Page 96 of Before We Say Goodbye
The next morning Otis and Rebecca called their lawyer and asked to move forward with the sale of Lost Souls.
Chapter 21
Harvesting Souls
Mike spent the summer working with his parents and hiding from any activity that took him into town. Heartache hit him hard, and it was all Otis and Rebecca could do to draw a smile from him. Or even get him to eat.
It was Bec who suggested they take him to see a psychiatrist, a Dr. Cormier, who recommended after a couple of sessions that Michael might benefit from taking an antidepressant. Otis was taken aback by the idea, but Dr. Cormier’s words rang true for both Rebecca and Otis.
“You’re right, Rebecca,” Dr. Cormier said from the chair in his office while Mike flipped through magazines in the waiting room, “it very well could be genetic. More to the point, I think we should recognize that this could be bigger than him, something that he can’t quite battle on his own. You said your father always had this pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps mentality with your brother. No offense to him, but that’s an archaic way of thinking. Medicine can be the lift up a person needs. I think Michael could see wonderful benefit.”
When Otis turned to Bec, she was glowing with hope. Otis committed to approaching the idea with an open mind, something he imagined neither his father nor his father-in-law would be able to do. Perhaps that meant it was exactly what Otis had to do.
In the following weeks, they tried not to ask Michael how he was feeling, if he noticed any change due to the medicine, but they couldn’t help it every few days. About two months in, though, they didn’t have to ask. The change wasn’t night and day, but little by little, they could see a lightness come over him.
That summer, Mike showed an interest in farming, more than ever before. He’d get up early, just to see what his dad was doing. It wasn’t about taking the machinery apart. He wanted to understand the vines, what led to good fruit. Otis couldn’t name any feeling in the world better than looking up from his morning work on the farm to see Mike coming to join him. Needless to say, Bec was the happiest of all of them, knowing that their son was finding a way out of his darkness.
“You hear that?” Otis asked Mike in late August, days before they were to pick chardonnay.
“Hear what?” The young man had filled out, slightly less awkward in his body. His face had cleared up some.
“Sit down with me.”
The sun had eased up over the hill, but it wasn’t terribly hot yet. In fact, this vintage had been rather cool, a true blessing for their last run. Brushstrokes of a mellow vermilion swam through the otherwise nitid baby-blue sky. Birds chirped their morning melodies. The whispers of the vines sounded like a breeze, but there was no wind today, only the magic of this land.
Otis and Mike both sat on the earth between rows. It was such a wonderful world down there, a bed of earthworms and abundant life, surrounded by vines that were the true soldiers of terroir. Through the trunks, you could see the hills rising up around them. The hanging clusters gave off a wonderfully sweet and delectable scent.
Cross-legged, Otis gathered his hands together on his lap. “You’ve heard me talk about Carmine and how his farm has a whisper. You’re old enough now to understand. We could spray glyphosate. We could kill all these weeds, make it look like Disney World, but then you’re killing the life around the trunk. We don’t exist in a vacuum, and nordo the vines. You can’t focus on one piece of the farm. Well, you can, but then your wines—and for that matter—your life, will not be as rich. I’ve spent years with Carmine and on this farm trying to figure that out, trying to figure out how to make a farm harmonious. When you do, she starts to sing. It sounds almost like if you place your ear up to a conch shell, and it feels ... I don’t know, like when someone you love touches you. There’s nothing more magical. I can hear her now, singing. That’s how I know it will be the perfect vintage.”
Mike pinched some grass and tore it from the earth, then tossed it. It was big talk for a teenager, but he was listening.
“We’ve given back every way we can. With compost, manure. We’ve never once sprayed a chemical. We work with the earth, not against her. In return, she gives us fruit that tastes like nowhere else on the planet. I know you’re young, and I may sound like some crazy old man, but wine is much more than a beverage. I hope you see that. Wine is life. We are harvesting and bottling the soul of this land, and we are part of it, so we’re putting our souls in there too. Every bottle I’ve made since you were born has a piece of you in it. Your energy. Your—”
“My pee?”
Otis allowed a moment of levity. “Well, that’s right. You have certainly done your share of peeing in the vineyard, but let’s not tell anyone that.”
“I’m kidding.”
After a proper chuckle, Otis put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I know I haven’t always been around, but I’m working to change that. Forgive me, son, for not doing better.”
Mike’s eyebrows crinkled. “You’ve been a great dad.”
“Thank you.”
“Seriously. You’re an inspiration. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing to show your kids how to work hard.”
“Yeah, but there’s a point.” Otis wouldn’t dare break eye contact.
“I know. Mom talks about it.”
“She does?”
“She says you overcorrected. The Great Overcorrection of Otis Till.”
Otis chuckled. “Maybe a little.”
“I don’t think you should quit. Look at you. You’re happy. Your farm whispers to you.”
