by Marie Landry
As she looked me over, I took the opportunity to do the same to her. She wore a loose-fitting cotton dress of robin’s egg blue that twirled around her calves as she shifted. Her feet were bare, with toenails painted to match her dress. I had a sudden memory from childhood of Daisy preferring to be shoeless because she said that shoes were too confining and she never wore them unless absolutely necessary.
“What happened to my little girl?” Daisy asked, drawing me back to the present. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears as she continued to look me over, shaking her head slightly. “You’re so beautiful! You’re all grown up, and I missed it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, and, possibly mistaking my silence for something else, Daisy added quickly, “But you’re here now and we have nothing but time to make up for…well, lost time.” She laughed as she pulled me in for another hug, then offered to help me bring my things inside.
We deposited my bags just inside the front door, and I cast a look around while Daisy chatted excitedly. The front door opened into a large foyer; there was an old-fashioned coat rack just inside the door, with an antique-looking bench beside it. A closet took up the length of the opposite wall, and a small row of shoes was lined up neatly in front of it. As Daisy led me through the house, we passed the spacious kitchen, its gleaming countertops catching my attention. I had just enough time as we passed to notice a table and chairs, and a doorway leading to a formal dining room. When we entered the living room, Daisy gestured toward the furniture. “You get comfy and relax while I make some tea, okay?”
While she was gone, I looked around the house that would be my home for…well, I wasn’t really sure for how long. Whether it was a few weeks, a few months, or longer, I knew I didn’t want to leave until I had achieved what I came for, and until I made a good start on my journey of self-discovery.
The living room was enormous, with high ceilings, a mixture of eclectic furniture, and Daisy’s own artwork gracing the pale yellow walls. I had always loved Daisy’s paintings; whether they were abstract, portraits, or scenery, they held the power to make a person stop and think—about life, about love, about the world in general. She had a knack for capturing emotion and painting it onto a canvas with light and texture and a beauty that was multifaceted.
Little porcelain faeries like the ones in Daisy’s front yard were scattered on tables and peeking out from behind the chairs, the grandfather clock, and the bookshelf. It was all so different from my parents’ house, which was stuffy and formal with furniture that looked uncomfortable and unwelcoming, and very few personal, homey touches. Daisy’s house reminded me of Daisy herself: a welcoming mixture of simplicity and complexity, warmth and charm.
Daisy reentered the living room, her dress dancing around her bare legs as she moved to the coffee table and set down the hand-painted wooden tray she was carrying. She had such an easy grace about her and such a calming manner, I found myself completely at ease, which didn’t happen often.
“I hope you still like peanut-butter chocolate-chip cookies,” she said, handing me what looked like an antique cup and saucer with a pretty shamrock pattern.
“I do. I’m not sure I would have survived all those years without your care packages.” All through school, whenever Daisy visited, she brought packages with homemade cookies, fruit breads, and assorted teas. Once I was too busy to see her, she mailed the packages every few months. “Mother’s not exactly the baking type, as you know,” I said, accepting a plate of cookies from her.
Daisy scoffed as she sat down beside me and tucked her legs up under herself. She didn’t say anything as she studied me, her eyes intense as they looked into mine, then roamed slowly over my face. “You’ve changed,” she said.
“Well, it’s been a while,” I said, trying not to fidget under her steady gaze.
She made a little humming noise in her throat, her brows drawing together slightly. She studied me a moment longer and I wished I could see what she saw, and what was worth such intense scrutiny. Finally, she shook her head as if to clear it and the smile returned to her face as she reached out to touch my cheek. “Sorry,” she said. “There’s something different about you. I guess it’s just hard to accept the fact that you’re growing up.”
I had to admit I found this kind of amusing since Daisy is only fourteen years older than I am. An unexpected but welcome surprise for my grandparents later in life, Daisy was born when my mother was in her late teens. My aunt had still been a child when my parents got married and had me. In a lot of ways, we grew up together, almost like sisters—something my mother fought hard to discourage every chance she got. She and Daisy had been so different that they had never been close, so my mother didn’t want me to have a special relationship with my aunt. Not that it made my mother work any harder to ensure a special relationship—or any kind of relationship—between her and me. The harder my mother tried to keep Daisy and me apart, the harder we both fought to be close. Daisy had been everything to me growing up—she was like an aunt, sister, mother, and friend all rolled into one fun package—basically all the things my own mother wasn’t.
Physically tired from my trip, and emotionally tired from having nothing but time to think for the past several weeks, I steered the conversation onto lighter subjects. I told Daisy about my drive up, my first impression of Riverview, and how I was looking forward to sitting in the garden and learning about the plants and flowers she had. We reminisced about our childhood, carefully avoiding the subject of my mother.
When the teapot was nearly empty and the cookies were gone, Daisy stood, smoothing out her dress before reaching for my hand. “Come on upstairs. I’m anxious to show you your room.” She pulled me from the couch and wound her arm through mine, leaning into me with a smile so loving it made my heart ache.
