d give anything to hear you warn us about that… that exploding pear tree again, just one more…” She stopped, and I looked up from my feet. Our grandma had turned her head. Her eyes were narrowed and fixated on my sister, who seemed to be holding her breath.

“The exploding pear tree,” our grandma whispered, and faintly smiled, before her face snapped back to the emotionless frown. “Those bloody kids digging around the pear tree, burying their bloody bags under the pear tree.”

My sister and I exchanged a look. “Grandma, we never did that to the pear tree. You never let us go near it, remember?”

She continued as though my sister hadn’t spoken. “When he told me there would be more, I said I wanted him to stop. I said he had kids, for the love of God. Either he had to stop, or I would no longer keep quiet.”

“Who, grandma? Who?” My sister’s voice seemed to resonate around the room as some kind of abstract sense started falling into place. I was still gripping her arm, unintentionally no longer a gentle squeeze.

Our grandma’s face squashed into a frown; her chapped lips rolled inwards, as though she was straining to think, to remember.

Suddenly her mouth flew open, and her eyes were wide. “Bernard,” she mouthed, then said it again. “Bernard. I told him to stop, with the drugs. I threatened to call the police, and he… he…” Her face was suddenly a mask of horror, even worse than the vacant expression we had walked in and been greeted with. “He threw me down those stairs. He did that. Oh, I remember, he did that. He…”

I tuned out. I knew my sister was staring in my direction, and I didn’t know if I could look her in the eye right now, but where else could I look? What else could I think? This was my life, our lives, changing on a dime. I wanted us to face this together, to be in this together. I needed it.

I looked at her. She was actually looking beyond me, at the doorway. I turned, and saw dad standing there. My body went weightless with numbness. I could only feel my somersaulting stomach as I looked up into his dark eyes.

He glanced one way, then the other, along the corridor, then stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“I told you not to come, now before we do anything we regret, I think we all need to have another little chat.”