Hell on Heels(16)

Charles was inscrolled in barista handwriting across the side. Close enough.

Deep down, I swore the doctors and baristas of the world were pulled aside during school and taught the art of creating nearly illegible script for public consumption.

Like every year on the Sunday following the gala, I was headed to the ‘burbs to spend the day with my family to recuperate. Thus, I was running on less than five hours sleep at 7:30 in the morning and picking up my second Starbucks of the day.

My parents lived in Tsawwassen, a small beach town suburb just an hour outside the city, in the home I grew up in. Together, after much discussion, they made the conscious decision each year not to attend the gala. I had supported their decision four years ago, and I still supported it now. It was hard enough to lose a loved one, never mind a child, and be reminded of that loss on every holiday, birthday, and anniversary, but it was another to have that loss publically exposed for the greater good.

It was painful. So, in lieu of that, we spent this day together instead.

The drive took another twenty minutes, post coffee stop, until I pulled the SUV into the half circle driveway of my childhood home.

It still looked the same, save of course for some upkeep here and there, but still, the same. The outside was a pale blue, naturally faded from a lifetime of summers by the sea. Windows were framed with white shutters, and the last of mom’s flowers cascaded over the window boxes on the bottom floor of the two-level beach house. Five steps from the driveway brought you up onto the wraparound porch that was painted a washed out Cape Cod grey, and sitting in the swing Dad built her was my mom.

I settled the engine and grabbed the flowers alongside my purse from the passenger seat.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom called.

She’d been waiting on me.

“Hey, Mama.”

I took the stairs two at a time, limber in my yoga pants (that rarely ever saw a yoga studio) and black Hunter boots. It was sunny now, but I knew as well as any daughter born and raised next to the ocean of the Lower Mainland that it rarely ever stayed that way.

Mom looked well, with rosy cheeks and her greying blonde curls blowing in the wind. Mary Smith was a healthy woman. The kind whose yoga pants really did go to yoga, and the kind who genuinely enjoyed the taste of quinoa.

I had her smile and her hands, but otherwise, our appearances were fairly in contrast to each other.

“How was the drive?” She lifted the blanket that was across her legs and motioned for me to join her.

I rested the flowers on the flat railing and left my purse on the deck as I moved towards her while speaking. “Quick. No one’s on the road this early in the city.”

“Mmm,” she hummed as I tucked underneath the quilt, careful not to bump the coffee in her hand, and laid my head on her shoulder. “And how’s my gorgeous girl?”

I closed my eyes. “Tired.”

That wasn’t a lie. I was overwhelmed, overworked, and under slept.

The week had sucked the life from my bones.

“You want me to make you a coffee?” she asked, and I felt her free hand cup the side of my face gently.

I shook my head and breathed her in. She smelt like vanilla soap and oatmeal. Like home.

“Where’s Dad?”

I noticed his truck was missing next to her BMW in the driveway when I arrived.

“Rodney caught some halibut in the Queen Charlottes last weekend, and your father wants to make it for dinner.” I smiled and Mom laughed.

Jon Smith (yes, that is his actual name) was a wonderful cook, but a terrible fisherman, and constantly in envy of their neighbour down the road.

“I didn’t cry,” I spoke into the crook of her neck. “During my speech, I didn’t cry.”

It had been my fear each year that I wouldn’t make it through the words I had to say without crying. Mom knew this, and though she told me each time that it would be okay if I did, she understood why I didn’t want to. The way I looked on the outside was a carefully constructed armour, and crying in front of those people would poke holes in that shield that would take me years to repair.

“Your brother would be so proud of you, Charlie.”

I hiccup-sobbed.

My family were the only people who called me by that nickname, and Henry had been the one to start it when I was little.

“Charlie bear, where are you?”

With my eyes closed, I could almost hear the sound of his steps on the porch wood while I hid under the stairs.

“Oh, Charlie… Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

We sat like that awhile, silent. Mom drinking her coffee, and me, letting the comfort of her presence soothe the pain in my heart to a dull ache.

“Are you ready?” Opening my eyes, I studied the lines in the quilt Auntie Donna had made for Mom’s fiftieth birthday two years ago. “We can wait awhile if you need more time, sweetheart.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m ready.”

Mom gathered the blanket and took it inside with my purse.

Standing, I zipped up the grey parka I was wearing just as she returned to the deck with her windbreaker secured snugly around her.

I started to follow her around the deck, but stopped short. “Oh.” Turning around, I grabbed the flowers I’d taken from one of last night’s arrangements off the railing and jogged back to her.

“That Tina really outdid herself with those,” Mom praised, and I took her hand in mine.