The Blackberry Pie

by Donna Poole

Bianca yawned with exhaustion. It had been a long flight, and she didn’t relish leaving her room, but the thought of yet another meal in yet another hotel restaurant didn’t appeal to her today. When the Uber driver arrived and asked, “Where to, Ma’am?” she hesitated.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve got an idea. I feel like something kind of Mom and Poppsy.”

The youngish millennial scratched his ear. “Mom and Poppsy?”

She didn’t mean to sound impatient. Years of being a successful businesswoman who tolerated no nonsense sometimes carried over into her personal life…what there was of it.

“Surely you understand what I mean, young man. No chain restaurants. Do you know a place that serves home-style cooking?”

“Oh, you want Cheap Eats! Why didn’t you say so?”

Bianca sighed and tried to keep frustration from showing. “Cheap or expensive, I don’t care about the price. I just want something that tastes like home cooking.”

He nodded. “Got cha.”

She dozed in the backseat as he wove his way in and out of the Denver traffic. As much as she loved her job, she sometimes wondered if she were getting too old at fifty to be crisscrossing the country two and three times a week. Her clothes spent more time in a suitcase than they did in her closet.  

Bianca woke when her driver stopped. A blinking red sign advertised the name of the diner, “Cheap Eats.” Through the windows she could see cheerful looking red checked booths. A diner wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind, but why not? She’d give it a try.

She tipped the driver a bit extra because she felt bad about being snippy and hurried inside. The warmth felt good; it was cold outside and almost felt like it could snow.

Surprisingly, the menu wasn’t sticky, and the coffee was hot and fresh. After just the right amount of time, a waitress in a red apron bustled up to her booth. With her white hair piled into a bun, and a few wispy curls escaping, she looked like a Normal Rockwell painting of a grandmother.

“Happy Mother’s Day, and what can I get you?”

Bianca stared up at her. “It’s Mother’s Day?”

The woman chuckled. “How have you managed to miss all the commercials for the last month?”

“I saw them,” Bianca answered, “but I guess time just got away from me.”

Besides, Mother’s Day means nothing to me.

“It’s only lunch time,” the grandmotherly looking woman whose name tag read “Daisy” replied. “No harm done. It’s not too late to call your mom.”

Mom? Mom has been dead for a long time. Come to think of it, she died on a Mother’s Day when she was the age I am now, fifty years old.

But she didn’t say it. She never shared her personal life with strangers, and her job kept her too busy to make friends. Bianca smiled, handed Daisy the menu, and ordered chicken and biscuits.  

The heaping plate of food arrived steaming hot, and the delicious biscuits tasted surprisingly like her mother’s. Some things you don’t forget, no matter how long it’s been.

Why am I suddenly thinking about Mom? Sure, it’s Mother’s Day, but I haven’t really thought much about her in years. We were so different, Mom and I. Suzie was like Mom, a born little homemaker. Even as a little girl I knew I wanted a career, not a home and a family, but Mom never seemed to get it. She bought me dolls I never played with when I asked for chemistry sets and microscopes. If she were alive, she probably wouldn’t understand my job even if I explained it to her, but she’d sure be proud of Susie with her four grown children and fifteen grandchildren.

Bianca wiped up some of the gravy with a piece of homemade bread.

Susie. I should call her and wish her a happy Mother’s Day, but we have so little in common it’s hard to carry on a conversation. And besides, I’m sure she’s busy with her family today back home in Tennessee.

Bianca hadn’t called her sister since Susie’s husband’s funeral eleven months ago, even though she’d promised to keep in touch. She tried to push away the guilt, a feeling she seldom experienced.

Daisy refilled her coffee cup and asked, “Dessert?”

Bianaca held up a slender hand. “No, thank you. I never eat dessert.”

“Never?” Daisy chuckled. “Not even on Mother’s Day? We have homemade blackberry pie.”

Daisy cleared the table. Bianca lingered, sipped the coffee, and remembered two little sunburned girls picking wild blackberries and laughing in the sunshine. They ate almost as many as they put into their buckets, but there were always enough berries for Mom to make a few of her delicious blackberry pies.

A clap of thunder startled her and interrupted her thoughts. “Thunder snow!” someone exclaimed.

Bianca looked outside. Sure enough, snow was falling quickly, snow on Mother’s Day.

Why is everything reminding me of Mom today?

Mom always said she wanted a foot of snow for Mother’s Day, not likely, since they’d lived in Tennessee where it seldom snowed on Christmas let alone in May!

Memories of days forever gone came quicker than the blizzard unfolding outside. Mom tucking her and Suzie into bed and reading them story after story. Mom humming in the kitchen. Mom singing the hymns she loved in church with Susie on one side and Bianca on the other. Hemmed in by love, life had such a steady rhythm in those long-ago days. Bianca had let it all go; God, church, family, love, friendship. Life was empty.

Bianca brushed angrily at the tears streaming down her face. She prided herself on not showing emotion. If a berated employee ever gave way to tears, she always said, “Pull yourself together and toughen up. I didn’t cry even when my own mother died.”

But she was crying now, ugly sobs. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Then Daisy slid into her booth and took her hands. “What’s wrong? Can I help?

The only words Bianca could get out between sobs were, “My mother died.”

The rational part of her watched with disdain as the scene unfolded. Ridiculous. What are you going to say when she asks when she died and you have to say twenty-five years ago? She’s going to think you’re an idiot.

Daisy listened with compassion as Bianca condensed her life’s lonely story into a few minutes.

“I’m sorry, Daisy, I don’t know what came over me. I don’t make a habit of sharing with strangers.”

A couple with three small children stopped at their booth. The children jostled each other as they took turns hugging Daisy. “Goodbye, Grandma Daisy! See you next week!”

Bianca watched wistfully as the family hurried out into the snow. “How many grandchildren do you have?”

Daisy laughed. “It depends. Usually about fifty or so.” She laughed again at the puzzled look on Bianca’s face.

“The good Lord never blessed me with a husband or a family. All I have is my church family, this diner, and the family I’ve made for myself here. But you have a sister? And nieces and nephews?”

Bianca nodded and wiped her face with a tissue.

“Be right back,” Daisy said.

She returned with two generous sized pieces of blackberry pie, and Bianca didn’t say no. The pie tasted exactly like the pie Mom had made so long ago. Bianca would tell Susie about it when she called her later, and she’d tell her about the Mother’s Day snow. She had a feeling Susie would be glad to hear from her. Susie had never pushed her away, and God hadn’t either. Maybe both of them were just waiting for her to come home.

By the time Bianca stepped outside the diner the snow came up to her ankles. Before she got into the Uber she looked up and said, “You see this, Mom? It’s snowing! Happy Mother’s Day! I love you.”

She climbed into the car and the driver said, “You look happy today, lady.”

“Oh, I am. I was lost for a while, but now I know where I’m going.”

“Well, that’s good. Where are you going?”

“Tennessee for starters!”

“Lady, I don’t drive that far!”

He probably thinks I’m crazy.

She chuckled, gave him the name of the hotel, and he started to ease out into traffic. She glanced back at the diner. Daisy was standing outside waving goodbye to her.

“Wait!” she yelled. “I forgot something!”

“Lady!” His voice was edgy, but he backed into the spot he’d just left.

Bianca jumped out. She was going to get the phone number of the first friend she’d made since college.

The end.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter