sun shone, making it look as though we had haloes, but it was our faces, the sheer happiness that radiated that I loved. It was taken pre-diagnosis, where the world had been ours for the taking, and the only routine we had was waking up each morning. I gave the photo a quick kiss, and put it on the windowsill.
When we found out about Mom’s condition, and how easily it could deteriorate, our world swung dangerously off its axis for a while, until we regrouped, and collected ourselves. We’d hit a fork in the road, and veered the wrong way for a time, but eventually we had to accept it. There was no choice. We couldn’t change the diagnosis; we could only do our best to make Mom’s future as bright as possible.
Responsibility was thrust on us. Medical appointments and money woes ruled our days, but that didn’t stop us dreaming. It hurt to walk in and see Mom staring at the TV, a filmy light casting shadows over her face, her ready smile gone.
I tried a multitude of ways to cheer her up in those first dark months. One night I found a bunch of old magazines, and bought a sunny yellow scrapbook. I told her to find pictures that inspired her, that made her happy.
We cut and pasted tiny squares of shiny paper every night. It was our dream travel book—we visualized what
could
be. It didn’t take long for us to fill the pages with cuttings of spicy tapas in Spain, or diving with dolphins in Australia. The ruins of Rome. Tulips in Amsterdam. Famous paintings I wanted to see. Museums we wanted to wander inside. That was the thing about dreams—they could be as big and bold as you liked. Mom took a shine to scrapbooking, and unlike her other hobbies, she stuck with it.
With a wobbly smile, I took our dream travel book from my backpack, and flopped onto the plush bed. I creaked it open, its pages fat with cheap glue. The very first picture: a cutout of the Eiffel Tower, standing tall and proud, its night lights twinkling
bon jour
.
Did she know, all that time ago, that I should end up there? Maybe she’d always hoped I’d try out for the Van Gogh Institute. I’d often talked in an awed hush about visiting the Musée d’Orsay to ogle Van Gogh’s portraits. Or taking a day trip northwest of Paris to see the garden where Claude Monet painted the
Water Lilies
. Pipe dreams, or so I’d thought.
Pleasure bloomed in my heart at the thought I might get to do these things, despite not having my mom with me. Once-in-a-lifetime adventures were within reach, if only I could do it on my own. Carefully, I tucked the scrapbook into the bedside drawer. There’d be time enough to flip its full pages. I yawned, so tempted to sleep. Without the usual rush of my life, I was as drowsy as a cat in summertime.
But I had to find a job. I’d dillydallied enough this morning. I could easily end up stranded and penniless here. Mom didn’t have the same fears as me, always believing the universe would provide, that a solution would appear. As much as I loved the universe, real fear of being broke sat heavy on my shoulders.
With a groan, I pulled myself up and went to wash my face. The cool water refreshed me. The thought of breakfast at the Gingerbread Café was enough to inspire me to get going.
Chapter Three
I recognized a booming laugh before I’d even got to front door of the Gingerbread Café. It was quickly followed by a shriek. As I approached the window, CeeCee’s round frame was bent double, hooting as amusement got the better of her.
Pushing the door open, a jangle of bells announced my arrival. The café was busy. Customers lolled on chairs by the window, or cupped their chins, bent over a table with friends. By the fire an elderly gentleman had fallen asleep, a newspaper crumpled in his lap, his snores punctuating the chatter in the café.
The scene was completely opposite to the old diner I’d worked in, where men hung their heads over weak cups of coffee, their eyes vacant, as though their lives had passed them by.