25. Sylvia
SYLVIA
F irst thing Sunday morning, I dig my old sketchbooks out of Una’s attic and haul them down to the studio. My chat with Una was inspiring. I’m determined to assess my former skills with an unemotional eye and brace myself for disappointment.
But the work is better than I remembered.
There are a number of sketches that I think are really wonderful.
I’d forgotten how often I’d drawn Una or Eileen. There are sketches of Mike, and some of my other friends. It’s the ones of Mike I keep coming back to. I even got his little smile right in this one, the one that makes his eyes smoulder.
Besides people, there are old trees and Big Red and some streetscapes of Empire.
I recognize Abbie and Mike’s grandmother’s house with its glorious gardens, that lady’s pride and joy.
There are sketches of the pier at Port Cavendish, some fishing boats coming in, some storms blowing across the lake.
I was sure that I was remembering myself with more skill than I had, but I was wrong .
I was pretty good.
Something changes after I see that and the drawing comes easier today. The lines go the way I wanted them to be more often. Maybe I’m remembering something or getting my groove back. Maybe I’m learning it all over again. Maybe I’m trusting in myself again.
Either way, I’m happy with my work and happy in my studio. I hear Merrie in her apartment and then in the kitchen downstairs, but we each stick to our own activities. I have no idea where Colin is and it doesn’t matter. There’s just the paper and the pencil and the images forming under my hand.
I’m happy that Sierra is with Mike and completely confident of her welfare.
Today is for me.
I draw.
When Mike sends me a picture of Sierra laughing, I smile at the sight of her happiness. She’s at Una’s place, so I’ll guess they brought the trailer home. I reply with a thumbs-up and get back to work.
It’s lovely to have the luxury of time to think about drawing again, to clean up properly, even to daydream a bit. The day feels endless and marvelous, a gift from Mike.
I linger in the studio long after I might have been expected home. I want to see Mike, but I suspect I’m going to cry if the trailer is there and Sierra is happy about it. I love that he made this happen, but I worry about counting on him too much.
About showing too much.
Then I think about Una’s advice and scold myself. He’s in our lives now, and the Mike I know isn’t going to vanish on his daughter. If he has to choose between his two families, it will be what it will be. I’ve dealt with everything else life has tossed me and I’ll deal with that, too.
I head back to Una’s. The sun has set and the air has cooled.
There are dark shadows beneath the trees.
It always feels to me like Una lives in an enchanted forest, but especially so in the evenings.
I love the two-track that winds its way back to her cabin from the road, the wildflowers growing in the middle of the drive and on either side.
I love that you can’t see her place from the road, that it feels like stepping into another world.
The trees that surround her house are tall and old, and the air is always cool. There’s always a scent of pines.
In the evening, the shadows are purple and deep blue.
Velvety. Secretive. In darkness, the sounds of the forest change.
Sometimes you can hear frogs in the creek.
It’s not uncommon to hear an owl, or to see one flying slowly toward you.
Their wings flap so slowly that they could be flying in slow motion – or a vision from another time and place.
In a fairy tale, they’d be a warning or an apparition.
I don’t see an owl tonight, but I hear one. There are fireflies, glimmering on either side of the car. I slow down, because I saw a doe a week ago and I don’t want to injure any of the creatures that make their home around Una’s. I hear the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth.
I round the last curve and see the trailer, just as I imagined it, and my heart jumps to my throat.
It could be another fairy tale vision. It’s tucked beneath the trees, twenty steps away from Una’s porch, and already looks as if it was always there.
There are some lights on inside it, casting a welcome golden glow.
The striped awning is extended but it seems to have a frame, one I don’t remember from the lot.
There are two white Muskoka chairs beneath the awning, framing the door. It looks idyllic.
At first, I think the air beneath the awning is full of fireflies, because there are dozens of little flickering lights there. But that makes no sense. They prefer to fly above the garden or in the forest, plus the ones under the awning are blinking more slowly.
