Malus Domestica

I’ve been living alone longer than what most people seem to think healthy. They all want me sent to that windowless prison they call a hospital; I know it. Every time I sneak into town to sell my homemade cider and other wares, I find a place to hide and catch up on the gossip. I know they all talk about me… they all think about me. Some of them speculate that I killed my dear husband, but they don’t know a thing about that. He wasn’t even at home when he passed on… and I had lived miserable every day since. Just because I don’t cry in public they assume I don’t cry at all.

Living on the outskirts of a small town has many advantages- privacy, acres of land, and little contact with nosy neighbors. Solidarity of this sort truly can be enough to drive some mad, but I couldn’t find it more relaxing. The only time I feel truly happy is when I am cradled under one of our hundreds of apple trees reading a book in the spring or picking apples by the bucket load in the fall, turning some to cider and others to pies.

I can’t blame the villagers for gossiping about me though. I have a sense of humor that is rather… well, twisted, as my husband would say. When I first heard the word “mad” mentioned in connection with my name, I decided to embrace it. I muttered to myself all day scaring anyone I passed by. If anyone spoke to me, I would stare at them a long while before answering. Sometimes I would even twitch. It was all in jest, but as nobody in the village ever bothered to call at my house or really get to know me, nobody understood.

This didn’t bother me until the doctor came by.

I still remember the first time it happened. I was shocked- I don’t remember anyone ever knocking at my door. When I peaked through the window and saw his stupid white coat with a stethoscope and his medical bag in hand, I had to stifle a laugh. I had grown up with George and could think of nobody less suited to be a doctor than him. But in a small town, desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures.

I opened the door, but not enough for him to squeeze through.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Good morning, Alice!” he said, though it was three in the afternoon.

“It’s three in the afternoon.” I said, which he must have mistaken for “Do, come in” since he pushed through the door and stepped into my kitchen.

I saw him sitting nervously on a barstool as I walked in to see what he wanted. He just stared at me as if expecting me to say something, so I offered him a drink.

“Juice?”

“Yes please, as long as it’s not apple.” He replied.

Of course it’s apple, you idiot, I thought but didn’t say. Then I remembered his allergy and felt bad for calling him an idiot, even if only in my head.

“Water it is then!” I said uncharacteristically cheerfully.

He took the glass and drained it before looking at me again. He started to speak several times before he managed to string a full sentence together. And they think I’m mad, I thought bitterly, their beloved doctor can’t even speak.

”How…” he eventually managed, “how have you been, Alice? Since last June, I mean.”

“I’ve been fine.” I snapped. He seemed to either not hear or not understand because he just continued on.

“People in town have been concerned about you. You have been acting strange since then and people are taking note, Alice. We’re all worried. That’s why I came here today. I think it would be best for all of us if you came with me somewhere I could help you better. If you just came to the hospital, you could live there quite comfortably, and I would be able to help.”

I fought against the accusations, the charge to leave my beloved house, and George’s medical qualifications for hours as he repeated back to me the same nonsense he had been spewing since he arrived. Eventually, as a closing statement, he said “Well, I will return tomorrow… with my car, even. I shall expect you to be ready at 8:00 in the morning. Good day, Alice.”

As he shut the door, I shouted “IT’S EIGHT O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, YOU FOOL!” which, in retrospect, didn’t make him like me anymore.

This all took place three weeks ago, yet here I was, comfortably baking an apple pie in my own kitchen. George had expected me to go down without a fight, the simpleton. True, I had to stay up late every night plotting a way out, but I had managed it so far even though he returned every morning at 8:00 sharp. I must be the only sick person in town, at least in his eyes.

The first morning was sloppy, but it was all I could do with such short notice. When he came, I opened the door and offered him some water. What I didn’t tell him was that I had spiked it with the smallest amount of apple juice. He ran from the house with his tongue so swollen up he couldn’t even properly threaten me or tell me he would return tomorrow.

By now, it had become a game for me. Now that he is better prepared for my tricks, I have to find more and more clever ways to bring on an allergic reaction. One day, my entire pathway was lined with halves of big red apples. Another, I had rigged a bucket to drop on the head of whoever first walked on my porch filled with apple skins and cores. Apparently his reactions were bad enough to make him flee but not so bad that he didn’t try again the next day.

I put the finishing touches on my pie crust and set it in my ice box. I would wake up early tomorrow to set it in the oven so it would be in place on the windowsill to cool when he approached.

As long as I never ran out of apples, he will never be able to drag me away and lock me up.

An apple a day will keep the doctor away.