25. Sylvia #2
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 starts winding 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’s no 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 pot I 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 want everything .
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 15 th and paid early. The total amount we agreed upon. It’s cleared. Sitting in my account and at my disposal.
I stare at the balance for a long time. I’ve been living payday-to-payday for fifteen years, always a little short, always hoping nothing big goes wrong, always making do – and now I have extra.
I have a cushion, in case Merrie can’t pay me this week, in case Una needs help with a bill, in case the car gives it up, in case something goes sideways.
I didn’t realize how much stress I had about money, not until it slides right out of me and leaves me weak in the knees.
I own the trailer. I have a job. I have our small savings, too, and now I have a little bit extra, just in case.
If I play my cards right, I’ll have a friend I can call, too.
I send Mike a text, not trusting my voice. I thank him for the payment and tell him it’s cleared. I get a thumbs-up in reply and barely stop myself from sending a heart in reply to that.
Then Merrie gives a shout and I realize it’s five. I get up to unlock the door.
For the first time since we opened, there’s no one waiting.
There’s only one reservation for the evening and in the end, I seat three tables. There’s a storm brewing and rain begins to fall steadily by seven, landing on the sidewalk in big heavy drops. Maybe the weather is keeping people home.
“Enough!” Merrie says at seven-thirty when the last patrons leave. “Lock it up, Sylvia. Let’s close early. We’ve earned it.”
Colin is already loading the dishwasher as Merrie peers in the fridge. “Four steaks left. What do you say to steak frites, Colin?”
“Yes, please, ma’am.”
She looks at me. “Sounds good,” I say.
“Take two home,” she says, tossing steaks onto the grill. “The gratin will travel better than the frites and maybe Una will like it. I made her another batch of crème br?lée this morning, too.”
As a result, I’m home before eight and unexpectedly. Una is still up but she only wants the pudding, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s heading to bed. I stand in the trailer, looking at two take-out boxes on my table and listening to the rain drumming on the roof.
I know exactly who I want to call.
So, I do.