By her twentieth birthday, there are a few things Valarie Ricci knows for certain.
She knows that her waitressing job barely covers the costs of living out of a beat up old van. She knows she's stuck in the dead end hometown her high school friends...
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True to her word, Alice marched the two of them over to Mom and Bastien's trailer, ignoring Valarie's every complaint and protest along the way. She rapped her knuckles against the door–once, twice, three times–before Valarie could stop her.
"You got this," Alice said, leaning forward to kiss Valarie's cheek once and fast before walking away. She left Valarie to stare, open-mouthed, after her as the trailer door swung open and Mom appeared with a cup of tea in hand.
"Val?" Mom asked, looking down at her from the threshold. "You're awake?"
She squinted at Mom's fuzzy pink robe over pyjamas combination. "Kinda."
"Bastien told me you drank a lot."
She nodded in confirmation. "I drank a lot."
"But you're up–so it can't be too bad."
"I don't know, it's pretty bad."
Mom climbed down the two stairs leading up to the door, cupping her free hand to protect her eyes from the sun. "You want some tea?"
Valarie hated tea. "Sure."
Minutes later they were seated at a nearby picnic bench, matching tea mugs in hand, as they watched the compound slowly rouse itself from the night before. Valarie took a cautious sip of her tea, a fruity-mint concoction that burnt her tongue and tasted far too strong. She hid her recoil from Mom's expectant stare. "It's good," she lied.
"Not my usual," Mom explained. "I grow and dry everything myself. I didn't realize how many things you can't have when you're pregnant. Not that I was doing hard drugs when I had you or anything." She laughed. "Chamomile. You shouldn't have chamomile if you're pregnant. Did you know that?"
Valarie shook her head.
"Apparently it can cause contractions–or at least that's what I read somewhere."
"Interesting."
"I love chamomile. It mixes well with other flavours." She took another sip. "It relaxes me."
It occurred to Valarie then that her Mother was nervous, that something about the two of them sitting alone together was putting her on edge. She'd seen Mom afraid and panicked and stressed, but never this giddy, rambling type of nervous that stilted the air between them. "Mom." Valarie set her mug down on the table between them. "What's wrong?"
Mom fiddled with the sunglasses she'd stuck on her face. "I've been thinking about your ghost."
"She's not my ghost."
"If you're seeing her, she's your ghost," she said, sighing. "I was up half the night thinking about it."
