I don’t eat apple pie. I like it…at least I remember liking it. But I haven’t eaten it for 32 years. Apple pie conjures up bad memories. Memories of a specific moment that is a scar across my heart that has never healed. Memories of sickness and death.
1986, Virginia Gardens, Florida. It was Sunday evening. I’d spent the weekend with my dad, stepmother and stepbrother, and they were bringing me back home. We stopped at Denny’s for dinner. I don’t remember what we had, but I do remember that after, my dad suggested everyone get pie.
Denny’s food was never anything special, but they used to have pretty good pie. And dozens of varieties. My brother and I ordered. My dad and stepmother did not–though I didn’t catch that at the time. I got apple pie à la mode, with cinnamon ice cream.
Our pie arrived and we dug in. After two bites my dad started talking. The energy from the table drained away. This felt rehearsed. I didn’t put the fork down, but I stopped eating.
He talked about his back surgery two years before. He talked about complications and blood transfusions. I avoided eye contact, and watched my ice cream melt. He talked about blood supplies, and contamination, and infection. I watched the pie in front of me get soggy. He talked about experimental drugs, and being hopeful and worst case scenarios.
And I watched my plate of apple pie, because I was 14 years old, and knew if I looked him in the eyes I’d crumble to pieces. And at 14, I wasn’t strong enough to know that was ok.
I’ve been back to that Denny’s dozens of times. It was a popular hangout with the nerd-clique in high school. I always avoided that table, but even going into the building was enough to get me to sink into moodiness. My closer friends noticed, and asked me about it. I didn’t trust them enough to tell them why.
He died in ‘89, but it wasn’t for a couple more years that I made the connection with apple pie. I didn’t order it often, but when I did, the gloom returned. ‘92 was the last time I ate apple pie.
Years ago I had a friend who was very proud of her apple pie. She brought it to every work potluck, and every party. She got lots of compliments on it. We were close, and she asked me many times to try it. I know all she wanted was simple validation from a friend. But I just couldn’t bring myself to eat it. After the tenth time she got mad, so I pulled her aside and explained why. She was still mad and told me after 10 years I needed to get over it.
I said that I didn’t want to get over it. She said I was sad because I wanted to be sad, and we didn’t speak much after that.
I know I could get over this association. It’s been 32 years, and I know I could break it. But…
The memory of that pie, that whole scene, is in vivid, full color. I don’t know if everyone’s memories work the same way but not all my memories are like that. Many of my memories are like faded photographs. And my memories of my dad are old. Most of them faded, still images. I can no longer remember how he moved, at least not without a cane. I can barely remember his voice. And even in my older early childhood memories, he’s been replaced by a wilted, white-haired man.
But that day, in that chair, at that table, with soggy, wasted pie on a plate with a chipped edge that I turned to face away from me, is a memory in full color. I can smell the pie. I can smell the cigarette smoke from three tables over. I remember my dad wearing his Levi’s jean jacket–it wasn’t cold but he was already sick. I remember my feet hurt because I needed new shoes.
It’s a terrible memory, but it’s probably the most vivid, untouched memory I have of him. And I’m afraid if I let it go I’ll be letting more of him go.
Where Is My Spot? 