The stairs went straight up to a small landing before splitting in two directions. Daisy took me to the left first to show me ‘her wing’, as she called it, with her enormous bedroom and luxurious en suite bathroom, and a smaller room that she used for her painting, sculpting, and other artful endeavours. The stairs on the other side led to the guest wing, which was now mine, according to Daisy. There were two small spare bedrooms she said I could use when friends were over, or turn one into a workspace for anything I was interested in. I didn’t tell her I had no friends, or that I was clueless as to what I’d use a workspace for. She was so delighted about showing me around, I didn’t want to disappoint her by letting her know how dull I had become, or how lonely my life was.
“I hope you like your bedroom,” Daisy said as we paused in front of the closed door at the end of the hall. “When you told me you were coming, I spent days planning it all and putting it together.” Her whole face lit up, and her eyes glowed with an excitement I associated with kids on Christmas morning.
When she opened the door, I knew why; it was like something out of a secret dream—the room I had always wanted but seemed too fanciful for someone as sensible as I was. My eyes were drawn immediately to the gleaming maple four-poster bed in the centre of the room, covered in a fluffy dark purple comforter and matching throw pillows. It was every little girl’s dream, and a vast difference from my single bed at home.
Two of Daisy’s original paintings, both watercolours of the same forest—one in spring and the other in autumn—were hanging from the pale lavender walls, creating bright spots in the room. I scanned the hardwood floors that matched the maple bed, and when my eyes came to the desk in the corner, I realized Daisy had thought of everything as I saw a vase of white calla lilies and framed pictures of Daisy and me when I was a little girl. The final aspect of perfection about the room was the French doors that led out onto a small balcony. I could see the river in the distance, sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
The powerful urge to cry that I had felt when I first arrived washed over me once again, but this time I couldn’t hold it back. I burst into tears and threw myself into Daisy’s arms.
“Honey, what’s
wrong?” she cried in alarm. “You don’t like it?” She held me close and rubbed my back in slow, soothing circles.
“I love it,” I said between sobs. “It’s beautiful.”
Daisy stood back and took my hands, her eyes full of laughter, but her face carefully controlled. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I can’t believe you did all this for me,” I said, sniffling. I was beginning to feel foolish; I couldn’t even remember the last time I had cried, and this was when I decided to start?
Daisy laughed out loud this time, a sound as musical as her voice. “I did all this for you because I love you. I want you to feel at home here. I thought a pretty room of your own that you could enjoy and spend time in would be a nice change from your little box of a room at home.” She laughed again as she brushed my tears away with her fingers and kissed me on the cheek.
I pulled her back and hugged her tightly. “It’s wonderful, Daisy,” I said, my words muffled slightly by her hair. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she said, giving me a squeeze. “It was something new for me to do—an art project of a different sort.” She pulled back and moved her shoulders in a shrug that suggested it was no big deal, but her shining eyes told me she was pleased I liked it so much.
“Not just ‘thank you’ for the room. Thank you for everything. For letting me stay here as long as I need…for being so understanding…”
Daisy waved her hand in dismissal, and I could have sworn her cheeks began to colour. “Like I said, sweetie, it’s my pleasure. It gets a little lonely here sometimes, and I’m just so thrilled I finally get to share the place with someone I love. I know we’re going to have a spectacular summer and it’ll be like old times before we know it, with us being the best of friends. Don’t worry about a thing.”
She kissed me on the cheek again, and as she pulled back I thought I saw a tear glimmering in her eye. She smiled broadly at me though, and said, “How ‘bout you get settled in—unpack, take a nap, enjoy the view, whatever you want. I’m going to go work on some of my paintings, then get dinner started. If you need me, you know where to find me.” She whirled around and headed for the door, leaving her sweet, earthy scent lingering in the air.
Alone in my new room, I looked around, taking it all in again. Now instead of the unexplainable urge to cry, I felt like laughing. I ran and jumped onto my bed, burying myself in the lush pillows. When I sat up to catch my breath, I flipped onto my back and surveyed my surroundings, sighing happily. “I’m home.”
CHAPTER 2
The next day I did something I hadn’t done since the summers and weekends of my childhood: I slept in. When I rolled over in my exquisitely soft and cozy bed, smelling the sweet scent of flowers carried in on the breeze from my open window, I wanted to stay there forever.
Every time I woke up, I would roll over and tell myself just a few more minutes, and fall back to sleep. When I finally managed to drag myself out of bed at ten o’clock, I paused at the top of the stairs and heard music coming from Daisy’s side of the house. Following the sound, I found her in her creative room.
A U2 song was blasting from the stereo system—I recognized the band because they were one of Daisy’s favourites and we used to listen to them all the time when I was younger. She had even gone to one of their concerts when I was nine, and brought me back a t-shirt.
I stopped in the doorway and leaned against the frame. Daisy was standing in front of an easel and canvas by the French doors, which were wide open, curtains billowing in the light wind. She was still in her nightgown, floor-length and sleeveless, the lacy bottom catching in the draft every few seconds and dancing around her ankles. Her hair was piled on top of her head and pinned carelessly by paintbrushes, with loose tendrils falling around her face and neck. Her appearance gave me the impression that she’d been struck with sudden inspiration, and without giving a thought to anything else, had come here to paint.
