Welcome to the Advent Calendar Story Train, where you can read through 24 stories under the theme The Gift. Thank you for reading today’s story. The next one will be available to read on December 14th, titled “Emily“. This link will be active tomorrow when the post goes live.
If you missed yesterday’s story as part of the Advent Calendar Story Train, you can read it here
Heart Unwrapped by Jaya Avendel
He does little things to amuse himself. Knitting, sewing, even yoga. He does these things to amuse himself but mostly he does them because he is lonely.
There is a photograph on his bedside table of an apple tree. It is burdened with red fruit, yet it holds itself upright proudly. The date on the photo is written on it in permanent marker. 5.10.15.
The day he lost her.
Mr. Martin Ginsburg lives alone. He does not go to the orchard anymore. His sister, Vanessa, wants him to “face his demons”. She is a therapist, programmed to say certain things. Martin does not mind his sister, but he does not care for her advice.
Martin molds red apples out of wax. He gives them stems and hints at glorious leaves. They are apples deserving of Eve, perfect to look at. People would buy his wax fruits. The wax apples are not for sale.
Vanessa tells him he should date again. “You need to put yourself out there,” she says. “You might find someone.”
Martin does not want anyone.
Vanessa creates an online dating profile for him. She Photoshops a smile onto his face and puts ‘apple picking’ as one of his interests. No one on the platform sends him a heart. No one even sends him a nudge.
Until she comes.
Poppy Haven shows up on his front doorstep one afternoon unexpectedly. Martin suspects she found him on the dating site, and that Vanessa approved her visit without his consent. He cannot turn her away; she is his age with a white smile and hopeful eyes. He invites her inside for a cup of tea. The sound of her shoes on the floor jolt him into realizing he is not alone today.
Poppy clasps her bony hands behind her and wanders through his living room. It is a small room, and every corner is filled with antique furniture. Old tables and chests create spaces for his wax apples.
Martin boils water and prepares a tray with biscuits. He carries the tea to the small tea table in the center of the living room and sits down in his chair. Poppy sits opposite him in a wicker chair slashed with sunshine.
Poppy takes an orange out of her silk purse. It is a knitted orange, round and plump. “I lost someone too,” she says. Her voice is light, and she is pretty with blue eyes and white hair.
Martin jolts upright. He stares at her. She understands. He wonders if her home is a sanctuary for yarn oranges in the same way he finds comfort in wax apples.
Poppy takes a photo in a gilded silver frame out of her bag. The picture is of an orange tree and the date is written in a corner of the photo with permanent marker. 6.12.18.
“The day I lost him,” Poppy says. “I have not been back to the orange grove since.” She sips her tea, but it is growing cold.
“I have not been back to the apple orchard since,” Martin admits.
“We should go,” Poppy says. “The tea is stale.”
Martin shakes his head. “I cannot. I wonder—if her ghost still lurks there.”
She gives him an ultimatum. “I will go if you go.”
Martin hesitates. He had planned to fill the next few hours with yoga.
Poppy notices him looking at his neat stack of yoga magazines on a small table under the window to their left. She remarks, “We subscribe to the same magazine.” She nibbles a sugar biscuit to take the bitter taste of the tea out of her mouth. “I almost did not come today. I planned to paint my orange tree.”
“I want to sketch my apple tree,” Martin says suddenly. He looks down.
“You do not remember what it looks like,” Poppy says. “I have the same trouble.”
Martin stands up. “Let’s go. You’re right. The tea is stale.”
“I brought my painting supplies,” Poppy says. “Just in case.”
Martin picks up a notepad and tucks a pencil from the hall table behind his ear. He locks the house door behind him and Poppy. They go separate ways to their cars in the gravel drive and drive in opposite directions. His is the only car in the parking lot of the apple orchard. Martin gets out into crisp air and wraps his scarf more tightly around his neck.
He walks down into the orchard. The trees are pruned and beautiful, ripe with fruit and glowing in the sunshine. He sees mountains in the distance as he steps onto the paths made between the fading green grass under the trees. It is quiet here.
Martin comes to his tree. He looks up at it; it moves, breathes, and winks at him.
The branch that fell and killed Sarah five years ago has been removed, but Martin sees it in his mind. He sees her lying crushed, watches the hate die from her eyes, and remembers the sense of freedom he felt without her.
She owned his mind and would not let him go. The tree freed him. He swears it felt his pain and cut down Sarah where she stood as she reached for an apple with cruelty in her eyes.
Martin touches the tree. He has done everything to worship it, to thank it except come. He picks an apple. It is red and mottled. Imperfect. Better than his wax fruits.
Martin sits down with his back to the tree. He eats his apple and sketches the bold limbs of his savior. He leaves the orchard jubilant.
Martin meets Poppy back at his home. They stare at each other with their feet planted in the gravel path.
Martin holds out his sketch of the apple tree. Poppy takes it and gives him her crude painting of an orange tree dotted with topaz fruits. No words are spoken. None are needed.
As a reminder, Emily will be available to read tomorrow. The link will go active tomorrow when the post goes live.
If you missed yesterday’s story as part of the Advent Calendar Story Train, you can read it here.