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The Apple Falls
By Elizabeth Archer
Joe looked out at the apple tree. It was loaded. The best crop the old tree had ever produced.
“Can you help Daddy? They aren’t wormy this year?”
Merrie was hard to refuse
“Daddy has to rest. He’ll be our apple butter taster. He needs a break after church.”
Katherine had them pray for him. He hated it but she meant well. After a year of more bad days than good, and too many stays in the hospital, he felt overdue for a miracle. The liver transplant list was long, but Joe had a strange advantage. Joe was AB negative.
Katherine’s brother, William, a doctor at the regional hospital, had explained that in Joe’s case, having AB negative could work in his favor. If a liver donor came up in the region, it was unlikely he would have too much competition, now that his score had gotten higher. He had moved to the top of the AB negative list.
"Thank god," William said, “You joined AA five years ago. Active alcoholics are not considered qualified liver transplant candidates."
Medical panels feared the new liver would end up as diseased too. Drinking alone hadn’t killed Joe’s liver. The doctors said other factors had made his liver lose function, but his drinking had made everything worse.
“Does it help, Doc that I’m about to turn forty, and in generally good health otherwise?” Joe had asked his hepatologist. “Do they want to make sure the liver has a good body and someone who can use it awhile?”
“That isn’t how it works at all,” said Dr. Zheng, frowning. “The healthier you are, the longer you can afford to wait. Most people who get livers are in intensive care, with days to live.”
“So you wait until folks are nearly dead? How’s that working?”
“That’s the system, Joe. They go where the need is greatest.”
“So they don’t care how old you are? If you have a family to support, children you want to see grow up?”
“None of that matters. You have a score. Everyone has a score, based on your physical test results. The higher your score, the greater your need.”
“The worse off you are, the better your score? That is so…so…bureaucratic. I sure as hell don’t want to be any sicker than I am already.”
“No, of course not.”
“But until I get a liver, I’m in danger of dying. I need to have a liver to have a future.”
“Correct. Your liver is failing, so you’re on the list. It may be months before you get a transplant. You just have to be ready when that call comes. Psychologically, physically. You and your family have to be ready. It’s serious surgery. Things would go faster if you had a living donor.”
“My family wouldn’t consider it. My sister and brother run the family bar, so I think you can guess why they aren’t candidates.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I really am. I didn’t invent the system. We all work with it, and you have to trust me when I tell you that it does work for most patients. Eventually.”
His wife Katherine had listened silently, and started calling her father and brother, both physicians, as soon as she left the office. The word “eventually” wasn’t in her vocabulary. She was a brilliant businesswoman, the practical partner of their marriage. As a chemistry professor, he got lost in his research. She kept the family together, running smoothly on time.
He was glad she hadn’t stayed home when Josh and Merrie were born. It had never occurred to her. Because of her insurance, even when he had dropped down to part time at the university, and only taught a few classes while struggling to maintain his grant work, he still had the best of care. Even though his blue collar parents could never understand a woman like Katherine, he knew she was the best choice he had ever made.
Katherine brought in a bushel basket loaded with apples. She was smiling, her red brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, just like Merrie’s. Merrie trailed her mother like a shadow, carrying an apple in each hand.
“Daddy, why did God put an apple tree in His Garden that people weren’t supposed to eat? Who was the fruit for? “she asked.
“The snake, I think,” Joe answered, smiling.
“It’s your birthday party tonight, Joe,” Katherine said as she swept by him, drifting through to the kitchen beyond the enclosed porch. “We’re meeting your family for Italian at Giovanni’s.” He detected the slight note in her voice that was there when she mentioned his family. After nearly twenty years of marriage, things still had not blended into a happy Hallmark card.
Katherine was a dinner and a movie type of girl. His folks were beer and pool hall people. And they were all pretty much beer and pool hall every night, running the family bar. His grandfather had founded the old place fifty years before, and a third generation preparing to take over. Joe was the anomaly, the odd child. No one in his family had understood his desire to go to college.
They had made fun of him for losing out on four years of steady income, just to stick his head in books. When he explained that chemists could make alcohol, his father said “Now I understand what you’re studying.”
