Chapter Two
WHEN ALL IS SAID AND done, Charlie is fine. Mostly.
He is fine in that his broken ankle is expected to heal in anywhere from six to eight weeks. He is fine in that his wife, Gwen, has been doting on him since he left the hospital.
He is not fine in that he is physically incapacitated and panicking about the several hundred thousand litres of cider currently in various states of the initial fermentation. He is not fine in that he still refuses to acknowledge that he might need to take a few steps back to heal.
I visited him as soon as he got home from the ER.
Gwen led me into their living room, where I was met with sounds of distress that had nothing to do with his pain and everything to do with the Toronto Maple Leafs losing, and I was at least relieved to hear that no matter what Charlie’s state was, he apparently still had a lot of pep left over for swearing at hockey players.
How are you doing, Charlie? I asked. I had stopped by the store on the way there and handed him a clamshell container of banana nut muffins and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, his two chief vices. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed and wanted to be sure it’d be something he liked.
Horrible, he said, motioning to the screen. They’re blowing a 3-1 lead. Aaron needs to get his ass back up here from Florida and guard the net for a Canadian team.
I rolled my eyes at this. I had not come to discuss my younger brother’s hockey career, a topic that had a history of overshadowing every conversation I tried to have.
Apparently, Aaron loves Tampa. And anyway, as much as I’m deeply concerned about the Leafs’ shot at the playoffs this year, I am primarily concerned about you.
How is your ankle? I asked, nodding toward the propped-up leg.
It’ll be fine in a few weeks, he grumbled. I broke my whole leg back when I was fourteen, felt like it healed overnight. Not anymore, I guess, he sighed. Don’t get old, Kate.
What’s the alternative? I asked.
And he’ll have to go to physio once the cast comes off, Gwen chimed from the next room.
I’m almost done with the workplace safety report, I said. You’ll get compensated for your time away to recover.
He grumbled under his breath. There’s no need for all that. It was just a little slip from a leaky tap on one of the tanks—could have happened to anyone. I don’t need time off.
Gwen stormed in, brandishing a kitchen towel like a deadly weapon. Yes, you do! You need to heal, Charlie!
Barb says she can send Hugo your way to help you with the physical stuff? He’s a great guy, been with us for a few years now out in the orchards. What do you think?
I can heal and make cider at the same time!
And it’s still the harvest season! And— yes, boys!
There we go! he said as he caught the goal out of his peripheral, even as his wife whipped him in the shoulder with a dish towel.
A little thing like a broken ankle (at the age of seventy-two, no less) still paled in comparison to a goal from the Leafs.
After that, I went home. I would deal with Charlie when he had fewer painkillers in his system and no Leafs game to watch.
Home is a cottage that I rent from my aunts, a picturesque little house on the lake.
They bought it as a rental property but let me move in last year when I came back to the County from Toronto to take over managing the cidery.
Truth be told, they could be making a lot more money from it as a vacation property than the pittance I pay in rent, but as I pull into the gravel driveway, I’m not feeling particularly gracious about my cute cottage, the cidery, or any current aspect of my life.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll be back to some level of appreciation for the opportunities I’ve been given, but for the present, I’m going to wallow. Hard.
The past year has been a roller coaster, and most days, I alternate between being grateful and proud that my aunts left me in charge of their life’s work and inwardly throwing a temper tantrum that they left me alone to deal with such a beast of an operation.
After being the general manager of Sparks Cidery for the last ten months, I can easily see how the business nearly ruined their marriage.
And honestly, if managing it between them nearly led to their divorce, how on earth did they think one disaster twenty-seven-year-old (me) could do it on their own?
As soon as I get inside my tiny living room full of charmingly mismatched furniture, I face-plant onto the couch.
Three seconds later, my cat, Steven, jumps up on me and starts purring and kneading my back.
It would be sweet if he didn’t also have his claws out and weigh as much as an average human toddler.
Ouch, Stevie! I say. I can’t even indulge in a few moments of pathetic self-pity without another creature needing my attention. He’s not even sorry as he runs to his food dish and wails at me.
I get up and feed him because he is clearly on the verge of starvation and death, and then I go to grab dinner for myself out of the chest freezer.
Earlier in the year, I was pretty good about meal prepping, so I always had not-depressing meals to come home to, but I haven’t had the chance to do so in weeks—not since the harvest started, maybe even before then.
For a few moments, I stare at the freezer-burnt box of pad thai in my hands, and then, surprising myself, I burst into tears.
I don’t know why the frost-covered box of noodles is specifically what breaks me, but the day catches up with me in a tidal wave of repressed emotion.
I know that it’s not actually about the sad pad thai.
It’s not even about bitter&sweet or Wassail or even Charlie.
It’s everything, and I suddenly feel so, so tired.
I wipe the tears gathering in my eyes, toss the box in the garbage, and check my watch. It’s only 7:00 p.m.—still enough time to end this day on a better note. Determined to get it together, I clean the mascara from my raccoon eyes and get back into my car.