That’s when I realize they’re fairy lights. They’re hung in the chaotic loops that Sierra favors and there are a lot of them. I smile as I park because that’s always been our sign that wherever we’re living is home.
I take a deep breath. Home .
Our very own place.
There’s no sign of Una, but our old fairy lights are on inside her closed porch.
I guess she’s there, watching, drinking herbal tea and maybe napping.
Mike is under the awning, almost hidden in the shadows.
He’s holding Una’s old wooden ladder for Sierra and as I watch, she plugs in another string and more lights flicker to life.
“Enough, already,” Mike says.
“One more strand,” Sierra negotiates.
“You’re going to need sunscreen at night if you keep this up,” he grumbles and she laughs at him. When he grins at her, indulgence in his expression, I bite my lip and blink back my tears.
“The solar panel says a maximum of six. This is only five,” she informs him.
“One more,” he cedes. “How about over there?”
I get out of the car and let the door slam, watching them turn to me. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Sierra leaps off the ladder and runs toward me. “Mom! It is more perfect even than we knew. Lila says she can’t wait to visit. Come see!” She seizes my hand, tugging me toward the door to the trailer.
Toward Mike, who is standing and smiling at me, making my heart go thump just by being here. He folds his arms across his chest as I approach, which just makes him look more solid and reliable .
Irresistible.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and his gaze hot.
“Hey,” I reply, then reach to touch his shoulder. “Thank you.”
He glances around, surveying what they’ve done. “It was fun. How’d the drawing go today?”
We could be a couple, exchanging greetings after our respective days. There’s nothing routine about the simmer between us though, about the tingle of awareness that is warming me to my toes. “Better. I feel like I’m getting it back.”
“Good.” His smile is warm enough to bask in and I have to look away.
“I doubt you ever lost it, Sylvia. You’ve always had such talent.
” He looks down. “And more than that. Your paintings are always little stories. I don’t know how to explain it but they’re fascinating.
They tempt you to look deeper, figure it out.
” He looks into my eyes, smiling slightly. “A riddle to be solved.”
Are we just talking about my art?
I’m warm all over from his praise, from his conviction in my abilities. “Where did these chairs come from?” I ask Sierra who has reappeared with another strand of lights.
“Mike took us to Canadian Tire, to get the fairy lights.”
“They’re not fairy lights.”
“We needed the chairs, though. They’re on the vision board, Mom.”
“Una insisted on buying them, given the vision board situation,” Mike says solemnly. “I just put them together.”
“They were on sale,” Sierra says. “Made locally of recycled plastic. It was kismet.”
I bite back a smile and glance at Mike. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, too and we just look at each other for a million years or so.
This man .
Meanwhile, Sierra darts into the trailer.
“You have to see, Mom,” she calls from inside. “I already moved our stuff.”
“Just be warned that I’m not sure many of your things have made the transition yet,” Mike murmurs and I laugh, because I didn’t expect anything different.
“Thanks for today,” he says softly. “She’s a great kid.
” He smiles crookedly at me and our gazes lock for a sizzling moment before he abruptly looks away.
“You two have a lot to talk about so I’ll go.
” He hesitates a moment, just long enough to make me hope, then turns and strides back to his truck.
He waves to Una, watching from her porch, and she shouts her own thanks.
Then I feel Sierra wrap herself around me from behind. She’s on the step to the trailer, even taller than me than usual. We wave to Mike as he backs out and she sighs contentment.
“You should marry him, Mom,” she says.
“So you’ve said.”
Sierra tightens her grip. “I can’t help it that you’re not getting it.”
I turn around and hug her, because I am getting it. “You just don’t want to give back my date bra,” I say instead.
“Not true. It has chocolate on it. You can have it back anytime.”
“What? How did you get chocolate on a bra?”
“Come see!” She laughs and retreats into the trailer and I know she’s forgotten my poor bra.
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 his mouth, 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.