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2
SCARLETT
“Mom?”I yell, stepping inside our house and out of the scalding sun.
Silence is the only reply I receive.
I close and lock the door before shuffling into my childhood home, soaking in the smell of burnt orange and an array of fresh flowers as I go. When I enter the kitchen and pass the thick stack of envelopes full of unpaid bills on the table, my muscles grow taut, bunching beneath the cover of my running gear.
Grabbing the stack, I flip through them for the fourth time this week and make a mental note to pay them for my mother before we end up without electricity. I would—should—have done that for her already had my head not been in the dirt all week.
Heaving a sigh, I grab a cup from one of the mint-coloured cabinets and fill it with cold water from the tap. The greenish-blue paint on the cabinets is chipped in several places, but my mother wouldn’t dare touch them up.
“It gives the kitchen a rustic feel, my darling,” she says whenever I mention sprucing the space up a bit, as if in her terms, rustic means unique, not outdated and falling apart.
I all but inhale my water before placing the cup in the dishwasher and heading back through the house, past the small den and half bathroom. My room is at the back of our home, with a window that looks out to our small backyard that’s more like the inside of a greenhouse now than anything else.
Since I moved back home and discovered the state my mother had fallen into while I was gone, she’s spent more time pruning the hedges and caring for her vines of tomatoes than she has doing anything else. I’ll admit that she has quite the green thumb—something she most definitely didn’t pass down to me.
I can’t even keep a succulent alive.
Gardening helps her feel sane. Like the disease plaguing her mind hasn’t poisoned her yet.
Stepping into my room, I keep my focus on the window. On the flowers swaying in the light Vancouver breeze like a bride and groom on the dance floor and the sun’s glittering reflection off the small pond that rests below our giant oak tree, warming the home of the koi fish that live there.
And when my mother’s small figure wanders out from behind the garden shed, I smile—a big genuine smile—at the happiness that stretches her features.
Mom’s sunflower-yellow watering can is in her hand. She’s wearing a floppy hat on her head and a pair of oversized overalls. Her feet are bare, showing off the pedicure I gave her last night.
Neon green.
That’s the colour she wanted me to paint her toenails, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to say no. Even if I were the only one who remembered how much she hated when I painted my nails that colour growing up. How she had always said it reminded her of snot.
I shake my head to clear away those thoughts and step up to the window, tapping it with my knuckles, hoping to draw her attention.
Amelia Carter spins in my direction and lifts her watering can into the air, waving it around.
A rough laugh escapes me as I wave my fingers in reply. Mom’s cheeks and shoulders are pink from the sun, and I can’t help but wonder if she remembered to put sunscreen on before going outside.
After a few seconds of smiling and waving, she turns back around and heads toward a clump of daisies. I release a breath and let my smile slip as I grab a change of clothes from my dresser and go to the bathroom in desperate need of a shower.
* * *
I’ve just putthe freshly poured glasses of lemonade on a tray to take outside when Mom comes tearing through the porch door.
“My darling Scarlett!” she sings. There’s dirt smudged between her brows and on her chin. “When did you get home? I would have come inside had I known you were back.”
My grip on the tray wavers before I steel myself and force a smile. “Just long enough to pour some drinks, Mom.” The damp hair on my shoulders from the shower I took nearly forty minutes ago suddenly weighs a ton. “How is the garden looking?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. We’ll have so many tomatoes we won’t know what to do with them all!”
“That’s great,” I say genuinely and tip my chin to the patio door swinging open in the warm breeze. “Sit with me outside and tell me all about it.”
She nods giddily. “I would love to. We’ll have to sit in the shade, however. I’m feeling a bit crispy from the sun.”
“Of course, Mom.”
Stepping ahead of her, I lead us through the door and onto the back deck. I place the tray of drinks on the glass table and pull out one of the four patio chairs surrounding it. Mom flashes me a grateful smile and sits. When she looks comfortable, I set her glass in front of her.
