Cherry Land Chapters

Illustration by Nik Garvoille

“I just want to point out that we are the youngest people in this church,” whispers Lizzie, reeking of Juicy Couture and aloe vera. Amber notices flecks of peeling skin in her sister’s hairline. “It’s like I never left Door County,” she says.

Amber’s mother, Lorie, wipes beads of sweat from beneath her bronze bangs while grandma Margaret purses her pink lips and adjusts the gold-framed glasses sliding down her sloping nose. “Pray for him girls,” she murmurs, fingering the pearl beads of her rosary, gold bracelets jangling. “Damn idiot.”

A sea of white hair shimmers like halos around the heads of the congregation as the priest donning a crisp robe chants meekly beneath an oversized crucifix.

“Why don’t they hand out fans?” whispers Amber. “In movies they always have fans in the South.”

“This isn’t 1940,” laughs Lizzie. The congregation lowers slowly to the padded knee rests. Amber adjusts her flouncy skirt while her mother bites the tips of her fingernails.

“We are probably the only 20-somethings in church…in Florida…on spring break,” says Amber.

“Talk to your father about that,” her mother answers. “I’m ready to go home.”

“One more day,” says Amber.

Margaret leans over Lizzie’s denim skirt. “Remember to take your purses with you for communion. You can’t trust some of these people.”

“It’s hard to pray when others are talking,” comes a curt voice a pew behind.

•••

Four days prior Amber, Lizzie, Lorie, and Greg, sporting brand new flip flops and Wisconsin white skin, were whisked away from Orlando International Airport to the familiar home of grandma Margaret and grandpa Robert: the crucifix adorned with tiny seashells still hung between the two twin beds in the guest bedroom, the pool still wafted the scent of too much chlorine, and a pitcher of iced tea still sweated on the patio table. There the adults congregated while Amber and Lizzie flipped through People and OK! magazines poolside, stretched out on neon vinyl chairs. The sun seeped into their pores as they reveled in ‘getting away:’ “I’m just sick of everyone,” said Amber.

“Me too,” said Lizzie.

“It’s the same thing every weekend, the same people and everyone has something to say about everyone,” continued Amber, while analyzing celebrity Oscar dresses. “What makes me sad is I’ll never have a chance to wear a dress like this,” she pointed to Penelope Cruz’s silky blue princess gown.

“They said that was one of the worst dresses,” said Lizzie, closing her glossy magazine, then her hazel eyes, “I brought my advanced chem textbook,” she ran her fingers through her blonde hair, “I don’t think I’ll open it all week,” she inhaled and exhaled, “We should go to the beach.”

“It’s going to be an obnoxious scene – a bunch of Wisconsin boys getting drunk on Bud Light Lime.”

“Let’s do it,” Lizzie sat up. “Come on, before the cards come out.”

Robert rubbed his thinning gray hair to one side of his pink skull as he emerged through the whining screen door with a bag of dimpled oranges. “Where you girls going?”

“The beach,” said Lizzie.

“No, no, not yet. You gotta try these oranges – the juiciest oranges. I get them from an ethnic family.”

“Hispanics?” asked Lorie, squirting a white dollop of sunscreen in her palm.

“I still don’t know what that means,” laughed Robert, passing out oranges. “Is that Mexicans or Puerto Ricans or Cubans or just ‘em all?”

“You got any gin?” asked Greg, sitting shirtless on a plastic chair as Lorie smeared SPF 30 over his freckled back. “This is the official start to our vacation.”

“Hon, your father’s not drinking,” said Margaret, sucking on an orange slice.

“Well now, why’d you have to go and say it like that?” Robert set his half-peeled orange on the table with enough force to shake the legs of the plastic table, tense the backs, arms, and weak smiles of Amber, Lizzie, Lorie, and Greg.

“You’re not,” said Margaret, matter-of-factly.

“Here comes my boy and his family and you got to say it like you’re an AA sponsor!” Redness spread up Robert’s wrinkled neck, up his high cheekbones.

“You gave it up for lent,” Margaret spit out an orange seed, “Now stop with the scene!” She turned towards Lizzie and Amber, “You girls should stop next door. I’m sure Mary said their grandchildren we’re visiting for spring break. They’re about your age, I think.”

“You gave up alcohol for lent?” asked Greg. “You’re from Wisconsin.”

“You make us sound like alcoholics,” said Lorie, wiping her greasy hands over her narrow calves.

“I’m making us some drinks,” said Robert.

“Fine,” said Margaret, “You break your promise to God, I’ll break my promise to you. I’ll tell them what you did!”

“Don’t do it, Margaret.”

“You’re father got kicked out of his favorite golf course.”

“Margaret!”

“He did. He and his friend Terri were making a raucous after a few too many.”

“Margaret, that’s enough.”

“He insulted the drink lady and then ran the golf cart into a tree.”

“Grazed!” shouted grandpa. “Grazed, Margaret! We said we weren’t gonna talk about this.”

“Well, I’m talking about it. I’m talking about it. I’m talking about it!”

“Can we borrow the car?” whispered Lizzie.

•••

The ladies knelt and prayed while father and son searched for another golf course. “Pray for him,” whispers Margaret, who spent the last four days in virtual silence, while Lorie read The Help beside a pitcher of lukewarm iced tea, Greg drank gin and tonics with his sinful father, and Amber and Lizzie escaped to the beach, to the crowd of 20-somethings offering them Corona, their sandy beach towels, and free sunscreen applications. “You’re looking a little red on the shoulders, sweetheart.” Exhausting.

Amber studies her sister’s red nail polish gripping the wooden pew on one side and her mother’s wrinkled elbow on the other side. A vibration hums beneath the knee rest. “Crap, sorry,” says Amber, reaching in her purse and opening her phone: “I’m standing outside our place. A giant bird is inside. Brian and Casey are upstairs with a bat and a fishing net! Come home!” Amber smiles, closes her phone, then her eyes.

“Was that Brian?” whispers Lizzie.

“No,” Amber smiles, “Katie.”

“I prayed for you. I prayed you would one day wear a dress like Penelope Cruz.”

Amber laughs, “I prayed you would pass school. And I prayed grandpa wouldn’t get wasted and crash another golf cart.” Lizzie tries to suppress a giggle.

“It’s hard to pray when others are laughing,” comes the curt voice from behind.