His way of confirming this feels like a late birthday present to me. He says, “I thought we could all go together one weekend, and I could take Cedar on a short hike. Teach him the trees.”
“Trees,” Cedar repeats, but he is so caught up in flooding his food with maple syrup, I doubt he’s really been listening and tracking our conversation.
After breakfast, I’m driving north, headed for Deerfield, for home. Cedar is in the backseat and somehow, magically, he has fallen asleep. Naps are rare for him, but I peek at the rearview mirror every now and then, and sure enough, I see he is slouched back there, his eyes closed, his head tilted toward one shoulder.
A tight curve presents itself in the road. I grip the steering wheel firmly as I turn into it, and as my hands are pressed into the rubbery material, something feels different. The road straightens again, my grip loosens, and I realize what it is.
My hands are bare. My fingers, naked. There is no ring on my left hand that would normally dig into my skin when I grip something. The ring that had encircled my finger for five years is no longer with me; it is stashed beneath an old barn, inside a box collecting dust.
In that moment, while driving, Cedar asleep in the back, I make a decision. It is a sudden decision, but it is a logical one, and I have made up my mind. At the next stop sign, where I am supposed to turn right in order to get to the farmhouse, I make a left.
◈ ◈ ◈
I park the car and kill the engine at the side of the road. I twist in my seat to look at Cedar. He is the reason I am here again, about to do what I’ve decided is the right thing. Cedar is still dozing peacefully, which is still bewildering to me. He must have really worn himself out after all the activity at my parents’ house. I have no idea how much longer he’ll stay asleep, so I’ll have to be fast. But that’s okay. This won’t take long.
As quietly as I can, I step out of the car and shut the door. I rotate my head around to make sure no one else is here, and as always, that appears to be the case. Cedar will be okay here for five minutes, and I’ll have a clear view of him the entire time.
I set out onto the meadow. The apple tree is up there in the distance, a gentle breeze playing with its leaves. The same breeze is causing my hair to flutter around my face. I’m walking briskly.
I am going to get my ring back. River instructed me to leave it there in the wooden box, underneath the barn’s floor, and I listened to him last night. But, this morning, while driving with my slumbering son in the back of the car, I have realized something.
River didn’t know about Cedar. When he made that To Do List, when he penned those final tasks for me to complete, he had no idea, no way of knowing, that I would get pregnant, that we would have a child together. River, still the wisest person I’ve ever known, was lacking vital information.
That’s what I have realized: I need to keep that emerald, because of Cedar. River was afraid that, at thirty years old, I might not have moved forward yet, that I might still be stuck in the past, my wedding ring binding me there. But the reality is, I have moved forward. Cedar, our son, has been and always will be the force that pushes me ahead, that continually drives me upward and outward.
And because I have Cedar, I want him to know and to see, every day, that his father is a permanently ingrained part of me, of him, of our lives.
I carry out the tasks quickly: fetch the key from the tree, open the box inside the barn. I retrieve my ring and replace the box. I go back up to the apple tree, peering over my shoulder at Cedar in the car, and ensure the key is securely back inside the knothole.
Before leaving, I allow myself a moment to behold the apple tree. The roots I cannot see, but there is its trunk, twisted and sturdy. Its branches, spreading high and wide. Vibrant leaves, scarlet fruit on the ground. I think about the seeds I spotted in one of the apple’s cores last night. Our tree has never looked more beautiful to me.
It’s time to get back to Cedar. While walking away from the tree, heading back to the car, I grasp the ring in my palm, curl my fingers around it in a fist. I know exactly what I will do with it. I am going to convert the emerald back into a necklace, back into its original form, just like it was when River gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. I will wear it around my neck every day, and Cedar will see it, and as he grows up, he will learn all that it means.
I am almost back to the car, but as I am passing the barn, I hear something that makes me stop in my tracks.
The sound I just heard has come from inside the old, white structure. I realize there’s something different about the barn. When I exited it not long ago, I had made sure the double-door panels were shut. But now, I see that one of the panels is open.
Another sound issues from inside. I take another step toward the open door. Through one of the glassless windows, I catch a glimpse of movement. A person. My breathing shallows. There is more noise, more movement, and then, he is there.
A man. Standing in the open doorway. He is wearing a pair of dirty jeans and a plain, white T-shirt. He has dark hair, high cheekbones. His head is angled down, but when he looks up, he sees me, and I see his eyes. Green, like garlands and pine and Christmas.
“Drew?” The timbre of his voice is immediately recognizable to me, if I hadn’t already recognized him by sight. “Drew Caldwell?”
“Aaron.”
A smile finds its way on his face, but the awe remains in his eyes. I can only imagine how shocked I look. Aaron Ingram is standing in front of me, in the meadow that holds the apple tree, in the doorway of the neglected barn.
“Wow,” he says, and he takes a step toward me. “How long has it been?”
“Twelve years,” I answer without having to think or do the math. My heart is heavily hammering inside me.
“Wow,” he says again.
“What are you doing here?” My question comes out soft and amiable, which I’m thankful for. I don’t feel that I have much control over my voice or brain or body at this point.
“I just moved back from Oregon,” he says.
I remember that, on my eighteenth birthday, River told me that Aaron was moving to Oregon for college.
“My grandfather owns this land.” He uses his gaze to indicate the whole meadow, including the apple tree. “Owned,” he continues. “He just passed away last month, my grandfather. He left all of this to me. So, here I am. I’m thinking maybe I should put this land to good use. Restore this old thing.” He lightly kicks at the barn’s door. “Maybe plant more fruit trees, get an orchard going. I’m not sure yet.”
His words have overwhelmed me, and I stand there, speechless, reminding myself not to buckle my knees, to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.
“And you?” Aaron doesn’t seem to mind my sudden lack of social skills, my silence that has stretched too long. “What are you doing here, Drew Caldwell?”
“Oh, I—”
But I’m not able to attempt explaining my presence here on his family’s land—I’m suddenly interrupted by something else. Someone else.
“Mom!”
Cedar has apparently woken from his slumber, unbuckled himself, opened the car door, and now he is running in my direction, a look of thrill written on his face. I notice that there is now a truck parked around the corner of the barn. Cedar reaches me, breathing hard. “Mom! Where are we? It’s so cool. Can we play here?”