Gailie Stories

  Wow, I think as David places the bowl of sorbet in front of me, I don't think I've ever had homemade sorbet before. It is a rich magenta color and sits atop chunks of fresh pineapple. "A quart of this sorbet calls for a whole quart of raspberries," he tells me, "and there's not much sugar in it." I raise a spoonful to my mouth and let the sweet, pink lusciousness melt on my tongue. We've been dating for just a short time and this is the first time he's cooked dinner for me. He's prepared a gourmet meal... mozzarella and vine-ripened tomatoes with basil leaves, balsamic-marinated salmon with artichoke hearts and cucumber garnish, and black sticky rice. The table is set with roses and candles, oh my. And now this sorbet. He may be a keeper, I think to myself as I slide another cool, pink spoonful onto my tongue.

  Then I think of Gail and how she died last summer while I was on vacation.

  It's mid-July, and I'm attending a workshop on improvisational theater at a retreat center in upstate New York. During one of the lunch breaks I retrieve the message from my home phone. I hear Evalyn's strained voice, at first telling me, "It's been a long time since...," and some of the usual chatter. Then she gets to it. "I have some really bad news: Gail died. It was colon cancer, and she was only 49. The funeral is tomorrow. We're all meeting at her farm first." I know right away that I will go. It's just a three-hour drive, and missing a day of the workshop seems unimportant. I realize I don't have anything with me to wear to a funeral, so I buy a red dress and a flowery print scarf at a shop nearby. Gail wouldn't want everyone to be in black; she would want colors and flowers.

  It's a gray day, overcast and raining. I pull into the muddy, rutted driveway at Gail's place and park next to an old, dented pickup truck. I enter her house like I have so many times before, leaving my shoes just outside the front door. Everything is still the same, the squat wood stove next to the kitchen table, the Mexican rugs on the living room floor, drying herbs hanging neatly from nails in the beams. How can it be, I ask myself, how can this still be her house when she's not here anymore, when she'll never be here again? Several of her sister herbalists are busy around the house, straightening the place and getting food ready for the gathering after the burial. I grate carrots and peel cucumbers for the salad and put a big pan of lasagna in the oven. I feel dazed and restless at the same time. Suddenly the tiny house feels claustrophobic so I slip out the door and walk into the thick, gray air.

  That's when I remember the raspberries.

  It's always so much fun to go to Gail's. Whenever I come from Boston to central Mass, I know I'll have a place to stay. If Gail knows I'm coming out her way, she always invites me, always finds a way to have room for me. It's late July, and we couldn't have ordered a more beautiful summer day. The sun is out and the sky is as blue as blue gets. I wander through Gail's garden. Everything is at the peak of ripeness. She has lots of vegetables in neatly planted rows, broccoli, zucchini, cabbage, and green beans. Then there are the herbs and flowers, calendula, comfrey, chamomile, basil, several varieties of mint, and a whole field of echinacea, Gail's favorite. When I studied herbology with her a few years back, I lived here at her place for six weeks. Most of every meal came from the garden. We picked the salad greens and made our own green goddess dressing. We cooked ratatouille and eggplant parmesan, minestrone and vegetable stew.

  Now I'm back with my daughter to visit for a few days. "I have to go into town for a while," Gail says. "The raspberries across the road are ripe. Why don't you two go out and pick a few? We can have them for dessert tonight. Don and one of his friends will be here for supper." The sun is high overhead as Natalia and I cross the road with our bowls. The raspberry patch stretches for fifteen yards in each direction. The bushes are a tangled, dense profusion of branches. Paths have been cleared in a few sections, so we wander in among the raspberries.

  Ripe berries are everywhere. We start picking them, one by one, eating at least one quarter of what we pick and putting the rest in our bowls. The berries are at once soft and firm, tart and sweet, juicy and granular. My hands and lips are stained pink. Natalia has red juice on her chin and deep pink stains on her T-shirt. I go back to the kitchen for the biggest bowl I can find. We continue picking berries until the bowl is full and the sun has traveled at least forty-five degrees across the sky. "Mommy," says Natalia, "What will we do with all these berries?" I tell her we will have to think of many raspberry recipes and projects.

  We go back to Gail's kitchen with our raspberries. "Let's start with pies," I say to Natalia. "I love homemade pie." I get out the flour and butter and pour cold water. I make the crust, using my mother's recipe, while Natalia adds a bit of sugar to the berries and squeezes in the juice of a lime. Within an hour we have four hot piecrusts full of berry mixture, ready for the oven. We make several raspberry tarts with the leftover crust and more of the berries. While the pies are baking, we make fruit salad with plenty of raspberries. Then we make raspberry sauce to go over ice cream, cake, or whatever. We snack on berries as we go. There are so many berries in the bowl that the ones in the bottom have gotten crushed, releasing dark pink juice, which we sip. "I hope Gail knows how to make jam," I say to Natalia. "Look at all the berries we still have."

  Soon the house is filled with the fragrant aroma of baking pie. When the pies are done, we set them on racks to cool. We nibble on one of the hot tarts. When Gail and Don come home, they exclaim over the pies. "Those pies look sooo good," Gail croons, her face full of anticipation. We make spinach lasagna and salad from the garden. Don's friend arrives and we all gather around the table for dinner. When it's time for dessert, I slice a pie into wide wedges, which I put on Gail's dessert plates. Some want ice cream on their pie, some want whipped cream. Everyone wants raspberry sauce. We all dig into our slices. Natalia has flakes of crust on her lips, which are stained deep pink again. She giggles happily. Gail closes her eyes as she slowly chews her first bit of pie. As I look around the table at everyone enjoying their pie, I think to myself, this is the way to live... good friends, good food, good times.

  Now I step out of Gail's house and wander forlornly into the yard. The warm summer rain is falling harder and the sky is a denser, thicker gray. I walk across the road to the raspberry patch. It seems as though there are not as many bushes as before and there are very few berries on them. I wonder if it is too early or too late in the season. I just can't remember when raspberry season is, or maybe I never knew. I feel confused and disoriented. I feel like I should feel like crying, but I'm too numb.

  Two hours later we put Gail's coffin in the ground and cover it with soil. People recite their eulogies and we sing some of the songs she used to like. Evalyn puts her arm around Don who is weeping softly. I continue to realize that I will never see Gail again.

  Two months have passed. David and I lie together on his big bed in the twilight of a late summer afternoon. I nestle contentedly as he enfolds me in his strong arms. We talk softly about who we are, where we're going, and the small and big things that make up the stuff of our lives. David tells me about the vacation he recently took with his daughter. "Joujou and I went to a farm where you can pick your own fruit. We picked two pounds of raspberries and then we made raspberry pie. We put the whole two pounds of berries into the pie. It was sooo good." I close my eyes. I can almost see the steaming, deep red pie being lifted from the oven, can almost smell the aroma of the brown, buttery crust filled with the hot, sweet fruit. "Have you ever made raspberry pie?" he asks. I open my eyes and look at his smiling face. "Yes..., I have," I tell him.

  I close my eyes again and this time I see Gail's face. She's in her kitchen, then in her garden. The echinacea field is ablaze in pink behind her. Her long, shiny hair blows in the breeze and her black eyes crinkle and shine as she laughs at some thought now long forgotten. She is in her element. She looks so happy; and I smile.