Being different, in the Sullivan family, was as frowned upon as Uncle Louie’s life in San Francisco. It was handled by steady silence. No one ever asked Joe at Christmas what he was teaching. No one wanted to know. They feared it would make them feel stupid. Nobody in the family but Joe had even finished high school, although his brother and sister had finished, with his encouragement, their GEDs. When Joe had quit drinking, his family thought he had joined a cult.
“What’s all this bull shit Katherine’s spewing about you being in AA? She had the gall to call Mary and tell her that this Christmas you wouldn’t be drinking, that you’ve quit. God damn it, I never thought a son of mine would be such a wuss!” his father had shouted on the phone.
“Doc says I’m making my liver worse, Pop. You remember, my liver’s always been wonky since I got sick that time a few years back. Now the numbers are going down, and I need to quit drinking. I tried, but I couldn’t do it alone. AA helps me quit.”
“Damn bunch of kooks, with those steps and hippie bull shit. Just slow down. A man knows how to hold his liquor, but an Irishman who doesn’t drink might as well be dead.”
“I could be dead, Doc says, if I don’t quit,” Joe had argued. “Katherine was just trying to be helpful. She knows how hard it is for me right now. One day at a time.”
“That wife of yours is your real problem Joe. She thinks she’s better than us, with all her fancy education. Lecturing us on how we should treat you, like you’re her trained poodle, for Chrissakes. If you’re going to be a pain the ass this Christmas, maybe you shouldn’t come at all. Of course, your Mom will be heartbroken. She loves Merrie and Josh…”
“I won’t be a pain in the ass Pop. But I won’t be drinking, either.”
Five Christmases later, it still wasn’t easy. His birthday dinner would be one more unpleasant, tense evening, one more hurdle on the bumpy road to sobriety that never ended. You were never cured. You were always one drink away from the edge of the cliff.
Katherine came in with a smile as he dozed in his chair. She smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg and apples. She and Merrie were cooking apple butter, putting it up in jars for the coming winter.
“What are you smiling about? Good batch?” he asked, reaching for her as she bent for a hug.
“I got a text from William. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but consider it an early birthday gift. There’s a family considering donation, and the guy is a match for you. William wanted to give us a heads up early, because if it does come through, you’d be getting your transplant in a day or two. Nothing official yet, of course. Poor guy was in a car accident, and his brain’s dead. “
“Don’t talk about him, Kat. I can’t deal with that now. ”
“Sorry. Sorry, Joe. I know we’re different. Dad was always talking about patients, and I have a hard time remembering you don’t see things the same way…”
?
??It’s OK. Don’t tell the kids, honey. They didn’t hear you,did they? On the phone? I know how worried they are. Josh watches me all the time like he thinks I’m going to break, poor little guy. Kids shouldn’t have to worry about their parents. We’re supposed to be taking care of them.”
“Nobody heard. When I saw it was William, I took the call in the garage.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are brilliant woman, Katherine Sullivan?”
She blushed. “We’d better get changed. We don’t want to be late. Your father made a reservation for seven because the kids eat early.”
“I know your Dad hates eating early,” Katherine said, as they drove to the restaurant. “But we had Sunday school early this morning, and they’re getting tired.”
“Pop forgets we have church. My family hasn’t been to mass since Grandma’s funeral.” Joe commented.
Joe realized how nice it was to be all around the big table, in the restaurant, everyone with public manners, and someone else doing the cooking and serving. Maybe Christmas would work better in a restaurant, with other people around to watch when Pop raised his voice and wanted to tell off color jokes in front of the kids. It wasn’t Pop’s fault that he had grown up in a bar and that most of his stories and jokes were unfit for little ears.
He teared up when everyone sang him happy birthday over tiramisu. Birthdays had become poignant, and precious. Every card, every gift, carried meaning, and he had been treasuring moments for five years now. AA taught you the value of a day ; being on a waiting list for new liver made jump at every phone call. Someday, he thought, I will have a new liver, and I won’t shake when the cell rings. The day of the transplant would be another birthday to celebrate.
