I follow her inside then stop and stare. I have to sit down on the bench seat at the table while I look.
It does look as if Sierra’s moved us in already. I see our familiar dishes and glasses on the open shelves, the French press for coffee on the counter, the container of cooking utensils beside the burner. The ugly ceramic frog she made years ago in a pottery class is beside the sink, a dish sponge in hismouth, just as the world should be. She’s covered the fridge in our collection of magnets and framed pictures and probably filled the shower stall with hair products.
There’s a double bed at the other end of the trailer, with another one above on a bunk that can be pulled down. They’re both made up with our sheets and the top one has the inevitable line of Sierra’s stuffies along the headboard. Everyone is present and accounted for.
I recognize her shoes on the floor and purses hanging from a pair of hooks, as well as all the miscellaneous cables from her devices on the kitchen table. She’s even hung fairy lights over the kitchen table and picked a bouquet of wildflowers. It’s a glorious personal clutter and it’s all ours. Square on the kitchen table is a big envelope from the trailer place, with all the paperwork, and my name written on it.
Home.
“You’ve worked hard,” I manage to say. “Great job.”
“Thanks!”
“But did you leave me any closet space?”
“Maybe a little.” She opens a little side door at the end of the kitchen counter. I think it’s for mugs. “You can have this bit, Mom.” Her eyes are sparkling when I laugh at her. “And check out my bed,” she says with satisfaction. “My own bed.”
She climbs the ladder and tosses herself across the mattress with undisguised delight. “And there’s room for everybody.” She taps each stuffie in the nose, working her way down the whole line.
“Did you have dinner?”
“Una got Mike to pick up pizza when we were in Havelock. There’s some left in the fridge.” Sierra bounces out of bed. “And you can heat up a slice in our own microwave.”
“Maybe later. I like the flowers.”
She drops onto the bench opposite me and startswinding up her various cables. “Mike asked what would make it feel like home to you. That’s why we had to get the fairy lights. Then he suggested I pick you a bouquet.”
“It’s beautiful.” I’m going to draw them in the morning. I’m going to preserve this moment forever by committing it to paper. I should have time before we go to Havelock.
I realize then that Sierra is watching me closely. “I like him, Mom. I’m glad you made me with him.”
“Me, too,” I say, because I can’t imagine my life without Sierra around. She grins and gives me a hug before heading to the tiny bathroom.
“Brush your teeth,” I remind her because being a mom is forever. Then I go out and sit in one of the Muskoka chairs and just appreciate everything. The lights go out on Una’s porch and I wave to her when she calls goodnight. I hear Sierra climb into bed but remain where I am. I lose track of time and it doesn’t matter. The solar-powered battery runs down eventually and the fairy lights extinguish themselves. There’s still the fireflies dancing in the shadows and the stars twinkling far overhead.
I do have a little cry, tears of joy, but there’s no one to see them. I wish Mike hadn’t left. It would be good to share this moment with him.
I could tell him that I’m starting to believe again, which is the greatest gift of all.
It’sno fairy tale to wake up in your own bed with the morning sunlight streaming through the window and the birds singing in the trees nearby. The trailer doesn’t vanish in the night or turn into a pumpkin at sunrise.
I think coffee never tasted better than the first potI make that first morning in the trailer. That big envelope contains the receipt for the trailer as well as an extended warranty that Mike added. I don’t need to do any gratitude exercises today.
I do draw the flowers before Sierra wakes up. Then we head for Havelock, chemo treatment, the bus and some grocery shopping for me on the way home. It’s a long day.
I spend Tuesday in my studio as Muriel is taking Una to Havelock for the rest of the week.
On Wednesday, Mike and I meet outside Daphne’s new office near Big Red. The little two-storey building used to be an accountant’s office, although I suppose originally it was a shop with an apartment upstairs. Mike is polite but not overly chatty, and I wonder what to expect from our interview. He seems thoughtful and resolute, which I hope is a good thing.
The main floor is bustling and Daphne explains that they’re the marketing team for Luke’s band. She leads us upstairs to a quieter office, one that’s simply furnished. She has a list and we go through all the items, deciding who’s going to pay for what, who’s going to do what, how we’re going to settle any disputes. It’s all incredibly civilized, mostly because Mike is both generous and agreeable.
I’ve been at the helm alone for so long that I’m not used to having much help. I’ve had my share of hopes being snatched away in the last minute, even though I want to believe this time. Mike and I exchange some small talk afterward – I thank him again for the trailer and he brushes it off – then I head to work, feeling dissatisfied.
Turns out there’s a downside to having a bit of luck. It makes you wanteverything.
It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m setting tables for dinner at the café. My phone chimes with a message from the bank. I open it, then log into my account, and I have to sit down.
There it is. Mike’s first support payment, due the 15thand paid early. The total amount we agreed upon. It’s cleared. Sitting in my account and at my disposal.
