My Lemon Tree
The lemon I held was the quintessence of lemon. The color. The shape. It was perfect. Gingerly placing it on the counter, I stabbed it. The yellow skin puckered as the knife slid in. No juice spilled. No scent wafted. Pushing down, it split in two. The innards were soft and gray. This was no lemon; it was a strange putty-painted-mock-citrus. What an injustice. I found myself imagining a tart, drippy, seed-filled lemon. A lemon I, Nina Jabour, plucked from a living tree.
A site called Quick Grow Trees promised a sapling delivered to my door for forty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, and I said yes. Within minutes, my device vibrated with news.
Your live lemon tree will arrive October 3rd. If you would like it to arrive October 2nd, please upgrade for seventy-five dollars.
I didn’t want my tree to have to spend an extra day on a truck. I took a long slug of lemon-less water and upgraded. My tree was on its way.
October 2nd came and went and no tree arrived. I sat down to express my discontent with Quick Grow.
It is 6:30 p.m. on Wednesday. I have been waiting since 9 a.m. on Tuesday and my tree has not arrived. I paid an extra seventy-five dollars to expedite its arrival, but I have heard nothing. Where is my tree?
I could not sleep that night. The thought of this uprooted tree locked in the back of a truck festered in my mind.
Quick Grow, I wrote feverishly with my thumbs, I have been waiting three days. Many things can be done in three days. The first trip to the moon was completed in three days. The burning of Rome took three days. A public holiday is three days. You have not contacted me to tell me what has happened to my tree. I don’t know what to make of this. Has my tree died? If so, please deliver it anyway. I would like to see it, at the very least. I am afraid to leave the house because I don’t want the tree left alone in the hall.
The next day I couldn’t bear seeing all the happy-worry-free people at the office. Were they waiting for anything as important as a lemon tree? No. I would stay at the ready in my apartment. Sticking my head out into the hallway, miles of gray carpet and closed doors extended to my right and to my left. No call came from the lobby desk announcing the arrival of my tree.
What sort of service are you? Did you take the time to GPS-tag my tree? If so, I can track it and retrieve it myself. Please write.
I ate in. I ran on the treadmill. I checked my messages and the volume of my ringer. I looked up the address of Quick Grow. It was five states away. I could fly there. I looked up ticket prices. A message came from the front desk. I had a delivery. Within moments, I would pick a round ripe lemon from my lemon tree. I jumped up, spilling my laptop, phone, and half-eaten ramen on the floor. I flung the door open. There it was, wrapped in white gauze like a spindly ghost. I lifted it inside and gently unwound the material. It was a stick with a few leaves hanging on precariously. There wasn't even one lemon.
There are no lemons on this lemon tree, I wrote. Is this a lemon tree at all? Or some other type of plant you’re trying to fool me into believing is a lemon tree? It is difficult for me to trust you as you were slow in delivery. I fully expect the “garden support” you wrote so glowingly of. Also, please refund my seventy-five dollars.
Despite my fear that this wasn’t a lemon tree, I brought it into my bedroom. I told it why I loved to sleep. I told it my favorite dreams. Dreams are not a good topic of conversation with people. They sigh and edge away, but this tree listens.
My heart leaped to see a subject line that read, A Response To Your Query.
Dear Plant Parent,
As a new plant owner, you have many concerns. I am here to help. Do not worry if your tree has no lemons on it, the lemon tree will bear fruit in six to twelve months. Water weekly and fertilize your lemon tree with a high-nitrogen fertilizer. Don’t overwater. Seventy-five dollars has been credited to your account for failed delivery.
Garden for life,
Sam
Sam. Sam understood. I wrote back immediately.
Dear Sam,
Thank you. Do you also have a lemon tree? I mist the leaves every other day. Do you mist your leaves?
Appreciate your advice,
Nina
No message from Sam appeared and my tree did not thrive. It drooped.
Dear Sam,
Did you receive my last message? What am I to do? I use the high-nitrogen fertilizer you recommended, I speak to my tree every night, and I have severely disciplined myself to water cautiously. It does not look healthy. At all. Its leaves hang and the trunk twists oddly. Surely this is not right. I googled pictures of lemon trees and the leaves are glossy and there are actual lemons on the tree. I hope you will answer soon, I am very worried
Nina
Hours passed and Sam had not responded. I refreshed my email. I could not work. I could not think. I wrote again
Dear Sam,
It has been twenty-four long hours since I wrote to you. Twenty-four. In that time my tree has suffered. You must help me help my tree.
Please respond,
Nina
I told my tree the story of The Little Engine that Could, but I substituted the word tree for engine. The encouragement was futile. The subject line Worried Plant Parent appeared.
Dear Nina,
You are very conscientious. I have a question for you, have you placed it near a window in the brightest room in your house?
Garden for life,
Sam
The kitchen. Such a poor place to cook with its floor to ceiling windows, but for a lemon tree, the perfect home. I reassured the tree that the move was for its own health and not because I didn’t want it in my bedroom. Sam had made a fine suggestion.
Dear Sam,
I have relocated the tree. The kitchen is hot and bright and well suited to citrus. Do you have any other suggestions? If so, don’t hesitate to write to tell me. I am keen to hear anything you have to say.
Thank you for being part of “garden support.”
Nina
The branches cast a sharp shadow across the kitchen table, a strange, many jointed hand. I traced the outline with my finger. I sweated. It was very hot.
Nina,
Fruit trees do not grow in kitchens. Citrus thrives in a hot, dry climate. Citrus are evergreen. If you move your plant, bag the roots in burlap.
Garden for life,
Sam
It was a quizzical note. Looking back over our correspondence, it was obvious, Sam was not human. Just like a perfect lemon, Sam wasn’t real, a chatbot. A lie.
My poor tree. I sat with it. In that sweltering kitchen, its leaves slowly arched from their small branches, reaching for the sun. I began rotating the tree daily so that every one would be touched by the rays. I sang the oldie, The Lemon Tree. A bud appeared. A fruit began to grow. It was small and green.
I’ve ordered another and upgraded the delivery. I noticed something on the Quick Grow site: They also have lime trees.
Gage Johnston is co-author of the Tudor historical novel, The Queen's Letter, being published this spring.
