Not Far from the Peach Tree

By Sabrina Falk

Anxiety has become the only thing Abigail Hartley can count on. She's jobless, dreamless, loveless and stuck living with her parents—it's not exactly the 22 she had in mind. But when tragic news rattles the Hartley household and years of secrecy begin to surface, Abigail can no longer hide behind her fears. She joins forces with her sarcastic, pre-teen sister and heads to the only place that might have the answers she's looking for. One month in Georgia is all it takes to change everything Abigail knows about, well…everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peasantry Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781988276250

Book preview

01.

Monday, June 1

I’m running. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m running—in heels no less. I take out my phone to check if I’m getting close. I’m still six blocks away? That can’t be true. I run even faster, dodging people left and right. It feels like I’m trapped in some prehistoric video game. I’m a yellow blip on a black screen and the ten-year-old controlling me is still learning how to play.

I search the building numbers. Three twenty. Three twenty. Where is it? Why are they always so hard to find? I’m pretty sure it’s a conspiracy; some sick, little mind game that architects like to play on us. They tell their contractors to blend the numbers into the brick. Think magic eye, they say. Oh! There’s three fifteen. Shoot! I’m on the wrong side of the street.

I head for the crosswalk and join the horde of people already waiting there. There’s nothing I can do now except wait with them and catch my breath. I check my phone. Great! I’m almost twenty minutes late for my interview. I look around, trying to distract myself from how long the stupid signal is taking to change. I actually haven’t been in Midtown for a while. When you don’t live in New York, it’s the only place you want to be, and when you do, it’s highly overrated. Way too many people.

I can still hear the chirping of the crosswalk signal as Building Three Twenty’s security guard steps out to greet me. Good after—whoa. Are you alright, Miss?

I’m fine, just in a hurry.

He steps out of my way. If you say so. Just make sure you drink some water. Don’t want you catching heat stroke.

I will. Thanks!

I enter the lobby as some guy in a fancy suit exits the elevator. He gives me a cockeyed look as I speed-walk by. I reach the elevator doors just before they close and stick my arms between them; they spring open again. Thankfully no one’s inside.

In the funhouse of mirrors, I see why the security guard was so alarmed. My hair is all wiry from the humidity and my blouse is spotty with sweat. My finger hovers over the circular fourteen. Maybe I should just go home. There’s no way I can pull this off. My hand’s about to drop when it lunges forward instead and the button illuminates. All right, floor fourteen it is then. Maybe I can get there with my eyes closed.

I enter the office and find a waiting room full of girls who look just like me. Well, me when I’m not perspiring profusely. They’re all sitting under an oversized, backlit NY News Magazine logo. They look calm and collected, at least on the outside—which is more than I can say for myself.

I walk over to reception and wait for the secretary to notice me. When she does, her face loses all color. What happened to you?

Empty metro pass.

She stares back at her computer screen. What’s your name?

Abigail Hartley.

She types. Hartley? You were supposed to be here at one.

I know. I’m sorry.

I’ll see what I can do, she says, picking up the phone. Ms. Moore, I’ve got an Abigail Hartley here to see you. She’s late for her interview, but I thought—okay, sounds good. She’ll see you now.

I’m about to knock on the office door when another interviewee opens it with unmasked anger and brushes past me. That’s not completely terrifying. I stand in the doorway and wait to be acknowledged in some way by Ms. Moore, but it doesn’t happen. There are two chairs facing her desk and one seems to have been preferred by the other interviewees; it’s crooked and the seat’s somewhat sunken. I choose the other chair.

I sit and watch silently as the Loretta Moore reads through my resume. I wonder what she’s thinking, I wonder if she’s impressed, I wonder—

Ms. Hartley, is it?

Yes. Abigail Hartley.

Good grades, published articles, and letters of recommendation from your professors, she says like she’s reading the lunch menu.

To her, I’m clearly just a dime-a-dozen. Yes, that’s right.

What sets you apart? Why you over someone else?

I’m trying to figure out what she wants me to say. As you can see, I completed a creative writing course at NYU last year and I—

Her eyes lock on mine. This position doesn’t require much creativity. It’s about getting the facts and making sure they’re accurate. Is that something you can handle?

Yikes, I don’t know. I believe I can.

You believe you can? I see. She jots something on a notepad. That can’t be good. I should have answered more definitively; I should have at least faked confidence. Okay, I really gotta wow her on this next one. Abigail?

Yes?

She forces a smile. Thank you for your time. We have all we need. She taps my resume into alignment on her desk and places it to the side. We’ll be in touch if we’re interested.

That’s it? It’s over? But I waited three weeks for this and just ran nine blocks to get here. She can’t do this! She can’t just toss me aside in twenty seconds.

Wonderful. I appreciate your consideration.

She forces another smile and I head for the office door. It’s a long, awkward walk. I can actually feel her eyes avoiding me.

