All the Little Lights(107)

“Mavis was understandably upset, but it went better than expected. The room is ready?”

“It is,” she said with a relieved smile.

“I know you had to scramble to get things ready,” Miss Barnes began.

“Don’t we always?” Mrs. Mason asked.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were a regular foster parent, Mrs. Mason,” I said.

“I’m not. I mean, not until now. Miss Barnes and I just work together frequently. And I’m just Becca here,” she said, twisting her chestnut hair into a bun and then pulling the ends through into a knot.

I’d never seen her in lounge clothes. She looked much younger in her heather-gray cotton pants and faded navy-blue University of Central Oklahoma sweatshirt.

Miss Barnes gestured to the room. “Is this okay?”

I blinked, surprised by her question. I’d left a cold, rickety, nineteenth-century Victorian for a warm, immaculate, cottagelike home. “Uh, yes. It’s great.”

Mrs. Mason and Miss Barnes shared a chuckle, and then the social worker stood. “Okay, then. I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Mason said, hugging Miss Barnes. The door closed, and then Mrs. Mason clasped her hands together.

“Is it um . . . is it just us?” I asked.

It took a moment for my question to register, and then she nodded once. “Yep. Yes. Just us. Would you like to see your room?”

I nodded, gathering my things, and then followed her down the hallway.

“Guest bath straight ahead. I’m to the right at the end of the hall.” She pointed. “You’re to the left at the end of the hall. You have your own bathroom.”

Mrs. Mason flipped the light on to reveal a full-size bed, a wooden dresser, and a desk. An open door led to a small bathroom. Everything seemed so bright and new. The walls were a dusty purple trimmed with white, the carpet a light gray. Instead of heavy, blackout curtains that hung from dark iron, sheer panels outlined the window.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

She scanned the room, pride in her eyes. “Seven years, three months, two days.” She smiled at me. “But who’s counting?”

“Did you remodel? Everything looks so new.”

She nodded, taking one of my bags to the bed and setting it on the purple-and-gray plaid quilt. “We did.” The rest of her answer lingered in the air, unsaid. The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason’s eyes brightened. “Oh! That’s the pizza! C’mon!”

I followed her to the living room, watched her tip the delivery boy, thank him by name, and then carry two boxes to the kitchen.

We padded to the dining table, and I watched as Mrs. Mason opened the boxes, breathing in the amazing smells of grease and spices just as I did.

“Plates!” she said, jogging to the kitchen. “Here you are.” She set one in front of me, pulling out a slice and taking a bite while encouraging me with her free hand to sit across from her. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m starving.”

I looked over my choices. One pizza was half-cheese, half-pepperoni. The other was half-supreme, half-sausage.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” she said, chewing. “I guessed.”

I took a slice of each, piled them on my plate, and looked up at Mrs. Mason.

“Attagirl,” she said.

I bit the tip off the pepperoni slice first, humming as the melted cheese overwhelmed my senses. I hadn’t had delivery pizza in years. My eyes closed, and my body instantly relaxed. “That’s good,” I said.

Mrs. Mason nodded, giggled, and took another slice.

My enjoyment didn’t last long, as the thought of Mama eating alone—if she was eating at all—infiltrated my mind. Suddenly the pizza tasted like guilt instead of satisfaction.

“It’s okay, Catherine. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. It’s normal.”

I looked down. “It’s normal to feel trapped even when you’re free?”

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “It’s part of the process. It takes people years to navigate something like this. The guilt, the uncertainty, regret . . . the loss. But it’s okay. Try to live in the right now and take it one second at a time. And in this second, you’re allowed to enjoy your pizza and feel relaxed here with me. Being happy away from the Juniper doesn’t mean you love your mother any less.”

I took another bite, trying to digest her words as I did my food. “It’s hard to relax. My mind is still going through lists of things that need to be done before the morning.”

“Also normal. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with the process.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the Christmas tree glistening in the living room. “That’s pretty.”

“Did you have a tree at home?”

I shook my head. “Not since Dad died. He use to do all that. Put up the tree and the lights. They never really looked right on the Juniper anyway. But I like to look out my window at the neighbors’.”

Mrs. Mason checked her watch. “Well, you’re in for a treat.” She whispered a countdown and then pointed to the ceiling. The lights outside flashed on, and two blobs in the front yard began to inflate. Seconds later, a huge, glowing snowman and Santa Claus were standing upright on the lawn, swaying in the wind.