Apples Never Fall

There were many ways a resourceful senior citizen could have, should have, may have, probably had freed herself from a locked bedroom. Kicked down a door. Banged on the window. Called out to a neighbor. Shouted to a neighbor—the bedroom was on the second floor and faced a brick wall, but still, it was possible. A child could study a window made of thick glass effectively locked by layers of ancient, impenetrable paint between the sash and the frame and find no way to break or open it, but a grown-up could find a clever solution. If I was a grown-up I could get myself out of here: that’s what the little girl had once thought. She had longed to be a grown-up, with money and food and agency, but she was a kid, just a kid who dreamed of a beanstalk she could climb to get out of that room and into the sky. She didn’t want the giant’s gold. She wanted the giant’s dinner.

She still felt helpless and trapped, no matter what actions she took in her increasingly desperate attempts to make the pain stop. She knew her memories did not fade like other people’s seemed to fade and she accepted that, but she didn’t get why the pain intensified the older she got and the further away she got from those times.

“Me too,” said the guy next to her. “Is your mother on her own?”

“Yes,” said the girl. She knew what he meant, but she thought, We’re all on our own. Even when you’re surrounded by people or sharing a bed with a loving lover, you’re alone.

A friendly neighbor might have called in to check on her mother after a week or two or three had passed, although if you required the concern of friendly neighbors, it helped to be a friendly neighbor yourself.

So maybe not.

Or perhaps her mother was in bed right now, peacefully unwrapping her last delicious, nutritious protein bar, sipping from her last bottle of water, floating away on a choppy endless sea of television, just as her spoiled daughter once did when she slipped free of the cruel hunger pains and into other realities and other lives.

Perhaps her mother had created a sitcom version of herself.

The girl imagined a plump, smiling version of her mother bustling to greet her, wiping her hands on her apron, pulling her close. “I woke up that morning and had a good old laugh! You locked me in, you little minx!”

Perhaps the house would smell of sugar and butter and love.

Perhaps it would not.

“My mother and I are going to isolate together,” said the guy. “She has autoimmune issues, so she has to be careful. It’s scary.”

“Yes,” said the girl. “So scary.” She touched the key around her neck. “We have to keep our parents locked up right now.”

A demented laugh rose in her chest and caught in the air between her mouth and her mask. She breathed fabric in and out and thought of a plastic bag pulled tight around her head. Her seatmate didn’t notice. He didn’t know the truth about the girl seated next to him, sharing his exit-row responsibilities. Masks were so great. So useful and protective. Nobody knew what went on behind them. She could be any type of person she chose to be, any type of person he needed her to be.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Cabin crew, please prepare for takeoff.”

She pulled her seatbelt tighter, the way a nervous flyer does, and she felt him notice and she felt him care, the way nice, well-brought-up boys care about fragile, frightened girls. He needed fragility. She could give him fragility. She wasn’t dressed right—girl next door would have been better—but it was all in your delivery.

The engines roared. That moment before takeoff always seemed impossible. Against the laws of nature. But things happened all the time that were seemingly against the laws of nature.

The plane lifted into the sky.

The girl looked down at the patchwork quilt of suburbia below: miniature houses with tiny backyards and swimming pools, matchbox cars traveling along winding streets past sportsgrounds and tennis courts.

From here above the clouds, life looked so peaceful and manageable: Jump in your matchbox car and drive to that cute little city to earn your living! Go to those dear little shops and buy your dinner! Love and feed your children! Follow your dreams and pay your taxes! Why was it so impossibly hard for some people to do those things, yet so easy for others?

Her seatmate was describing his mother. “She’s a homebody. Not exactly active.”

“My mother is the opposite,” said the girl.

She saw a woman who looked just like her, running her a bath, checking the temperature with her hand, sloshing the water back and forth to get it just right. She saw her standing at her bedroom door late at night with an extra blanket because it had “suddenly got so chilly.” She saw her pulling a dress off a rack that was “just her color” and then clapping her hands with delight when she walked out of the changing room. She saw a woman furiously scolding her for her behavior, but then moving on, as if it was possible for even the most terrible of actions to be forgiven.

The girl said, “My mother plays tennis.”