Chapter 3
Mom lured the noisy team into the kitchen with promises of cookies, her voice cutting through the cozy chaos like a ringmaster corralling lions. I took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. My haven awaited: the laundry room, a space so tucked away almost everyone forgot it existed. The robotic hum of the dryer tumbling towels met me like an old friend, drowning out the laughter and chatter seeping through the walls. The air was warm, thick with the scent of lavender fabric softener and freshly laundered towels, it felt as if even the room itself wanted to soothe me.
I dropped to my knees and reached behind a stack of towels, the plush folds yielding just enough to reveal my secret weapon against the small-town loneliness and monotony: my sketchbook. Its leather cover was soft, worn smooth from years of my fingertips brushing over it like a talisman. Flipping to a blank page, I settled in, letting my memory take the reins.
Long Point sprang vividly to life in my mind: jagged cliffs dusted with snow, the sea frothing as it hurled itself against ice-glazed rocks, and the lighthouse standing tall, defiant against the winter wind. My pencil touched the page, and the scene began to take shape. The rhythm of sketching always felt cathartic to me, as if I was exhaling all my jumbled thoughts into lines and shadows until the world made sense again. Every stroke seemed to ease the tightness in my chest, as though I was pouring bits of myself into the graphite and on to the paper.
A quick knock at the door jolted me, my pencil nearly skidding across the paper.
“Isla?” Mom’s voice, gentle but firm, nudged through the wood. The door creaked open just enough for her face to peek through, her familiar brown eyes (mirrors of my own) soft with concern. The air from the hallway, brisk and sharp, slipped in around her and prickled at my neck, making me shiver.
“Yeah?” I clapped the sketchbook shut with reflexive speed, tucking it back behind the towels like it was stolen goods.
She stepped inside, cradling a steaming mug of tea in both hands. Her cardigan hung crookedly off one shoulder, her hair still slightly tousled from the frenzy of entertaining our new guests. “You vanished,” she said with a lopsided smile, her words softened by amusement. “Let me guess, you're hiding out here to draw again?”
I shrugged, brushing off the comment. “I needed some air.” The excuse was flimsy, but I busied my fingers picking at a stray thread on the cuff of my sweater.
Mom’s silence lingered. She leaned against the dryer, her mug resting between her palms, while the drum clicked into a new cycle. “You’ve been pretty quiet lately,” she said, her voice as steady as the hum beneath us. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I lied, the word coming out too fast, sounding brittle and breakable.
Her brow arched, and the way she studied me made me feel about ten years old again, like I’d been caught sneaking extra marshmallows into my cocoa. “When you say ‘nothing,’ it’s usually code for ‘everything.’ Spill.”
For a moment, I let her words hang in the air. My sketch of Long Point flickered in my mind’s eye, a lighthouse holding its ground against the tide, just like I clung to the idea of Toronto. My stomach knotted at the thought. “It’s just…” I sighed, reaching for a towel to fold, more for distraction than anything else. “Stuff. Evelyn asked me to design the signs for the tree lighting ceremony. Apparently, I’m the only person in town qualified to draw a snowflake.”
Mom’s laugh was rich, warm as the tea she cradled. “Well, she’s not wrong. Nobody else around here has got your eye or your talent.”
I snorted. “Yeah, talent that means I get bossed around by Evelyn ‘Control Freak’ Jenkins. Last year, she told me I was sharpening my pencils wrong.”
Mom chuckled, setting her mug on the dryer. “She’s a handful, I’ll give you that. But you’ll handle it. And if she gets too picky, just give her ‘the look.’”
I blinked. “What look?”
Her lips curved mischievously. “The one your father used to say could freeze the harbour. You’ve had it perfected since you were five.”
The unexpected comment tugged a laugh from me, despite myself. “Fine,” I relented. “But if she starts hovering over my shoulder again, I’m out.”
Mom leaned over and squeezed my knee, her cool hand anchoring me. “You’ve got this, Isla. Not just Evelyn and the signs—but all of it. Toronto included.”
At the mention of Toronto, something wavered inside me. It was a mix of anticipation and doubt I hadn’t quite pinned down yet. She noticed, of course she did, her grip on my knee tightening slightly.
“You’re ready,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “And no matter where you go, you’ll carry this place with you. And we will always be here for you. You are so much bigger than this small town. Don't think of it as leaving something behind, try to think about what you can take with you from here when you go.” Her gaze softened. “It’s all a part of you.”
My throat tightened, words tangling before they could reach the surface. Instead, I nodded, folding the towel with deliberate care, my hands shaking just slightly.
Mom stood, pausing at the door with that blend of determination and tenderness that seemed effortless for her. “When you feel like you’ve had enough “air”, I’d really appreciate it if you could join us in the kitchen. These hockey boys are a bit too much for my old nerves to handle.” She laughed. “I can’t get over how loud they are.”
“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. I did feel a little guilty for leaving mom at the mercy of the hockey dude-bros for too long on her own. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thank you sweetheart. I hope you know how much I appreciate all your help around here, I don’t know what I’m ever going to do without you.” Her eyes met mine once more and she smiled again, but this time there was a hint of wistfulness and maybe even sadness behind her eyes. We had been a team for so long, ever since Dad had gone, and to be honest, I had a really hard time imagining a life without seeing her every single day either.
