THE PAIR TREES

THE PAIR TREE

PEAR TREE CHALLENGE

Our hands moved as one towards the ribbon, Penelope’s steady, mine shaking.

My twin hesitated. “Peony, you go first,” she said.

“No, twin code, Sis. We do this together.” I looked her straight in the eyes. Once upon a time, it would have been like looking into a mirror. But now, after months of chemo, surgeries and every natural, holistic and experimental treatment Mom could find, I knew what Pen saw, our shared face on my body was too thin, my eyes sunken, my scalp bald.

“Together always,” she said in a fierce whisper for my ears only. It was our slogan, our code, our promise to each other that we would always have each other’s backs. We had said it when Dad went out for cigarettes and never came home, and again when we learned he was living with a new girlfriend and had started a new family. We found strength in the words when Grandpa died, when Mom lost her job and we had to leave our comfortable city apartment to go to live with Grandma on her farm full of new, scary and mysterious animals. But now, even as she said it and I nodded in agreement, we knew our always would soon end.

Again our hands moved together, mine wasted and bony, hers tending towards plumpness. We each grabbed an end of the ribbon and pulled. Suddenly we were no longer two too-old-for-our-years young ladies, but once again we were thirteen year olds eagerly ripping off the wrapping paper, laughing, guessing what surprise could be inside such a big box.

The present was from Granny and she always gave the most unique gifts. As we had just become teenagers, she had no doubt found something that would reflect that new status, but nothing as mundane as makeup, dresses, luggage or electronics. When we were five, she took us to an amusement park famous for its mouse mascot and arranged a luncheon with its reigning princesses. At eight we decided we would grow up to be marine biologists and Granny took us to a water park to swim with dolphins.

But what do you buy for identical twins, one looking forward to a new maturity, the other facing death? We had no idea, and never would have guessed what we saw when the wrapping paper fell away.

“Oh,” Pen said, then trying to hide the disappointment, “they’re...lovely.”

“Yes,” I managed to add, “very...nice. Thank you.”

Gran giggled, “It’s a pair of pear trees. One for each of you to plant and tend.”

Okay, I got it, a “pair” of matching trees for a “pair” of identical twins. It’s not like we hadn’t heard all the jokes and stupid twin questions before. But this was Gran, there was more to this than we were seeing.

“We can plant them on the hill next to the ash tree.”

“Mother!” our mom exploded at her Mom. With tears in her eyes and so angry she almost squeaked when she spoke, she continued, “That is so inappropriate, what the hell are you thinking…”

“It’s ok, Mom, it’s ok.” I could only whisper the words, my heart was racing and it was getting hard to breathe. Penelope was on her feet in an instant, running to Mom and throwing her arms around her, calming her, reassuring her.

Gran was at my side just as fast. “A little too much excitement, eh? Let’s get you back to bed.”

Perhaps an hour later the household was settled. Mom and Gran came into our room where I was resting and Pen was sitting faithfully at my bedside.

“Your mom and I have had a talk,” Gran announced. Mom said nothing, but the red eyes and tear tracks on her cheeks spoke for her.

Gran reminded us how the ash tree was planted to mark my grandfather, Asher Brookfield’s, final resting place. It had taken Gran over a year to get permission to bury Grandpa on our property. As soon as his remains had been transferred from the county cemetery, Gran had planted the ash tree in his memory, and then next to it a rose bush for herself, Rose Brookfield.

A few years later a magnolia tree appeared near Gran’s rose bush. We had been upset at first, but our mom, Maggie, explained that while she wasn’t planning on dying any time soon, when her time came she would be buried by her parents. So why not plant her tree now while she could still enjoy it.

“Peony, you and I have had some very frank discussions,” Gran said to me, but her words and unbroken stare at my mom told me she was really talking to her. “You know the cancer you have is very aggressive and the survival rate is very low. I hope, and I pray every day, that you are a survivor. But we have also discussed that you may not be. And that is what these trees represent.

“One day, they will mark your grave, be it next year or eighty or a hundred years from now. Until then, I want you to continue to grow, spread your branches, enjoy every sunny day, be grateful for every rainy one, endure all the dark ones and experience as much life as you can.”

I felt Pen slip her hand into mine, I didn’t need to look, we knew each other’s minds. I turned to Mom, the tears were flowing freely now, but she nodded her agreement and even forced a small smile.

Gran just grinned.

Today, ten years later, I sit under my pear tree visiting Grandpa and Gran. She passed away five years ago peacefully in her sleep. She had lived long enough to see me beat the odds and pass the five year mark to be declared a cancer survivor.

Then I turn to Pen and bring her up to date on my life. How I graduated yesterday with a degree in marine biology. I had thought about continuing on to get my doctorate, but I am too excited to get on with my life to sit in a classroom any more. Proudly I display the engagement ring on my finger and tell her all about my fiance. Of course I have told her about him before, but I am in love and just want to talk about him.

I thank her again for saving my life and beg her forgiveness that the bone marrow transplant that saved my life led to the infection that took hers. I think of our 13th birthday and how everyone was focused on the possibility of losing me, never thinking that in less than a year Pen would be gone, forever resting under her pair/pear tree.

As always, I shed tears, pick the fruit from our trees, and tidy the sites. One day soon I will plant three more trees. An oak for my husband, a strong man who has sheltered and protected me. And two for the children growing in my belly. What trees, I wonder, will I choose for little Penelope and Penn. I only know they will be a pair.