rose. I am everything. My hair is the tumbling white leaves of the willow trees, my fingers the stems of the flowers, my breath the birdsong, my tears the daisies, my heart the cat stalking through the grass, my spirit the breeze that blows through it all . . .
Today I don’t simply believe I can move everything in the garden, I know it. As easily as I breathe, as effortlessly as I lift my hand. There’s no question, no trying, no striving.
I can.
For a few minutes, I focus. And, sure enough, this time I don’t have to hope and pray, try and fail.
Now, with a single twitch of my fingers, I pluck a dozen daisies from the lawn. They lift and hover patiently in the air, waiting on my command. I press forefinger to thumb, and the daisies gather into a suspended circle. I snap my fingers, and they slowly thread themselves together until they form a floral crown. I smile as the ring of daisies alights on my head.
“It suits you.”
Ma stands before me on the grass, dressed all in white. For a moment I think she’s a ghost—I used to think the same after Teddy was born, the aftermath of birth giving her an ethereal appearance, as if she wasn’t quite certain whether she belonged in this world or the next. Which is perhaps why she died inexplicably young.
“Th-thank you.”
“You loved making daisy chains when you were a little girl,” Ma says. “You’d do it for hours. We’d sit in the park with Teddy and you’d have bracelets, necklaces, five daisy crowns on your head before teatime.”
I look at her. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do.” Ma smiles. “I remember everything.”
3:53 a.m.—Goldie
I open my eyes. I feel the warmth of Leo at my back. I’ve twisted away from him in my sleep. I turn to him.
“See, I was right. You never sleep.”
“I was watching you.”
“I just dreamed about my ma. I can’t remember when I last did that.”
I think I see a startled look flash across Leo’s face, a brief narrowing of his green eyes. But it happens so fast and is gone so quickly that I wonder if I might have imagined it.
“What was she doing?” Leo asks. “What did she say?”
“She told me I loved to make daisy chains.”
He drags long fingers through messy hair. “Nothing else?”
“Ma was a woman of few words,” I say.
Leo hesitates. “How do you think she would feel about . . . ?”
“What?”
Leo says the word so softly I can’t hear.
“Sorry?”
It seems to pain him. “Me.”
“You?” I say, relieved. “She’d love you.”
8:36 a.m.—Scarlet
Scarlet glances up from the bag of flour she’s sieving to see Walt walking into the kitchen. She’s experimenting with breadmaking. If the café can’t survive solely as a café, she thinks, it might fare better as a bakery.
“There’s a queue of eager, expectant customers out there.” Walt nods in the direction of the counter.
“Really?” Scarlet brightens, wiping her floury hands on her apron.
“Yeah,” he says. “Do you like the shelves?”
“I love them. Great colour,” she says, heading towards the counter. Though, if he’d asked what colour they were, she couldn’t have said. She can’t even recall if he painted them or not.
When the small flurry of customers is settled with caffeine and cakes, Scarlet hurries back into the kitchen to continue examination of the sourdough book and finds Walt standing vigil beside it.
“How’s the dishwasher?”
“Excellent.” Scarlet flips over the page. “Thank you.”
He kicks his toe into the floor. “So . . .”
“So . . . ?”
“So I was wondering . . . since I’ve fixed the dishwasher, put up a few shelves, changed the washers on the sink—I’ve pretty much exhausted all my excuses . . .”
Scarlet glances up from her open book, wondering if he’s angling for more work.
“I was, well, hoping that perhaps you might like to . . . go out sometime”—Walt takes a quick breath—“For a drink, food, whatever.”
Scarlet looks at him. “Oh.”
“It doesn’t matter if . . .” Walt offers a self-deprecating smile. “I thought perhaps . . . No harm in asking, is there? Except for the hefty dent to my ego.”
“No, sorry,” Scarlet says. “I didn’t mean to sound so . . .”
“Nonplussed?” Walt offers. “Taken aback? Slightly terrified?”
Scarlet laughs. “Did I? Sorry. No, I was just surprised.”
“Well, that shows how crap I am at reading signs,” Walt says. “I thought perhaps I sensed a . . . frisson, or something.” He pushes himself away from the counter. He’s halfway across