As if sensing my presence, Daisy turned with a smile playing at her lips, her eyes faraway and dreamy. She gave me a little wave with a paint-covered hand, then stepped back so I could see the canvas that was covered in a swirl of intricate, finger-painted designs of every colour imaginable.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, a bit breathless.
Daisy’s smile widened as she moved over to the stereo, turning the music down so Bono’s voice was like a whisper coming from the speakers. “Come here.” She motioned excitedly for me to join her in front of the canvas. Guiding me so that I was standing in front of her, she rested the heels of her hands on my shoulders, fingers extended to avoid getting paint on me. “What do you see?”
I was so taken aback by the question that I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I turned slightly to look at Daisy, whose eyes were dancing with laughter, and I wondered if I had missed something. “I…”
She chuckled. “It’s okay. It’s abstract, open to interpretation. You want to know what I see?” She tilted her head and looked from me to the painting, her eyes taking on that dreamy quality once more.
I waited silently, watching her face.
“Life,” she said simply. When I raised my eyebrows, she laughed again. “Life is like a swirl of colour. It’s fast, like these strokes here.” She pointed at the canvas, indicating a series of short strokes that looked like they had been painted on with a flick of the fingers. “But slow too, like these. It’s intense and powerful and chaotic and beautiful. Spontaneous and unpredictable.”
I nodded my head slowly, narrowing my eyes. I stared at the painting until finally something clicked in my mind and I understood. Where I had seen just a mass of chaotic swirls before, I now saw life amid the bright colours and quick finger strokes. It was amazing to see what Daisy saw.
“You inspired me,” Daisy said, turning me around to face her.
“Me?” I said, astounded.
“Yes, you,” Daisy said, chuckling. “Your reason for coming here—to find yourself, to experience life in a way that’s completely new to you. Emma, I see the world in a much different way than most people. I see the good, the beauty, the wonder, the fun that life can be if you’re willing to take chances and let go of your preconceived notions and your inhibitions. Your bravery in wanting to find out where you fit in this world is astonishing to me. It’s inspiring.”
Bravery? I never in a million years would have thought of it as bravery. Quite the opposite, actually. I was running away from my old life—from the person I didn’t want to be anymore. I didn’t see how that was brave.
“But Daisy…” I said slowly, trying to find words to express the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions inside me. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, you don’t really know the person I’ve become. We used to have so much fun together, but when you left…” How could I say this without making Daisy feel guilty for moving away? She wasn’t responsible for who I had become. “You know what my mother is like—her impossible standards, and her critical, intolerant, selfish nature. I thought I could make her happy, or at the very least, make her proud of me. I did everything I could, and I lost myself in the process. My whole identity centred on being the best at everything so that my mother would notice. I have no life, no friends, and when I close my eyes and try to picture myself in a few years, it’s just…blank. Leaving home because I couldn’t stand the pressure isn’t brave, it’s pathetic.”
Daisy shook her head, gripping my shoulders tighter. “Listen to me, Emma Ward. You are brave. Some people live their lives a certain way and when they realize they don’t like who they’ve become, they’re not willing to change. They figure they’ve lived for so long in that way, why bother changing? But you took the initiative—you decided to get away from all the things that were holding you back, and in essence, start over. Whoever you think you’ve become, and whatever you might think of that person, it doesn’t matter now. Your mother’s not here to try to control you anymore. You get to start fresh and become whoever you want to be, no matter how
long it takes.”
She glanced at her canvas, the wet paint shining in the sunlight. “I know that life will be phenomenal for you once you learn to free your mind from the clutter that prevents you from living life to its fullest.”
I followed Daisy’s gaze to the vibrant swirl of colours that represented life, then cast my eyes to the floor, speechless. For an instant I thought: Daisy has just taught me more in the past ten minutes than I learned in my entire four years of high school.
“Okay, enough of all this serious stuff,” Daisy said, the laughter returning to her voice. She tipped my chin up with the back of her hand and smiled lovingly at me. She touched her nose to mine in an almost-forgotten gesture of affection we shared during my childhood. When she turned and headed for the sink in the corner of the room, her movements were so graceful and light it was almost as if she was dancing. I watched and wondered if elegance like hers was something that could be learned.
“I didn’t know what time you would sleep till, and then I got so wrapped up in my painting that I didn’t even make breakfast,” Daisy said, looking at me over her shoulder as she scrubbed her hands. “I’m thinking we could get dressed, pick up something from the café, and then take it to the park to eat.”
“That’d be fun,” I said. Fun—what a concept. At home, breakfast had always been bland and boring, whatever was quick and convenient so I could get to the school library before class.
“Wonderful! How ‘bout we meet downstairs in twenty? Can you be ready that soon?”
“Sure,” I said. I turned toward the door, and then paused, smiling slightly. “I’ll even race you!”