Page 10 of Apple of My Eye
‘We don’t know.’ Mom shrugs. She glances at Dad. ‘Retire, I guess.’
‘You can’t expect me to believe that’s what you want to be doing, you two have been judging retirees for years. You’re literally aways asking how they fill their days. And JJ, what about him? And what about—’ I stop myself before I ask about the one word we never discuss—money.
‘Honey, I know we have a lot to figure out, but it’s looking like we don’t have another choice.’
‘But you do have another choice,’ I say. ‘We only started organic last year. Can’t you give it a chance to catch up? The apples sell for more. It works, Iswear. We did so many case studies on it at school.’
‘I don’t know if it makes sense to wait that long,’ Dad cuts in, finally adding to the conversation. ‘I’ve been running the numbers and we would need to give it another year or two and even then we just max out our orchards and it’s still not enough yield.’
‘What if I can show you how to make it enough?’ I counter.
Dad gazes at me intensely, as if he can read my mind. He’s done this since I can remember, and without fail, every time it leads to me telling the truth about something I wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge. I fidget in my seat. ‘I thought the Parkers’ farm would fail,’ I confess, ‘and I applied for a loan to buy them out.’
Mom goes as white as a sheet.
Dad lets out a breath of air, like the wind has been sapped from his sails.
‘It was just an application,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t even know if we’ll get it. We can turn it down,’ I add, like I’m trying to convince myself that it wasn’t the culmination of all my work as a graduate student.
Dad gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing. My gaze travels up his weathered face, snagging on the graying hair at his temples. ‘Why don’t you walk us through it,’ he says. Mom is perfectly still, like she isn’t even breathing. I can feel the tension radiating through the air.
‘You were right about the margins. We don’t have a big enough piece of property. Other farms our size get by on other things—tours, weddings, hayrides, being Instagram-perfect spots to pick apples. They drive in traffic from tourists that keeps them afloat. They sell jams and convert to B & Bs. But that isn’t us. We farm apples. And to do it, we need more apples and more land. And—’ I take a breath before I add the last part of the puzzle, my pièce de résistance ‘—we need it to be regenerative.’
Dad rolls his eyes.
‘Hey!’
‘Regenerative schmenerative,’ he grumbles.
‘Cal.’ Mom levels a look at him.
I give her an appreciative half-smile before continuing. ‘I’m serious. Banks are investing in regenerative agriculture because the FAA is pushing them to do it. They get a percentage of loan forgiveness if the farmer is regenerative ag and defaults. I knew you guys hadn’t been able to secure a loan in the past .?.?.’ I hesitate, expecting fallout from my knowing something Mom didn’t know that I knew, but there is none, she just nods at me, like she expected Dad told me all along.
‘I think we just need the Parkers’. We couldn’t spin this farm into regenerative ag by itself. We need pigs and cows and sheep and geese, and right now we hardly have enough space for our chickens and bees. We need a whole new round of cover crops, and we need to start growing something other than apples, I’m thinking—’
‘You’ve outlined all of this in the application for the loan?’ Dad asks, cutting me off.
I nod.
He settles back in his chair, but an unmistakable flash of pride flickers across his face.
‘Did you ask Linden about this?’ Mom asks.
My face falls. ‘Well .?.?.’ I trail off. ‘You know we don’t exactly see eye to eye on the farm stuff.’
In truth, I would have loved to get Linden’s opinion. But Linden vocalizing that he wants me to do something bigger with my degree than stay at home is a discussion I’m not ready to have. Focusing on what I’m angry about—Linden’s choice to make money for other people instead of do his part to protect the planet—is easier than potentially facing his disappointment in me. The last time we talked about the farm our conversation turned into an argument almost immediately.
Dad interrupts my thoughts. ‘I bet that was a lot of work,’ he says in a low voice.
‘It was my Master’s thesis,’ I admit.
Mom’s jaw drops open. ‘You wrote your thesis on us buying the Parkers’ farm?’
‘We need the land!’ I argue.
The kitchen is silent. An owl hoots from the backyard, a sound that usually comforts me, but now just raises goosebumps across my skin. I love this place. I don’t want to have to give it up. How did everything happen so fast? One minute I’m building my future around saving our family farm, and the next my parents are telling me they want to sell?
‘It could work.’ Dad sits back in his chair. He doesn’t meet Mom’s gaze.
