With a sigh, I shake out my white-blonde hair that now sits just above my shoulders before starting out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.
I have thirty minutes before I have to clock in for my shift at Devil’s Diner, and the sun has already begun to retreat. Fingers curling around the handle of my now warm mug, I bring the lip to my mouth and with my free hand, work quickly to unlock the only door at the front of the trailer, catching it with the sole of my bare foot and slowly shimmying out.
I take a seat on the weathered step. The cement heats the backs of my thighs, and with my elbows resting at my knees, both palms framing the mug in my hands, I reverently bring it to my mouth and take another sip, staring out at the setting sun.
The sky is lit up with streaks of magenta, the breeze warm like it was three years ago, even though the day had slipped into late afternoon.
I had been on the night shift at the diner for the past three days which resulted in me sleeping most of the light away. However, I liked catching the last of it, watching it illuminate theflowers in my garden that I’d put endless hours into in order to keep my mind busy. The pinks and oranges and yellow hues are a stunning contrast with the lilac trailer that sits behind them. It makes the space feel enchanting, reminiscent of a picture out of a fairy book my mother and father used to read to me when I was a child.
I take another sip of tea, cradling the mug a little tighter, relishing in the warm liquid sliding down my throat and heating my stomach.
My mother’s wind chimes start singing, metallic clinks, echoing like bells. I close my eyes and let the sound find my ears, a gentle reminder that she is always here.
After she took her life, we found out that I had inherited the family trailer. I was only sixteen at the time so of course it fell into the trusted hands of my grandmother. She had held onto it for me, and I was grateful for that.
She helped me bring life back into the bones of a home that had seen and felt so much love and happiness before that last year of tragedy and despair.
I liked being here, no matter how sad some of the memories were. It was my home, it always would be.
A small dot in the distance catches my eye and as it draws closer, I see Nan on her scooter, coasting along the edge of the road through the trailer park.
I swallow the last mouthful of my tea as she arrives, steadying herself on her feet. She turns, reaching for a covered dish, holding it in her hands.
“So we don’t have a repeat of last night,” she says, her voice croaky, reaching for me through a warm gust of wind—I had passed out mid-shift because I’d forgotten to eat.
I raise my brows, push to my feet, lean over and peek beneath the foil. Staring back at me is a bed of fluffy white rice, flakedsalmon, chopped spring onions, cucumber, mango and avocado and a generous drizzle of what looks to be a spicy creamy sauce.
I curl it back into place and take it from her hands.
“You getting fancy, Nan?” I choose to bypass the comment about my incompetence as an adult. She was right, and I didn’t want to talk about it.
Nan enters the house ahead of me and speaks over her hunched shoulder, “I saw it on one of my shows…”
I place the dish on the Formica countertop and reach for a set of bowls, dividing a small portion into each, my stomach growling a tune with the clinks and clacks of me serving it up.
Nan takes a seat at the edge of the sofa, and I juggle two bottles of cold sparkling water and both bowls of food. I’m placing them on the scarred wooden table in front of her when her small hand reaches out, gently coiling around my wrist. I’m still hunched over, catching my breath when I turn to meet her eyes.
It was the first time I’d properly looked into them since she had arrived. They are slightly misted and red, and I instantly feel my heart drop like a weight to my stomach.
Today was horrific for the both of us.
“Are you doing okay today, sweetheart?” she asks on a wobble.
I watch the wisp of steam rise from each bowl, and in that moment decide I’m not too hungry after all. I fall back onto the couch and drag the pink crochet blanket Nan had lovingly made for me a year ago, across my body.
It’s hot, but now, I am shivering.
Nan reaches toward me again, squeezes the top of my knee, though it’s so light I barely feel the endearment. I place my hand on top of hers and turn to look at her, tears flooding and pushing against the rims of my eyes.
“Are you, Nan?” I ask, because she had lost so much too.
“You first,” she encourages.
I shuffle my feet a little. “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t scared.” My last words come out on a whimper.
Being a victim—that’s what they called me; I would never call myself that—it was a death sentence in itself.
“Maybe you should stay home tonight…” she begins to say but she stops when she sees me wiping a tear away.