Her words lingered long after she’d gone, wrapping around me like a warm invisible hug. I reached for my sketchbook again, letting the lines pull me back into their quiet magic for just a few moments more before I returned to the chaos that was currently engulfing our kitchen.
I dropped to my knees and reached behind a stack of towels, the plush folds yielding just enough to reveal my secret weapon against the small-town loneliness and monotony: my sketchbook. Its leather cover was soft, worn smooth from years of my fingertips brushing over it like a talisman. Flipping to a blank page, I settled in, letting my memory take the reins.
Long Point sprang vividly to life in my mind: jagged cliffs dusted with snow, the sea frothing as it hurled itself against ice-glazed rocks, and the lighthouse standing tall, defiant against the winter wind. My pencil touched the page, and the scene began to take shape. The rhythm of sketching always felt cathartic to me, as if I was exhaling all my jumbled thoughts into lines and shadows until the world made sense again. Every stroke seemed to ease the tightness in my chest, as though I was pouring bits of myself into the graphite and on to the paper.
A quick knock at the door jolted me, my pencil nearly skidding across the paper.
“Isla?” Mom’s voice, gentle but firm, nudged through the wood. The door creaked open just enough for her face to peek through, her familiar brown eyes (mirrors of my own) soft with concern. The air from the hallway, brisk and sharp, slipped in around her and prickled at my neck, making me shiver.
“Yeah?” I clapped the sketchbook shut with reflexive speed, tucking it back behind the towels like it was stolen goods.
She stepped inside, cradling a steaming mug of tea in both hands. Her cardigan hung crookedly off one shoulder, her hair still slightly tousled from the frenzy of entertaining our new guests. “You vanished,” she said with a lopsided smile, her words softened by amusement. “Let me guess, you're hiding out here to draw again?”
I shrugged, brushing off the comment. “I needed some air.” The excuse was flimsy, but I busied my fingers picking at a stray thread on the cuff of my sweater.
Mom’s silence lingered. She leaned against the dryer, her mug resting between her palms, while the drum clicked into a new cycle. “You’ve been pretty quiet lately,” she said, her voice as steady as the hum beneath us. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I lied, the word coming out too fast, sounding brittle and breakable.
Her brow arched, and the way she studied me made me feel about ten years old again, like I’d been caught sneaking extra marshmallows into my cocoa. “When you say ‘nothing,’ it’s usually code for ‘everything.’ Spill.”
For a moment, I let her words hang in the air. My sketch of Long Point flickered in my mind’s eye, a lighthouse holding its ground against the tide, just like I clung to the idea of Toronto. My stomach knotted at the thought. “It’s just…” I sighed, reaching for a towel to fold, more for distraction than anything else. “Stuff. Evelyn asked me to design the signs for the tree lighting ceremony. Apparently, I’m the only person in town qualified to draw a snowflake.”
Mom’s laugh was rich, warm as the tea she cradled. “Well, she’s not wrong. Nobody else around here has got your eye or your talent.”
I snorted. “Yeah, talent that means I get bossed around by Evelyn ‘Control Freak’ Jenkins. Last year, she told me I was sharpening my pencils wrong.”
Mom chuckled, setting her mug on the dryer. “She’s a handful, I’ll give you that. But you’ll handle it. And if she gets too picky, just give her ‘the look.’”
I blinked. “What look?”
Her lips curved mischievously. “The one your father used to say could freeze the harbour. You’ve had it perfected since you were five.”
The unexpected comment tugged a laugh from me, despite myself. “Fine,” I relented. “But if she starts hovering over my shoulder again, I’m out.”
Mom leaned over and squeezed my knee, her cool hand anchoring me. “You’ve got this, Isla. Not just Evelyn and the signs—but all of it. Toronto included.”
At the mention of Toronto, something wavered inside me. It was a mix of anticipation and doubt I hadn’t quite pinned down yet. She noticed, of course she did, her grip on my knee tightening slightly.
“You’re ready,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “And no matter where you go, you’ll carry this place with you. And we will always be here for you. You are so much bigger than this small town. Don't think of it as leaving something behind, try to think about what you can take with you from here when you go.” Her gaze softened. “It’s all a part of you.”
My throat tightened, words tangling before they could reach the surface. Instead, I nodded, folding the towel with deliberate care, my hands shaking just slightly.
Mom stood, pausing at the door with that blend of determination and tenderness that seemed effortless for her. “When you feel like you’ve had enough “air”, I’d really appreciate it if you could join us in the kitchen. These hockey boys are a bit too much for my old nerves to handle.” She laughed. “I can’t get over how loud they are.”
“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. I did feel a little guilty for leaving mom at the mercy of the hockey dude-bros for too long on her own. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thank you sweetheart. I hope you know how much I appreciate all your help around here, I don’t know what I’m ever going to do without you.” Her eyes met mine once more and she smiled again, but this time there was a hint of wistfulness and maybe even sadness behind her eyes. We had been a team for so long, ever since Dad had gone, and to be honest, I had a really hard time imagining a life without seeing her every single day either.
Her words lingered long after she’d gone, wrapping around me like a warm invisible hug. I reached for my sketchbook again, letting the lines pull me back into their quiet magic for just a few moments more before I returned to the chaos that was currently engulfing our kitchen.
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