“Wow,” I said. “Why are some of the stars dancin'?”
“They’re called shooting stars. These ones are part of the Perseid Meteor Shower. For a few days each August, if you go somewhere dark enough and it isn’t cloudy, you can see the stars dance across the sky, my love.”
I shake my head and wipe under my eyes at the memory. It’s memories like that which make the ache in my chest as painful as the day we lost her.
When I look back up at the glowing green sky, I focus on a star that seems to be shining brighter than the rest. And I can’t help but think that must be her. Because nobody shined brighter than my mum. That’s why life has been so much dimmer since she’s been gone.
A day later, safely returned to civilisation, Noah and I collect a hire car from Anchorage and head off for the final leg of our trip. Silver Rapids.
It takes us around two hours to reach the small town, and Noah insists on stopping off at a shop called The Silver Dollar to buy enough snacks to feed an army.
“It’s not like she’s not going to feed us when we get there,” I say, following him around the small store as he loads up his basket.
“I’m ignoring you,” he informs me.
The girl behind the checkout chews and pops her gum like she’s incredibly bored and eyes the endless heap of sugary snacks.
“Having a party?” she asks.
“No,” Noah replies bluntly. I try to smile to soften it, but she has a scowl on her face and doesn’t say anymore after that.
I drive the remainder of the way so that Noah can scarf through his wares. Butterflies flutter in my stomach with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.
Double-checking that we’re at the correct address, we get out of the car, and I stretch to crack my back. It’s aching from being cramped in a car for the last few hours.
“Ready?” Noah asks. Clearly more aware than I gave him credit for that this visit will be a little difficult for me.
“Yep. She’d have wanted me to visit,” I reply.
With Noah a few steps behind me, I walk up the drive and to the front door of a small cottage. I hesitate for a moment but then knock on the yellow front door.
A small woman answers, her eyes welling up as soon as she sees us. She has the same dark hair and features as my mum.
“Hi, Aunt Siobhan, it’s good to see you.”
Noah sits comfortably on the sofa while Siobhan clatters around in the kitchen, making tea. There’s a bunch of framed photographs above her fireplace: one, presumably from her wedding day judging by her white poofy dress; another is of her and Mum with cowboy hats and boots on, and the last is of a guy with dark hair and a serious expression wearing military garb.
“That’s my best friend’s son, Silas. He’s like a nephew to me,” Siobhan says with a tray of mugs in her hands.
“Is he deployed?” I ask, not sure what else is appropriate.
“Yes, he left a few months ago. He’s a good lad; we’re all just praying for his safe return.” Her Northern Irish accent is softer now, a strange, slightly hybrid Americanised version instead.
I join Noah on the sofa, and once Siobhan has poured the tea, she goes to retrieve a photo album from a nearby bookshelf. When she returns, she sits down next to me and opens it up.
On the first page is a picture of her and Mum at Times Square, huge grins on their faces. It’s odd to think that Mum is my age there. She looks impossibly young to be the woman who became a mother only a few years later.
“What was she like back then?” I ask Siobhan.
“She was a ball of energy. People gravitated towards her just to feel the warmth of her glow. It was addictive to be noticed by her but hard living in her shadow,” Siobhan answers with more honesty than I was expecting. “She was fierce. Good luck to anyone who crossed the people she cared about. I think your da was good for her, kept her grounded.” She smiles fondly before turning over the page. Noah pokes his head over my shoulder to take a look. The two of them are standing at the base of one of the giant sequoia trees.
“She was happier the second half of the trip, away from the big cities. It was like she always fed off her environment, so she was calmer in nature.”
“Her and Da used to take the three of us camping every summer; she loved it,” I say.
“Have you any pictures of the twins? I don’t think I’ve seen a recent photo.” I dig around in my pocket for my phone and scroll up through my photos. I find one of the four of us from my birthday in August; we had a BBQ, and Da got one of Will’s dads to snap a family photo of us. It’s one of the few family photos without Mum in it.
“Gosh, Connor is the spit of her, isn’t he? You too, mind,” she says to Noah. “Although I guess it’s your Da you look like.” Noah only grunts in response; he’s never been especially fond of being told he closely resembles Rowan. Their relationship has been understandably strained for pretty much his whole life.