“Your mom and I have something special for you tonight. For the big four-oh,” Pop said, beaming. “Bring it out now!”
Joe felt punched in the gut as the waiter brought out a silver ice bucket on a stand, bearing two bottles of Champagne. The pride of the Sullivans, and the stuff of legend. Pop was breaking out the Dom. For him.
“This is the good stuff, my boy. Grandpa’s bottles of 1966 Dom Perignon. Your Mom and I could have gone to fucking France if we sold these suckers, but I’ve been saving them. And don’t worry. Champagne isn’t liquor. It’s French perfume, right Mother?”
His mother nodded. Joe felt sick, smiling weakly at Katherine. Her expression was unreadable. The kids were looking at him, eyes anxious. They knew Daddy wasn’t drinking anymore.
Mary and Robbie wore forced smiles. He knew how jealous his sister and brother were. One of the bottles should have been saved for Mary’s wedding next June, and for the day Robbie took over the bar. Both bottles, for him? It was too much. Pop always took things too far, too big.
He wanted to tell his father not to open the bottle, but words didn’t come. The cork shot out, and it felt like an explosion going off in his brain. It sounded like a gunshot. The first glass of champagne was put in front of him, and Joe knew what it meant.
“I’ve been saving these bottles for years, but a little bird tells me we may have something really great to celebrate this week, and you won’t be able to enjoy these babies after that happy event, so you’d better have a glass tonight!”
“Pop…we aren’t ready to talk about that. It’s too soon.” He glanced at Katherine, who was blushing. He couldn’t tell if it was an angry blush or embarrassment. It wasn’t like Kat to spill secrets to his parents. But the strain had been getting to her, getting to him.
“Friend of mine’s a nurse at General,” his mother ventured. “Don’t go blaming Katherine.”
“Oh.”
“Go on, son, “his father urged. “It’s been waiting since before you were born, bubbling away waiting for someone’s dry throat….”
He looked at Katherine. He waited for her to scream “Stop!”
But she wouldn’t, not Katherine. She had been too well trained in all those Al-Anon meetings about codependency. The bubbles floated to the top of the liquid, bursting in dazzling spirits of foam.
Everyone had a glass now. “To my brother and his birthday! May there be many, many more,” Robbie proposed, lifting his glass.
Clapping now, and more smiles, except for Katherine’s. He had his fingers on the stem, so tight he felt it might snap.
“What does it taste like Daddy? Merrie asked.
“Apples, sweetie. It tastes like fizzy apples.”
“Can I have some?”
“Not until you're 21.”
Later, when his head ached, he remembered that first glass. It had burned, and sung in his throat, but the song it sang was not happy and French. It was sad, and Irish, and sounded like “Carrickfergus.”
They were going for blood work. The doctor had called that morning. The donor’s family had consented. The liver was waiting, and Joe could have the transplant Wednesday if all went as expected.
It should have been a happy day. Neither he nor Katherine was smiling. He wondered what Dr. Zheng thought.
“Everything depends on your score today. The panel meets this afternoon for a final go ahead,” Dr. Zheng told them, smiling and offering reassurance. “You and the other candidate with AB- have been on the list approximately the same amount of time. He will need extra time if he’s selected. He is in custodial care, so he can’t give consent himself if he is chosen.”
“Custodial care?” asked Katherine.
“He has the IQ of a three year old,” Dr. Zheng said shortly.
“And he’s on the list with Joe? At the same level?”
“A liver transplant isn’t a contest, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Dr. Zheng. “It’s about need, and health, and a variety of other issues. You’ll be called the minute we know something.”
Katherine hadn’t made eye contact with him all day. Not when she had poured his coffee. Not when she had helped him out of the car since he was having one of his bad days. Not when he looked at her while they were drawing his blood. She usually smiled at him, knowing how much he hated needles, even after his labs.
“Just say it, Katherine. Say I shouldn’t have had the champagne last night. I know I shouldn’t have. Five years sober, and now I am back at day one. You can’t say anything that will make me feel any worse. I’ve let you down. Let the kids down, let myself down….”
