Chapter 18
I head downstairs in search of coffee and find my parents already in the kitchen making breakfast. The scents of browned butter and freshly brewed coffee swirl together, and my stomach growls.
“Morning. That smells great,” I say, giving my mom a kiss on her cheek and my dad a hug.
“Someone’s chipper today!” Dad’s assembling over-easy eggs onto smashed-avocado toast. He sprinkles on everything-bagel seasoning, chili oil, and sea salt, then sets the two plates down on the table. “How’s the stomach?”
“Good. Back to normal.” I pour steaming coffee into a mug from the cupboard. It’s from a set we gifted our parents many Christmases ago, each mug sporting a different quote from the movie Elf . I have the DOES SOMEONE NEED A HUG? one in hand.
“Excellent. In that case, there’s creamer for you. Second shelf in the fridge,” Mom says. My parents, and Amelia, take their coffees black, so the creamer was bought with only me in mind. I thank my mom and pull out the bottle of peppermint-mocha creamer.
I pour the creamer (“Why even drink coffee?” Austin used to say), then, thinking about his comment, add another slosh for good measure. After a quick stir, I set the spoon into the Mrs. Claus spoon rest, which might be as old as I am.
“So I ran into Liam Young and his pet pig in town—actually, Mary Piggins is Miss Elsie’s pig, not Liam’s.” I need to keep my stories straight, but it’s getting increasingly complicated.
“Ah yes, we know Mary well. She goes everywhere with Elsie, including to clinic appointments.” Dad puts half his breakfast on a plate for me. I smile my thanks.
“She’s a bit of a menace, that one. Cute, but a menace nonetheless,” Mom adds, piercing the sunshine yellow yolk on her toast. “Mary Piggins, I mean. Not Elsie Farrow.”
“Understood,” I reply, with a chuckle. “I didn’t realize Mr. Cutler had a grandson.”
“Oh? I’m sure I told you that.” Mom sips her black coffee from her favourite seasonal mug—it’s a large, white ceramic one with a red-painted interior and has the words CHRISTMAS IS TOO TWINKLY… SAID NO ONE EVER written in green cursive.
“Maybe you did. I was just surprised I’ve never met him before.” The coffee is restorative, a balm for my scattered mind, and I take another sip. “Anyway, he loaned me his toque yesterday, so I’m going to Slice of Life to drop it off. I’ll get the sourdough at the same time.”
“Grab a cinnamon-swirl loaf, too, would you? Mom has a hankering for French toast for dinner,” Dad says.
Breakfast for dinner was a frequent event in my house growing up.
When you have parents who are a doctor and nurse, and run the town’s only medical practice, there’s not much time to whip up elaborate meals.
At least that’s what I used to think. Now I get that, like me, Mom has a sweet tooth…
Why have boring chicken when you can have French toast and syrup?
“Your wish is my command.” I finish the coffee and half piece of toast and egg before placing my dishes into the dishwasher.
“Thanks, honey. Dad and I will be at the clinic for most of the day, and I want to get those lights up before dinner.” Mom peels a clementine and hands it to Dad, without any communication between them, before starting on another for herself.
I love seeing this rhythm to their relationship, nurtured both at home and at the clinic over all these years.
That’s the dream , I think, to have such synergy with another person .
“Shoot,” Dad says, interrupting my musings. “I have to go to the Dempster farm after we close shop. I won’t be able to give you a hand with the lights, Monica.”
“Not to worry,” Mom says, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “I can manage.”
“No!” I shout, far too loud for our small kitchen. Both my parents immediately stop what they’re doing, looking at me in surprise.
“Sorry—I think the caffeine and sugar hit my system all at once.” I give a sheepish laugh, but it comes out strangled. If I could go back in time and change things …
It’s a brilliant idea, and I can’t believe it’s only coming to me now. I think back to the conversation I had with Liam. How this newfound time I’m reliving might be a second chance to change the past, and ultimately the future. Why would I not at least try ?
“How about I do the lights for you?” I say to Mom. “I’m here for…” Actually, I don’t know why I’m here—yet. I consider asking about this party I’ve supposedly come home for, but I hold off. “… a few more days. So please, put me to work.”
If I do the lights, it means Mom won’t be up on that ladder.
If she’s not on the ladder, she won’t fall and break her ankle.
Which means everything that comes after—Mom being off work, the practice struggling in her absence, the quiet conversations about selling—won’t happen either.
I’ve been given an inexplicable opportunity to change the past, and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of that.
“That’s sweet of you to offer, Libby. But you didn’t come home to hang Christmas lights for your very capable mother,” Mom says, clearing the table.
“Well, what did I come home for then?” My tone suggests I’m being easy, cheeky, versus what I really am—attempting once again to get an annoyingly hard-to-pin-down answer.
“Mostly to get through that jug of coffee creamer,” Dad says, giving me a hug. “We’re off. Have a great day, Libby.”
“You, too,” I reply. “And Mom, I insist. Let me handle the lights. Besides, I want to say hello to Miss Betty. I haven’t been over to see her yet.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice. Fine, the lights are all yours!” Mom says cheerfully, before holding up her finger. “But remember, they need to—”
“—wrap around the posts and be ruler straight along the roofline.” I laugh, for I have years of experience dealing with Monica Munro’s Christmas-decorating rules. “This is not my first light-hanging rodeo.”
“That it is not,” Mom replies with a smile. “It’s nice having you home, honey. Even if you have terrible taste in how you take your coffee.” She wrinkles her nose at the creamer on the countertop.
“Hey! Don’t knock it until you try it,” I say, reaching out to hug her. “And it’s nice to be home.”
My voice is muffled because of how tightly I’m holding her. Tears prick at my eyes, and I don’t even care about why this is happening to me—I’m just glad, at least for this moment, that it is.