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Chapter 1
June 12
RED: Winter isnāt colorlessāitās full of shine, depth, and shades we often refuse to see. But many of us find winters long and dull. When the season opens at the Michif Creamery, we start with reds. They contrast loudly, wake us up, as spring announces itself with what seem like impossible buds on trees.
Weāre a sight. Three pickup trucks traveling down the highway, each with one of the Creameryās picnic tables hanging over the tailgate. And me, in the lead, in my old bronze F-150, my best friend, Florence, laughing from her shotgun seat. Summer arrives to the prairies slowāand stays for such a short time. But Florence and me, weāre tough enough. Weāve wound down the windows all the way, because itās tradition.
Last year this time, we were so giddy for summer, for freedom. Florence is trying to bring us back to that place. Her red hair whips around the cab like a storm. It tickles my arm, my cheek. Weāre singing along to the radioābad country music because, again, itās tradition. If doing something two years running makes for tradition.
But itās not the trucks and Florenceās wild hair causing us to stand out on Highway 16. Itās one of the cattle dogs, with his orange-and-white coat, riding atop the picnic table Iām hauling like heās surfing. Homerās a characterāan old man with the heart of a young pup. Heās the star of cleanup day.
Itās not the best day of the season. Itās not the worst. But itās certainly a show.
When we approach the turn into the shackās lot, I slow down carefully, watching Homerās dog-smile out the rearview to be sure heās ready for this. Itās a balance, and keeping the balance is my job. Homer trusts me. We pull into the clearing, where the shack has sat all winter, and before I can park, an orange-and-white blur jumps off the truck, kissing the land with a little thud. He settles in for the day, in the shade against a stand of trees, where heāll watch us, like he watches the cows. Coyotes, bears, and other predators donāt get too close, not with Homer standing guard.
As we wait for my uncle Dom and my mom to arrive, Florence examines her freshly painted nails, all red like blood. Sheās decked head to toe in black. Her skinny jeans are artfully ripped at the knees and across one thigh. Weāre giggling over the song lyrics pouring out of my speakersātrucks, girls, and ice-cold beers, like thatās all there is to lifeāwhen Dom raps on the side of the truck and says, āLetās get started!ā
āLoading the picnic tables and the paint and all these supplies wasnāt part of the job?ā I ask, climbing down.
Throwing his head back so his gorgeous brown hair flutters, Dom grins.
Once we unload the picnic tables, my mom lugs her massive beading kit from her truck. Sheās brought the portable stadium seat alongāthe one she drags to the pool when she watches me swim. Sheās here to keep us company, not to work. Last week, she quit her hellish job at the 911 dispatch to dedicate herself to art. She spent the first fall we lived here learning the craft. Her fingers bled first, then callused over. Now, she beads while she watches TV, beads while she eats.
If she could, sheād do it in her sleep.
Sheās leaving me, leaving us for the summer. But sheās here today. Teasing and cackling at me, or her brother, with entire lungfuls of air.
No one asks where Wyatt, my boyfriend, is this morning. And Iām glad for that. Glad too, in a strange way, he hasnāt shown. As we paint boards with a new layer of whitewash, Florence squeals with delight when drips stain her jeans. In September, sheāll wear these on her round-the-world trip, and people will think theyāre designer. Weāve already cleared the mousetraps and removed any spiders whoāve taken up residence by relocating them to the bush.
Next weekend, we open.
When my uncle Maurice joins us, heās bearing lunch. But instead of heading for food, Florence smears a big gob of paint from her palm onto mine. She smiles, radiant.
āGross,ā I say.
āFollow me.ā With a paint-smeared grip she pulls me around back of the shack. Weāre butted up against the trees. Day by day, theyāre turning vibrant green. The ground, too, is covered with spring growth, and errant rocks. āKneel.ā
I do.
She doesnāt release my hand. Hers is warm, the paint between us turning sticky, like glueālike Florence is trying hard not to let me go. Not yet. When Florence insists we lie on our backs to reach under the shack, we do itāhands still claspedāeven though it takes some maneuvering. Under here, itās cooler and the good rot of the undergrowth is strong.
āOkay, now that our gymnastics routine is completeāI give us a six out of ten, by the way, and the Russian judge merits it no higher than a three, in case you were wondering.ā
I grin.
āPress your hand to the wood. Like me.ā
āWhy, exactly?ā
āYouāre asking why? After all that?ā
I shrug with one shoulder.
āTo mark our place, of course, Louie.ā
The rough underside of the shack sucks up paint, Florenceās print next to mine. A drip stains my cheek like a tear.
