Page 52 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Something about the scene, which feels perfect to me, seems to displease him, though, because he closes an eye and puts up a finger before disappearing into the kitchen. When he returns, he wordlessly holds out a tin of my favorite cookies—pumpkin spice snickerdoodles. I take one and dip it into the tea, and the crumbs soften instantly.

“Okay,” he says. “Now you’re comfortable?”

I’ve forgotten about the lumpy crumble. I’ve nearly forgotten that anything exists beyond this couch.

“I’m wearing pajamas and a warm blanket,” I say, motioning at my flannel nightdress topped with a robe. “I have tea and cookies. This is the literal peak of comfort.”

He nods, finally satisfied, and sets my phone in my lap. “It’s fully charged.”

I stare down at the scuffed device, suddenly overcome with the acute urge to leap off this couch and find something—anything—else to do but make this phone call.

“Sneaky,” I call as he eases from the room.

“Drink your tea,” he says before clicking the door shut.

I’m down to the last spicy dregs when I finally have the courage to dial. It’s Thursday, not Sunday, so when the video call connects, Mom says, “Ali. It’s a surprise to hear from you.”

Through the screen, I can see she’s in her sunroom, a spotless gardening apron over her pressed button-down. Her shoulders framed by a row of clean, terra-cotta pots and pristinely green plants. When I was a kid, there was never much room for decor in our U-Hauls. Our apartments stayed bare but for the basics: utilitarian furniture and that series of framed photos of my dad. The only other exception was Mom’s plants. Her one indulgence.

Mom’s looking into the phone now, her usual, obligatory eye contact at the beginning of our calls.

I sit up straighter. “Hey there, Mom. Is this an okay time to talk?”

She sets down the phone so she can peel off her suede gloves, revealing manicured nails—somehow always pristine despite all the gardening—and her plain, silver wedding band. She’s worn it every day I can remember, even though my dad died almost thirty years ago.

“You haven’t answered my calls recently,” she says as she busies herself with her African violets, drawing the pot onto the coffee table and plucking up a pair of tweezers to remove dead buds. I’m unlikely to get more than another couple of glances for the rest of the call.

“Right, yeah. I’m sorry about that. I’ve had a lot going on.”

She raises an eyebrow. Plucks another bud. “Oh? In September?”

She means because the weeks before harvest are supposed to be languid. Of course, she didn’t think I might mean I’ve had a lot going on emotionally.

But I’d rather not go down that rabbit hole with her.

I close my eyes and take a sip of Logan’s tea, pull the blanket tighter. “I’m calling because there have been some, uh, unusual happenings on the farm lately and I wanted to get your take.”

Without answering, Mom lifts a glass bottle and spritzes her leaves with a fine mist. I expected this. I also have anticipated the string of questions that will come next.

Which is why I nearly spit out my tea when she says, “I’ve been wondering when you might come to me with this.”

I cough to keep from choking.

Mom brushes a fleck of soil off the rim of her pot.

“I’m sorry. What?” The word comes out too high and loud and I nearly flinch, then modulate my tone. “Sorry. You’re saying you already know?”

She sniffs and looks at me. “I grew up on that farm, Ali. The land has been strangely afflicted since long before I was born.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When would you have liked me to tell you about it?” she asks pointedly.

“Uh, when I was a kid and spending summers on the farm? Last winter when I told you I was moving here?”