The Scent of Orange Juice

by Swetha Amit

The citrusy scent of orange juice used to brighten our kitchen, which had crackling linoleum, a plain brown table, and peeling white walls. Before the arguments and silence intruded into our home, making orange juice was a ritual that kept us connected. 

Pa would be at the counter. I'd sit at the table, my small legs dangling, the eight-year-old me mesmerized by the way Pa would slice the orange in half, revealing the tender layers beneath its hard skin. I watched as he pressed the half orange onto the cone of the electric free juicer and squeezed out the pulpy juice. How he cleaned the orange skin and seeds that had collected in the juicer. How he'd pour the rich, sweet juice that gushed like an orange river into three empty glasses. How he would clasp his strong brown fingers around the glass when he handed it to me with a toothy grin.

Ma would wear her yellow apron, making toast and eggs. Sometimes, the burning smell of the toast would make the citrus scent feel bitter. But mostly, the aroma of orange juice would fill my nostrils, soothing my nerves and reassuring me of happiness.

Then silence settled in—the kind that spreads through the house like an unwelcome thick fog, similar to the one obscuring the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from our kitchen window. The silence deepened into a chasm, worse than the arguments between Ma and Pa. It all began when Ma refused to get out of bed one morning. At first, we thought she was coming down with the flu. The days had become shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. Outside, the trees changed colors and leaves fell to the ground. When the doctor, a colleague from the medical center where Pa worked, visited, he said she should recover in a week. But a week turned into two weeks. Two weeks into three. And then a month. She still lay in bed. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow from her lack of appetite. Her black hair was disheveled, like a bird's nest. Her brown hands were shriveled, like the orange fruit beneath its peel. When Pa tried to talk to her, she said she was bored—bored with the monotony and the rigamarole of domesticity.

The argument began when Ma refused to get out of bed, despite her fever having gone away. Pa was initially patient; he stayed home from work to look after her. Ma kept saying she was bored. Pa suggested going somewhere to get away, but she refused. When Pa asked if she was bored with him, she silently stared at the bare trees outside. Then he accused her of being selfish and not thinking about me.  She retaliated, saying he never understood her.  Pa’s exasperated sighs and Ma’s sniffles robbed the house of its citrusy scent.

At breakfast, Pa still made my orange juice. When he handed me the glass, his toothy grin faded into a slight frown. Sometimes, I’d find a seed or peel in my juice that made it taste bitter. After several days, Pa quietly left, leaving a note saying he didn't know when he would return and that he was sorry. I missed seeing his strong hands in action.

Grandma visited, and Ma finally got out of bed. Her apron had faded to a pale yellow. Her expression was blank as she handed me a glass of orange juice. It was pre-poured from a packet bought at the local grocery store. The vibrancy had faded. The freshly squeezed scent was gone. It was nothing but a cold, bland taste from a juice carton. 

Pa never returned. Ma and I spent our time in a dull silence, which was only broken occasionally by necessary exchanges, like how school was or what I wanted to eat. Grandma continued living with us. Sometimes I'd hear Ma crying behind closed doors with Grandma comforting her. I never knew what illness had taken her away, ending our family tradition of making orange juice. The last I heard from Pa, he was living alone in Santa Cruz. Grandma took me once to visit him. He worked at the local medical center. He’d grown pale and thin. He now had a beard. His once strong hands looked weak. I asked him if he was ever going to come back home. He smiled tiredly and said Santa Cruz was now his home. I asked him for orange juice. He said he stopped making it. I never visited again until his funeral. 

***

Thirty years later, after majoring in Psychology, working as a school counselor, experiencing two breakups, and then entering a steady marriage, and Ma’s untimely demise, I found myself in a different kitchen in Los Altos. Far from the fog that often clouded the city. Sparkling wooden floors, with French doors overlooking the garden, pearl-white walls and cabinets, sunlight pouring in. My eight-year-old daughter stood next to me, holding an orange. I sliced it in half and placed it on the cone of the juicer. The familiar citrusy smell filled the room. I squeezed the juice until my hand ached. I poured it into three glasses. The familiar aroma that tickled my nostrils made me stare into the distance. Outside, I watched a hummingbird fluttering over the roses. 

"What are you thinking about, Ma?" my daughter asked.

I looked at her curious face, unaware of how this orange juice brought back memories of my childhood. I began cleaning up the orange peel remnants and seeds. The bits of seeds and peel felt like fragments of my broken past. My husband walked in and greeted me with his usual kiss on my cheek. He picked up the two glasses and handed one to my daughter with a toothy smile. They both took a sip. The citrusy aroma lingered in my kitchen. For a moment, I felt transported back in time.

BIO: Swetha Amit is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir, A Turbulent Mind, and three chapbooks. Her words appear in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Cream City Review, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fiction.