From the street, I stare up at the NY News Magazine building. Turns out I won’t be calling you where I work after all. Who knew an empty metro card would be the death of me? I take it out of my purse and let it fall to the ground. I’m against littering, but I can’t help feeling it’s a greater injustice to keep it on me. And it’s cursed, so it doesn’t deserve the company of other trash.

***

Hey Abby, let me in! I need my necklace!

Just a second. I wrap myself in a towel and unlock the bathroom door. The knob turns without my touching it, and Maddy forces me aside on her way over to the sink. I’m this close to unloading an entire day’s worth of problems on her. What’s your rush?

She rifles through the cupboard, carelessly knocking boxes and bottles from their shelves. Where’s my necklace? I know I left it here.

Yeah, like it’s my fault it’s missing.

Aha! She slides the necklace through her fingers and slips it around her neck.

Where are you going?

Meeting Lauren.

Maddy is twelve and, just like all twelve-year-olds, she thinks she’s much older. Her ratty blonde curls are in a messy bun at the back of her head and lately she’s been wearing way too much eyeliner. She’s bent over the sink now, attacking a pimple at the tip of her nose with her fingernails.

Maddy, don’t do that. It’ll scar.

Well, a scar’s better than a zit. Sound logic, in a Maddy sort of way.

We’ve always been in very different stages of life. When I was learning how to read and write, she wasn’t even a thought. When I was daydreaming about boys, she was collecting bugs. When I was attending university, she was in middle school. It’s easy to see we’ve never had much in common.

She sprays herself with candy-scented odor, then heads for the door. I’ve gotta go. Just tell Mom I’m studying.

I cough and fan the air. Fine.

I don’t remember ever being so much trouble. But then again, it’s hard to remember what happened a decade ago. A decade? Have I really been alive so long, that I can use the term decade in reference to my life? Ugh.

I return Maddy’s mess to the cupboard. I can’t wait for the day when I won’t have to share a bathroom with a preteen. They’re such messy beasts. As I shut the mirrored doors, I notice that freckles from sun exposure have already surfaced on my nose—a seasonal feature that usually occurs later in the year. Water droplets sit staggered across my shoulders, giving me the appearance of having some strange epidermal disease. My hair, my dark hair, my mother’s hair, drips incessantly, adding to the effect. Lovely.

Fed up with my reflection, I head for the hallway to collect the trail of my dirty clothes. I’m surprised Elvis isn’t rolling around in them; he usually does. Must have found a fly to stalk instead.

I reach the living room and am just picking up the last article of clothing when the front door whips open. Mom enters, slams the door shut behind her, and huffs. I’m sweatin’ like a hog, she says, letting her southern-ness show. She only lets it slip when it’s hot outside.

I know. It’s crazy.

She looks up at me. Her already exasperated expression enlarges. Abigail, why aren’t you dressed? It’s the evening.

I’m not sure how stating that it’s the evening somehow implies a dress code. But I’m not going to argue with her reasoning, or lack thereof. It never goes well.

I’m on my way now.

She fixes her hair. Good. Where’s Madison?

Studying.

Mom shakes her head all the way to the closet and places a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s on the shelf. How many tests does that girl have? Maybe I should call that school of hers. They shouldn’t be working her so hard.

I almost laugh. It’s yet another way that Mom coddles Maddy. I can’t tell if she’s actually this oblivious, or if she knows Maddy isn’t studying and this is her way of somehow restoring innocence. Either way, it’s ridiculous.

In the foyer mirror, Mom disapprovingly studies the sweat circles beneath her arms. She looks up at the reflection of me. Abigail, weren’t you going to get dressed?

My room is piled high with boxes. A reminder of why I hoped the interview would go well today. Elvis—a.k.a. the blob of blackness—surfaces from the mess on my bed. He looks at me like he knows too much and I feel ashamed.

I know, all right? But I still have a month before they kick me out. I’ll find something. How do I reassure a cat who probably hears something like Charlie Brown’s teacher when I talk?

Maybe I should just bite the bullet and enroll in some classes this fall; get off the hook with my parents and just not think about moving out yet. I let my body fall onto the bed. Elvis bounces a bit, then steadies himself on all four paws. I can’t go back to university. It was terrible. I thought I’d magically become everything I wasn’t in high school but, instead, I was the same insecure, shy person I’ve always been. The only friend I made was the cleaning lady who took the same bus as me every morning, and I can’t even remember her name. Sandy? No, Jennifer. Or was it Linda?

Then there’s that charming university dating scene—that I’m almost too old for now. Maybe I should’ve dated in high school. At least those pimply-faced teens had some class. We could’ve gone steady for months before the s-word reared its ugly head. Now a guy takes you out for dinner once and it’s like you owe him. Maybe I’m just a pig magnet. I’m sure there are still nice guys out there. I hope.

Besides all that, I’ve got nothing to work towards. It feels like a waste. Like I’m just biding time until I’m finally brave enough to enter the real world. What then? What do I want to do? I wait for lightning to strike but hear crickets chirp instead. Am I the only person on this planet who just doesn’t have a clue?