“They shouldn’t have given you damn champagne,” Katherine said. She never swore.
“Pop meant well. He’s just the way he is. . . .”
“He isn’t a fool. I could forgive him if I thought he was,” Katherine began. She stopped, forcing her mouth shut and staring at the road ahead.
“He doesn’t know anything else. The bar, that life, that kind of celebrating.”
“He could learn something else,” Katherine said at last, her words bitter, clipped. “If he tried.”
Silence filled the car, a thick silence that felt like invisible pillows, making it hard to breathe. They didn’t speak even when they unlocked the front door and went in the quiet, childless house. The kids wouldn’t be home until three.
“I’ve got to go in to work now,” Katherine told him. “You don’t have class. Why don’t you go lie down and take a nap?”
The phone woke him.
“Mr. Sullivan? Dr. Zheng here. I’m afraid something’s come up. You had blood drawn earlier this morning?
“Did the lab lose the vial? That’s happened before,” Joe began. “I can come…”
“No. They ran it through on an emergency basis. For the transplant. It’s the blood results.”
“Don’t tell my liver started working…”
“I’m afraid alcohol is the problem, Mr. Sullivan. You were put on the list on the condition that, as an alcoholic, you maintained sobriety for several years. It took three years of sobriety to get you on the list. Now you’ve tested positive, and I’m afraid you’re not a candidate.”
“Off? For Chrissake, doctor. It was just a little champagne. It was my birthday yesterday and my Pop brought me champagne.
”
“I’m afraid the rules are very specific, and the transplant committee has made its decision in favor of the other candidate.
The man with the IQ of a three year old, Joe thought.
“The good news is, of course, if this was just a slip, Joe, is that in another three years you can be back on the transplant list...if things...if things.”
Joe hung up the phone. He didn’t think he had three years. Joe looked out the window. Flakes were falling, dusting the unpicked apples still on the tree. Snow was coming early this year.
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Contributor Bios
Short Fiction
Heather Christie (Learning to Fly) -- Heather is a full-time real estate agent, MFA student at Solstice of Pine Manor College, mother of two, and wife, working on my first novel, Into The Night.
Loretta Oleck (Leaving Van Gogh, Garden Games) -- Loretta is a psychotherapist and writer with poetry published or forthcoming in Black Lawrence Press, Feminist Studies, Word Riot, among numerous other publications. My poetry was selected to be performed at the Hudson Valley Center for Contemporary Art. I have a Master's degree in Creative Writing from New York University.
Barbara Saxton (Plum Worship) -- Barbara was born and raised in Cleveland (city of light, city of magic!) Ohio, but she is also a longtime California resident. Although her undergraduate degree was in Asian Studies (with an emphasis on Chinese language, history and politics), she earned money as a financial consultant and stockbroker before transforming herself into a middle and high school English teacher. Now retired, she whiles away hours gardening, volunteering and substitute teaching in local schools, singing (and dancing to) mostly-Balkan music, writing, and spending quality time with her husband and two grown sons.
Elizabeth Archer (The Apple Falls) -- Elizabeth has published some poetry, some flash fiction, and some short fiction. She has a degree in English and lives in Texas. She’s currently working on getting a novel finished.
Photography
Cheyenne Foreman (Time To Harvest) -- Cheyenne is a 26 year old navy wife originally from Hazleton, PA, now living in New York state. She’s also the mother of a seven year old “rambunctious” little girl. Cheyenne enjoys shooting the beauty of nature, especially landscapes and wild animals.
Faith Kuzio (Corn on the Stalk) -- Faith is a lifelong photographer whose photos are making headway across the internet. She currently runs her own photography website, Lunarchic Photography, which can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/faith.kuzio? ref=ts#!/LunarchicPhotography.
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Thank you for joining us for our September 2013 issue! Next month’s issue is our rather infamous Halloween issue! So creative artists, we’re looking for your best horror, thriller, suspense, zombifragilisticwerewolfalladocious stories, photos and art. We look forward to your submissions! As always, view the latest news about the EZine and our submission guidelines at www.unchartedfrontier.com.
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