The Cherry Tree

Wernersville is not a large town by any stretch of the imagination. It is about ten miles west of Reading, which is in turn about 65 miles northwest of Philadelphia. In the modern era, its sole and somewhat dubious claim to fame is the Gosselin family.

It also houses an inpatient drug rehabilitation clinic, and it was at this clinic that Pearl was staying. She was on a scholarship; there was no way her family ever could have afforded to send her to the clinic, even if they had wanted to. They had seven boys to feed at home, so they spared little thought for the reprobate eldest daughter. No, some rich benefactor had specifically chosen her to be cleansed, and she had no idea why. The rich had been a pain in her ass the whole rest of her life. Why would someone suddenly decide to be nice to her, of all people? She, who had corrupted one of those rich white kids--well, he was Italian--and pulled him down into an addiction. Surely they must all hate her. Hell, she hated herself. She thought she deserved what she got, even though she knew other people's choices weren't her fault.

The problem was this: she had been an addict since she was twelve—no thanks to her parents. Her father had all but given her over to the stuff. In a way, it was predestined; she had been conceived because of drugs. In her father’s permanently addled--but enviably drug-free--mind, it was only fitting that she be given over to the horror that had snared her mother and supposedly created Pearl herself. In spite of the fact that none of it was her fault, her father blamed her for the work he’d done to supply her mother with drugs. Thus, she had leaped almost happily into the shadow-realm of addiction, and had regretted it ever since.

A man walked up behind her. She was sitting in a lawn chair underneath a cherry tree in one of the coed sections of the campus.

“Pearl?”

The voice had changed with time, but she knew it well. It belonged to Mickey. Mickey the rich kid who had somehow managed to notice a poor kid.

Years ago now, they had gone to the same high school. Pearl had never understood how it was that a rich Italian kid, the heir to an international business empire, would go to the same school as a poor black kid, but that was how it was. Every time she saw him, though, poverty seemed to enclose her a little more and a little more.

And then—and then there was that one day. The day when he looked at her and smiled. It was just a half a smile, but it recognized her existence and didn’t discount her just because she was poor and looked slightly different than Mickey. It was a smile without censure, and it melted Pearl’s icy heart bit by bit.

He talked to her after that, too, but not in the way boys usually did. He was respectful and kind--he treated Pearl like a human being, not just a pair of tits and an ass. She was grateful for it, though she had been trodden on for so long that she almost couldn’t believe she deserved to be treated with respect. Mickey started to make her believe it, against her better judgment.

Yet she was still poor. She never met Mickey’s family; he lived with his mother, who ruled the business empire and who irrationally hated anyone who was not as wealthy or as "talented" as she. Mickey said he wanted to protect Pearl from his mother, but Pearl wondered if he were really ashamed of her poverty. He was with her at school, though.

There was also the addiction. She tried to hide it from him, but he found out quickly. Or perhaps it was the addiction that found out about him because it wanted to suck him in, too. Maybe it had a malevolent consciousness of its own. Pearl thought it might. Regardless, Mickey's mother forced him to go to a fancy, expensive college after graduation, just after she learned of his slide into addiction. Pearl had not seen him since. Even as she walked alone through the barren wastes of several unsuccessful detoxes, she heard nothing from him. She had gotten wind of rumors that he had dropped out of college because of some fight or other and was down-and-out somewhere in Philadelphia, but that was all. No letters, no phone calls, nothing. Not even a measly text message. She wondered if he had forgotten about her, and she had tried so hard to forget about him.

But now, here he was, standing behind her chair. She turned to look at him. He was thinner than he had been, and he looked much older than--how old was he? Twenty? Twenty-two? She couldn’t remember.

“I found you,” he whispered. “It took me four years, but I found you.”

With a shock, she realized that he was leaning on a cane. Something was wrong with his legs. She stood up quickly, suddenly conscious of the wholeness of her own body.

“How did you find me? What are you doing here?” she asked. Mickey wobbled a little, and she slipped an arm under his shoulder to steady him. He smiled down at her.

“Never mind that. I found myself and then I found you. Everything is as it should be now.”

Not quite, Pearl thought. Your legs. What happened to your legs?

“Your mother,” she said instead. “What happened to her? Did she make you come here?”

Mickey shifted his weight awkwardly and started walking slowly toward the large, gray stone building that housed a solarium.

“No… not quite. But also yes. She…” He laughed self-consciously. “She’s changed. A lot. I think it’s been good for her--everything that’s happened to me, all the stupid stuff I’ve done. She understands now. People are people. It doesn’t matter if they’re rich or poor or young or old or big or little or light or dark. We’re all the same inside--national heritage doesn't matter. We all want to be loved. She sees that now. She, uh, she actually sponsored you. I mean… that was tactless.” He fell silent. Pearl stared at him in disbelief.

“Your world-class-bitch of a mother paid for me to come here?” she demanded, not sure if she should be happy or angry. Mickey looked away and nodded.

“She gets it now. Us. You know. She… when we get out of here, she wants us to come live with her.” Pearl raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

“Are you sure you’re not still on crack?”

Mickey laughed. The sound was warm and real.

“Damn sure.”

They had arrived at the solarium. Pearl helped Mickey sit down in a chair. His face twisted into a rictus of pain, but he managed to sit down. He must have seen the question in Pearl’s eyes.

“Some wounds may never heal,” he said cryptically. Pearl sighed. If he didn’t want to tell her, he didn’t want to tell her, and that was that. He was here now, and all would be well. The smell of cherry blossoms wafted through the solarium. Yes, all would be quite well.