Chapter 3. So at the dinner table on the last day of school my 10th grade year, my dad and stepmom, Judy, are acting very weird. More so than usual. Like, why did they set out the good china? Why were the lights dimmed?
Why did they make my younger stepbrother, Bear, put on pants before he came to the table? What I didn't know was that this was a send-off dinner. It was me they were sending off for the summer. The whole summer.
Only I didn't know it. Apple, my dad starts, what are your plans for the summer? Yes, dear.
Now, I think it would be good if you visited, Judy begins to say. Well, Ed, I cut in, but as soon as I see he whose face would turn cement, I change my tune. Dad, I'm thinking of, um, well, see, my plans are in motion.
What can I say? I have no idea what my summer plans are. I never have summer plans that don't include running away from my pesky brother, swimming in a boatload of spending money that I call my dad's guilt offering after his years with Jim Beam, and just plain relaxing after a school year trying desperately to fit in but never quite making it. I look back and forth between my dad and Judy. There's something going on.
Usually Judy jumps when I look around the table thinking I need something. My dad continues. Apple, Judy and I were thinking. I look up for my mountain of peas, which are blissfully parted away from my chicken. I really don't like my food to touch.
Ever. You were thinking, that's good, Dad. Well, yes. You know, every summer I need to go back to the University of Minnesota Medical School for its annual conference.
Yeah, Dad, Bear and I will promise not to fight this time over who gets to keep the gift bags if they have models of cancer-ridden organs. Bear spits his food out, adding, But, Dad, that tar-covered lung- was last year was awesome. Judy chimes in.
Now kids, your father is trying to talk. My stepmom has a sibilant S, so when she speaks, it sounded like a teapot whistling Dixie. If she gets really wound up, her S's would attract all the neighborhood birds. Seriously.
Once, a blue jay plowed into our living room window trying to fly to her sibilant S. For some reason, I was the only one who found that funny. She caused a bird to commit suicide.
That's funny, right? So, dad continues, while looking at Bear and me, this year, Judy and I were thinking that you could spend some time with your grandparents. Since he's looking at Bear too, I'm assuming he means Judy's parents.
Lame. Judy's parents, May and Jed Silver, are the only grandparents I really know, since my dad's passed away before I knew them. Don't get me wrong, I like Judy's folks and everything, even if technically they're my step-grandparents or something like that.
But they're missionaries. Out on a mission. Their mission seems to be a bit off, though. Last year, they sent swim floaties and goggles to the starving children of Africa.
Yes, that Africa, where there's little water to swim in. Great, I choke out. Grandma and Grandpa Silver are, um, so wholesome.
Dad stammers. Well, now, Apple. Bear will go there, but we were thinking, yes, we were hoping, Judy whispers almost inaudibly, that you should want to go visit your grandparents in North Dakota.
I just sat and stared at my dad. What did he just say? I'm sorry, what?
Who should I visit? He pats me on the head with a defeated look in his eyes. Well. It's just important that you get to know your mother's side, Apple. Since I didn't belong to any social scene, I only put up a pretend teen protest when the dinner table conversation turns into my dad suggesting I spend some quality time read, they want a reprieve from me, with various relatives.
I can't believe it. They're giving me the boot. Now, don't get me wrong, who doesn't like spending time with grandma and pa?
Except for the fact that I haven't seen my grandparents since my mom died. Actually, I've never seen them. Remember I told you that? Yeah, my mom, real mom, died when I was born. I wish I could remember her, but whenever I ask questions about her, my dad says, oh Apple, let's not bring that up.
It will upset you. Oh, that's right. I promised I'd tell you why I named after a fruit. Apparently the story goes like this.
My real mother went into early labor when she was only eight months pregnant with me. She got into a bad car accident and had to be rushed to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, where my dad used to work as a surgeon in the town where mom taught school. It's a famous, world-renowned hospital where only the seriously ill patients go. Because of the trauma of the car crash, my mom started to go into labor quickly. Luckily, I wasn't injured during the crash, but she was.
She died exactly 11 minutes after I was born. I came into this world just as she was leaving. My dad only told me this once because he never talks about her. Never.