āThere,ā she says, quiet and not like Florence at all. āNow weāll be here as long as this shack of yours stands. No matter where we are, weāll be here too.ā
My skin breaks out in gooseflesh, and my lungs expand and contract like Iām swimming hard.
Florence wipes paint from my face carefully. All she can manage is a nod.
What she doesnāt say: Next summer, we wonāt be here. Iāll be at university balancing lectures and fieldworkāhopefully training with the competitive water polo team on weekends. And Florence, sheāll be who knows where. Thailand, on a beach, or the Australian outback working a season on a sheep farm, or Kenyaāphotographing Mount Kilimanjaro from her campsite.
āCome get lunch, you two!ā my mom hollers.
Before we rise from the ground, Florence tries to speak. A strangled sob escapes. Sheās hardly ever without words.
āI know,ā I say, and help her up.
We rejoin my family. Dom hands me a wet rag to clean my hands and finally asks after Wyatt. āWhereās that boyfriend of yours? He said heād start work today.ā
Some paint rubs off, but most of it stays stuck. āProbably still in bed.ā
My momās left eyebrow is arched high. āWhat do you know about his bed?ā
I pick at the paint along my cuticles. āYou all know what I mean.ā
āLazy arse,ā Florence says, building herself a sandwich. āI didnāt sleep well.ā Her bipolar disorder messes with sleepābig-time. āAnd I was here, almost on time,ā she adds, peering over at Dom.
Technically, itās a family business. But the Creamery is Domās project.
Maybe making excuses for Wyatt is what Iām supposed to do. Like itās my job as his girlfriend. But I canāt quite defend him. Canāt offer words of support. Even now, talking about him, Iām low-key happy he didnāt show.
āThis doesnāt bode well, my niece.ā Domās head drops the tiniest bit, but it drops.
I continue picking at specks of paint until I switch over to ravaging unmarred skin. āHeāll be here next weekend.ā
Domās brown eyes are tight. And though he doesnāt say it, heās thinking that hiring Wyatt was my idea. At the time, it seemed a good one. To spend one last summer with my best friend and my boyfriend.
Out of the corner of her eye, Florence watches as I pick, pick, at my cuticles. She swats at my hand. āStop it.ā
My mom glances up from her beading.
At the far end of the picnic table, Mauriceās words barely carry against the traffic on the highway. āFewer employees means less overhead. Canāt the girls handle this on their own?ā
āTwo isnāt enough. Threeās pushing it.ā Dom shakes his head. āWeāll survive.ā
That word.
Survival is always in the back of our minds. What if the locals donāt rally this year? What if we need another loan? What if Mom quitting a job that made her miserable, that loaded her down with trauma shift after shift, to sell beadwork on the road is a huge mistake? What if Wyatt goofs off all summer and thatās the deciding factor to my familyās survival?
āHey, the sunās coming out,ā Florence says.
I ignore my unclesā chatter to focus on this good lunch, on the sun helping dry the paint weāve liberally applied to the shack. For now, it gleams. Later, the shine will dull. By summerās end, it wonāt look like we did this at all.
Finished with her meal, Florence climbs on top of the table. She wiggles the ponytail from my hair and starts to play.
My mom pulls a long length of thread through her design. āYour braids are too loose, Florence.ā
āItās pretty this way.ā
āTight braids highlight the cheekbones.ā
Theyāre teasing each other. Itās how theyāve always been, since I brought Florence home to finish a biology project after she joined our class in the middle of the semester our grade-eleven year.
āThereās more than one kind of braid,ā I say, and my mom stops teasing. A tightness claims her eyes. She almost looks hurt. Like even this basic statement weighs her down with the pain of my old lies.
Florence just says, āOh, shush, you.ā
I donāt know which of us sheās shushing. Mom falls silent too. It could be the beadsāsheās hurrying to fill her stock. It could be what I said, what she thinks I implied.
Florence continues finger-combing little tangles. āYou could still abscond with me? Ditch the boyfriend and run?ā
I sigh.
My mom clears her throat. Weāre supposed to hear it. Sheās contributing to the conversation again.
āItās not like a gap year means sheāll never go to uni, never play water polo, Auntie Louisa.ā
My momās face lights up. āMy daughter could be the next Waneek Horn-Miller! Lou could go all the way to theāā
āOlympics,ā I say at the same time as my mom. Some days, I believe itās possible. We moved so often I didnāt have a picture for home in my mindās eyeābut Iāve always had my mom, my fascination with dinosa...
