“Look, for now just keep visiting Benji at the gallery, come by every once in a while when your dad’s at work and phone me from the gallery phone.  Then you can come across the street and see me if I’m home.  That will have to work for the time being.”

               “Oh...” Benji cackles. “You ladies are sneaky.”

               I roll my eyes at Benji and Mom swats him on the shoulder.

               “Hush, Benji.” She turns back to me. “Do you have time to come back to my place and visit?”

               “Yeah, I have a couple hours.”

               “Good.” She turns to Benji, “We bid you good day, Benjamin.”

               “Bye Ms. Da’Silva!” Benji waves enthusiastically and gives me a conspiratorial wink as we go out the door.

               Mom’s apartment smells like cinnamon and nutmeg when we enter; I can see a thin trickle of smoke from the incense burner in the corner.

               “Doesn’t it smell like apple pie in here?” Mom says enthusiastically. “I love it!”

               “Makes me hungry.” I smile.

               “You say the word and we’ll go out and buy an apple pie,” Mom says. “The grocery store down the next block has the most unbelievable pies you’ve ever tasted.”

She goes into the kitchen and flicks the kettle on. “I believe pie should be one of the staples of life. Bread, water, love and apple pie.”

               “Don’t forget tea,” I add.

               “It does seem to be the staple of our lives,” Mom agrees.

               “I could drink tea all day.”

               “I could float in a vast sea of it, just drinking my way through, providing it wasn’t too hot.”

               I laugh. “Maybe you could get a ship and sail on the tea, and then once every so often you could lower a bucket into the ocean and pull up a bucket of hot peppermint tea.”

               “Peppermint is good,” Mom says, “But today we’re trying something new. “

               I watch her put the loose tea inside a wire ball and hook the chain onto the edge of the tea pot, which is a pretty jade colour and looks handmade.

               “What kind is it?”

               “Apple tea,” Mom says, “to go with the smell of apple pie.”

               “The tea version of apple pie?”

               “Very low carb.” Mom pours the steaming water from the kettle to the teapot.

               “Mmm...” I inhale the rising steam, enjoying the earthy smell of apple mixed with spices.

               “Wow, that smells delicious.”

               “It sure does.” Mom sits down with her cup of tea. “Now, tell me...have you seen that boy again? Jacob was his name, right?”

               “Yesterday actually.”

               I tell Mom how I'd met him at the library and basically dumped all my problems on him, then how he'd driven me home in his little car. 

               “He sounds great,” Mom says dreamily.

               “He is great,” I muse. “He’s funny and cute and...I think I might really like him.”

               Mom grins at me. “You guys sound like you really get along. I mean, you love to write and read and you met him in a bookstore. How perfect is that?”

               “I know, it’s kind of exciting.” I fidget on the couch, embarrassed to admit what I'm going to say next. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

               “Well that’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of,” Mom says. “I wasn’t dating till about your age.”

               “A lot of girls in my class were pretty much dating when they were in grade 8 .”

               Mom makes a face at me. “That’s awful.  You’re still supposed to think the opposite sex has cooties at that age.”

               “No one has really been interested up till now.” I admit.

               “Probably a good thing,” Mom smiles. “Boys are immature until they reach the age of thirty.” Her smile slips a bit, “And some are still unreasonable in their fifties.”

               I know who she means without asking.  I stare at my tea for a moment, wanting to change the subject, when the canvas in the centre of the room catches my eye.

               “What are you painting?”

               “Ah...this one’s just a free-style,” she says. “I’m sort of dabbling.”  She sits up straight on the couch and beams at me. “You should try it! I’ll mix up some paints for you.”

               “I don’t want to ruin one of your canvases,” I protest.  “I’m no good at art - at least, not painting.  It would be a waste of paint.”

               “You could add to that one.”

               “Your painting?” I say in horror. “Mom! No way, I would mess up your painting!”

               “I trust you,” Mom grins. “Just a brush stroke or two, that’s all.”

I shake my head stubbornly and Mom sighs.

“Oh Sam, what’s to be afraid of?”

               “I’m not good at painting, Mom. I’d mess it up.”

               Mom huffs at me, “Oh fine. If you insist, I’ll wait till later to get you to paint with me.”

               I roll my eyes at her. “Painting isn’t my thing.”

               “There’s a first time for everything.”

