Free The Scent of Apples by Jacquie McRae Page A

fallen into a morning ritual as well as a night-time one. I tie a scarf over my head in the bathroom. Instead of going back to my room, I slip quietly down the stairs. I take my coat off a rack by the front door and throw it on over my pyjamas before stepping outside.
    There’s a slight chill in the air and it makes me pull my coat tighter around me. Last night’s rain is still caught up in some of the leaves on the trees. Droplets fall down on me as I walk beneath them. I close my eyes and wait for the orchard to weave its soothing powers around me. But this morning the magic must be somewhere else.
    One of our early fruiting trees has some bright red apples on it. Usually at this time of the year I’d be out helping to thin out the fruit, plucking off some of the smaller apples that are just beginning to grow so the fruit that’s left grows larger.
    I pick an apple and look at the unblemished skin. A perfect specimen. On impulse I hurl it at the trunk. It splatters, spraying bits of apple everywhere. It feels good. I have a strong urge to pick all the fruit in the orchard and smash them up.
    I march towards the implement shed to get a picking ladder. When the building comes into view, Toby is standing in front of it. He waves out to me, but I pretend I don’t see him. I quickly turn my head and walk back towards the house.
    On the back porch, I sit on the wooden steps. I’m surprised to hear my parents moving around in the kitchen.
    â€˜We need to tell her that this is a unanimous decision,’ I hear my mum say.
    â€˜She’s not going to like it.’
    I shuffle to my feet and practically fall in through the kitchen door.
    â€˜Who’s not going to like what?’ I ask.
    They are sitting at the dining table, and both turn their heads towards me. Colour rises to Dad’s cheek. Red must be the colour of guilt. Mum is not so easy to catch off-guard.
    â€˜What on earth are you doing out in the orchard at this time of morning? Look at you, you’re all wet and you’ve still got your pyjamas on.’
    I carry inside some of the anger I felt in the orchard. It makes me feel brave.
    â€˜I went for a walk. Who is not going to like what?’
    â€˜Sit down, Libby.’ Dad says, with a tone in his voice that scares me.
    â€˜I’m fine standing.’
    â€˜Well …’ Mum says, ‘We both think that it will be in the best interest of everyone, especially your nana’s, if we move her to that nice nursing home down by the river in town.’
    I look at Dad. He looks straight down at the table top, but nods his head in agreement.
    â€˜They can take good care of her,’ Mum says.
    A chill creeps up my spine like a centipede. Claws containing poison wrap around my chest. Squeezing and making it hard for me to breathe.
    â€˜But we can take good care of her!’ I plead. ‘Or I can. She won’t know where she is if you put her in a home!’
    â€˜That’s the point, Elizabeth.’ Mum stands and moves into the kitchen. She takes some coffee beans from a canister, throws them into the grinding machine and yells at me over the noise. ‘She doesn’t know where she is now.’ Mum puts the ground beans and water into the percolator. With a bang, she puts it on the element to boil.
    â€˜Elizabeth, it’s time for us to all move on. You look shocking. You’ve got black bags under your eyes and your skin looks dreadful. I’m worried that caring for her has already taken too much from you.’
    â€˜I just haven’t been sleeping. I’ll get better.’
    â€˜The nursing home will have trained professionals who are much better equipped to look after her.’ Dad sounds apologetic.
    The steely look on Mum’s face tells me the decision is already made. I run from the kitchen, slamming the door as hard as I can. The sound of glass breaking doesn’t make me feel any better.
    *
    For a week, none of us