He did, however, let me know the last thing my mom ever said was something like, My fille, les pommes de mailloux. That's supposedly a bad and rough translation in French for my girl, the apple of my eye. Why was my mom speaking French?
See, my mom grew up in a little town in North Dakota called Moranville. It's 14 miles from the Canadian border and smack dab in the middle of the Turtle Mountain Chippewa Indian Reservation. Yep, she was a real live Native American.
She actually spent a lot of time with her grandmother. from the time she was two years old. The brief and simple history of this reservation is that its people are descended from Chippewa Indians and French fur traders, so they have a mixed heritage. I guess a lot of people on that reservation used to speak both French and the local dialect of the Chippewa, or the correct term Ojibwe. Her parents worked all week, so during the day my mom's grandma would babysit.
Mom's grandmother Elizabeth spoke Michif. Language which is a blend of Cree and French, with some Ojibwe words thrown in for good measure. The mixed band of natives were called Métis, the French word for mixed, but the tribe also called themselves Michif.
It's confusing a little, but I sort of like having more than one name to call yourself. On this reservation, the French words aren't pronounced the same. Their French words sound different, same spelling but a distinct way of saying them. The internet says the Turtle Mountain Michif. is the only native language in America that's a creole or mixture of language.
Sorry, I need to stay on track. Grandma Elizabeth also spoke French, which makes sense that my mother spoke French before she even spoke her first English word. Mom could navigate between the Michif language and French and always knew which was which, my dad says. I remember everything he's ever told me about her. It's not much, but it's all I have.
I've heard that when people are about to die, Their minds work backwards and the person starts reverting back to their first language. My mother's native tongue was Michif and French. In a nutshell, that's why my mother's last words weren't in English.
Back to that story. After mom gave birth to me, the nurse cleaned me up and laid me on her stomach. Those in the office operating room said my mother looked at me and laughed while saying something that sounded like, my fee la pomme de me you, my girl, the apple of my eye.
One time last year, I asked my French teacher if this sounded like the right phrase. She said she didn't think so, but wasn't sure. In the delivery room, the nurse who was holding my mom's hand understood enough rudimentary high school French, and somehow, after my mom passed away a few minutes later, took it to mean my name was supposed to be Apple.
Nice. What really upsets me is having to pretend that my real mom never existed. I want to ask if people remember her the way my images of her are. Did the room really get brighter when she walked in? Did she really have magic in her voice that made her heart warm instantly?
Did her eyes laugh when she saw me? And finally, do you blame me for her death? A million unanswered questions.
This story, the only one that my dad would tell me, became an obsession. I couldn't get over the fact that my mom was dead. In a box.
Rotting away in a grave. Mixing with worms and dirt. Which is why I never ever step foot in a cemetery.
The thought of decaying bodies just inches from the surface nauseates me. The last time my dad tried to take me to a funeral, I screamed bloody murder when they lowered the casket in the grave. I spun around and did hopscotch moves, jumping over tombstones to avoid dead earth. You could say I have issues, but I prefer to say it's just part of my charm. Passing the lasagna around at the big send-off dinner, and after giving A meaningful glance at Judy.
My dad sighs and tries again. Apple, it's high time you spend time with your mother's family. Your real grandparents.
I... I want you to get to know them. This summer will be the perfect opportunity. Judy and I will be away in Minneapolis organizing the conference, and Bear will still be going to his grandparents. Judy and I were hoping to do some traveling after the conference.
Sort of like the honeymoon we never had. So... Dad looks at me. Apple, maybe when you're up there and feel able to, you can visit your mother's gravesite. No, I cut him off.
He can't go there. Not the grave thing. Not hers.
You know, I just, well, cemeteries and grave sites are, well, I can't do it. I'm sorry, Dad. I can't believe what he's saying.
For years, he wouldn't even acknowledge my mother's name. He couldn't even answer questions about what my mom looked like, sounded like, acted like. And now he wants me to be happy? to spend time with people I don't even know? And who probably blame me for the death of their daughter?
And yet, I might finally get some answers? And could I actually meet people who look like me? So, I said the only thing I could, after swallowing and hiding my pain at the thought of my mother in a grave.
When do we leave, and do they have cable?