Resting on my pillow is the latest issue of Vogue—so sue me, it’s my one guilty pleasure. I stare sideways at the cover a while, then settle on the model’s hazel eyes. I’ve always wanted brown eyes; they don’t seem to give you away as much as blue eyes do. The JUN printed under the e in Vogue makes me laugh; like June wasn’t already short enough.

Elvis relocates to my stomach and prods my torso with his paws before finally laying down. June. June 1. What is it about that date?

Oh! I say, jolting up. It’s Grandma’s birthday.

Elvis tumbles back onto the bed, much less enthusiastic. It’s been such a long time since I last saw my grandma. She’s just a clouded figure with bright eyes and a big smile, adrift in my memory.

***

Seventeen years ago, Mom and I were running late for our daily trip to Dad’s office when an unexpected visitor knocked on the front door of our old apartment. This was before Dad was top dog at the law firm and we came into money. Money that eventually bought a new car, a new Upper East Side apartment, and a vacation to Palm Springs—ending with a new baby, a.k.a. Maddy.

Mom threw up her hands. Great! Now what? When she answered the door, she looked completely stunned. Mama? What are you doing here?

The old lady stepped inside. I came to bring my grandbaby some peaches.

Peaches? You came all the way from Georgia to bring peaches? You know we can afford fruit. I didn’t get why Mom was upset. What’s so upsetting about a friendly-looking old lady with a basket of peaches?

It’s been such a long time, Patty. I wanted to meet Abigail. Grandma smiled down at me before looking back at Mom. Can’t we just talk about things?

It’s Patricia, and you should’ve called first.

Grandma’s lip quivered. I tried. You never answer. I just thought after all this time—

I don’t care what you thought—No, I’m not doing this right now. You have to go. Richard’s waiting.

I reached up my hand and spread my fingers wide. Hi. I’m five.

Grandma crouched to my eye level. Yes, you’re a big girl now. My oh my. You have the most beautiful blue eyes, just like your Mama.

There was something magical about her that I couldn’t explain. All my five-year-old brain could come up with was that she was more than just my grandma; she was my fairy godmother too.

Mom scooped me up. We’ve got to go now.

My fairy grandmother grabbed her basket. Okay. It was nice seeing you again, Patricia. She smiled at me one last time, looked like she was about to say something else, then turned and left. And that was that.

Mom was off for the rest of the day. I was dropped off with the receptionist at Dad’s office so my parents could talk—something that happened often, so I wasn’t too worried. That is, until she got back. Her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks stained with mascara. I had never seen her like that. I had never seen her cry. She didn’t try to explain, just put on a brave face and took me to the vending machine to buy a chocolate bar.

To this day, we still haven’t talked about it. Never saw Grandma again, either. But every year on June 1, Mom passively mentions what age Grandma’s turning, and I’m reminded all over again of the something-magical-about-her old lady who was so happy to see me.

***

My bedroom door swings open, startling Elvis to his feet. Maddy stands in the doorway, obviously irritated. I am never talking to Lauren again!

Why? What happened this time? That came out harsher than I intended.

I can see that Maddy’s bothered by it, but her need to vent is greater. She leans against the doorframe and slides to the ground. Everything was great. We were just hanging out like usual. Then she gets this text from some guy. So we meet up with him at this pizza dive and they were like all over each other. It was disgusting. I went to the bathroom to get space and, when I got back, they were gone. And they stuck me with the bill.

Wow, it’s actually something serious. I feel bad for being unsympathetic. I’m sorry, Maddy. I can’t believe she’d do that to her friend.

Yeah, some friend.

It’s quiet, then awkward. I have no advice to give. Don’t worry. Things will look better in the morning.

She looks dejected. Thanks.

I can’t blame her; even I don’t buy my half-hearted, office-poster encouragement.

Girrrls! Dinner! Mom’s voice carries from down the hall.

I get up, take Maddy by the hands, and help her to her feet. Come on, let’s eat something. I’m buying.

Ha ha. Very funny.

Dad’s sitting at the dining room table, hunched over his plate with one hand cradling his head and the other his phone. He looks older tonight. It’s the first time I’ve noticed that he’s balding. Becoming aware of our presence, he looks up and smiles. There are my girls. How are we all doing today?

He turns off his phone without taking his eyes off us. He works long hours, but he tries to keep home as work-free as possible. He’s so good at it, I often forget he’s one of the best lawyers in the city.

I give him a kiss on the cheek, then sit down. I’m good. And hungry.

Dad’s attention turns to Maddy, who’s now sitting across from me. Is everything okay, Madison? Your entrance into the house was a little loud.

I’m fine.

Mom enters with a pitcher of lemonade. Good. Now we can eat dinner. Who’s thirsty?

I am. I take the pitcher to pour myself a glass. I forgot the security guard’s advice to keep hydrated. Mom passes me the salad with a look that says, I’m tallying up an invisible bill, and you’ll pay me back later in guilt-dividends. Her looks say a lot. I’ve insisted countless times on buying my own groceries and cooking my own meals; she just won’t have it. Sounds like she’s just