               Sadly the visit is over before I like.  The bus ride home is long and I keep checking my watch, nervous to meet Dad coming through the door or something.  I manage to get there at quarter to five though, so I dump out my messenger bag on the floor of my room and mess up my bed sheets and writing desk, trying to make it look like I've been home all day.  I hear him come in, some glassware clink and then the noise of the microwave. I'll take it as a good sign that he isn't storming up the stairs to ask where I've been all day or demanding my phone. 

I'm pretty sure he has no way of knowing I’ve been out visiting Mom.  I just wonder how long I can get away with it.   I go to bed thinking about Mom’s beautiful apartment and wishing I could be there instead of my lonely room. I punch my pillows and pull the sheets around me, finally managing to drift off after an hour. Just as I am slipping into the grasp of dreams I remember the neglected Anastasia, and I wonder what she’s been up to lately.

               Wednesday morning – there is a text message from Mom asking what I'm doing today and do I want to come over and help her paint.  I grin and punch in the number to call her back.

               Mom answers the phone sounding breathless,

“Hello?”

               “Hi, it’s me.”

               “Oh hey, honey!”

               “You sound a bit winded.” I grin. “You’ve been jogging?”

               “Hardly! I was running up the stairs of the apartment with an armload of canvases. That horrible elevator is broken.” 

I hear the faint sound of keys rattling and picture her letting herself into the apartment.

“So Sam, you coming over to paint with me?”

               “I’ll come over and watch you paint.”

               “You’ll cave someday.”  I hear the grin in her voice.

               “We’ll see. What time should I come?”

               “Anytime.  I’ll be here slinging paint around.”

               “I’ll see you soon!”

               I run around my room throwing books and notebooks into my messenger bag. 

Dad isn't around when I come down the staircase, so I just grab a banana and a granola bar and head down the sidewalk to the bus stop.

Five minutes into my book the bus arrives; I spend the ten minute trip finishing the rest of the chapter I'm on.  Mom buzzes me in and, sure enough, I have to take the stairs.  I guess I need the workout, because by the time I reach the third floor and I'm standing in front of mom’s door I'm thoroughly out of breath. 

               Mom greets me with a huge hug and pulls me into the apartment, already talking excitedly.

“I have this great new idea for a painting - you have to help me. You can be my muse.”

               I sit on the couch, nursing a cup of tea while mom paints and we talk. Slowly she creates another masterpiece before my eyes - a vague blur becomes a landscape of gold and brown.

               “So,” she says abruptly when I pause to sip tea for a moment, “any further thought on moving in?”

               I hesitate. “I dunno...I know I can’t keep creeping around like this, because he’ll find out that I’m still seeing you eventually.  It won’t be long before I forget to delete a text message or forget that I was supposed to be at the library and let something slip. But I can’t imagine telling him. He’ll be furious that I actually had the nerve to disobey him.”

               Mom nods. She dabs distractedly at the canvas with the paintbrush in her hand.

“I don’t know what to tell you.  I just wish you'd at least consider this. I have a beautiful spare room just off the kitchen and everything.”

               “I noticed the door there last time...can I go peek?”

               Mom’s face lights up. “Of course you can. Maybe you’ll like it so much you’ll make it home.”

               I make my way into the kitchen.  The door is tucked in between the fridge and the dinner table and when I pull on the knob it comes right open. I peek around the edge of the door frame. 

“Oh, it’s pretty in here.”

               I hear mom laugh from the living room. “It’s pretty plain. But it would be easy to spruce up if you wanted.”

               I stare at the room, wishing it could be mine. She's right, it is plain - but it's still nice. The walls are white, but the bed looks wide and inviting, with a giant fluffy duvet and four pillows. And there's a little black sofa in one corner of the room just under the window. I can picture myself curling up with a book there.

Or my writing...

               I close the door, firmly cutting myself off in mid-thought.

               “Isn’t it nice?”

Mom's standing in the kitchen now, looking eager. “Would it work for you?”

               “Of course it would.” I pull a kitchen chair out from the table and slump down into it. “It’s perfect, but it just can’t happen. Dad would never speak to me again.” I hesitated, not wanting to tell her why I'm really hesitant. I can’t tell her I am worried that dad will never speak to me and she might abandon me and leave me completely alone.

               Mom walks over and leans against the counter with a deep sigh. “You’re right, of course. I couldn’t ask you to risk your father never speaking to you again.  That’s not right.”

               “It’s also not right that I shouldn’t be allowed to see my own mother,” I say grimly. “I don’t know what to do.”

               “You’ll figure it out, Sam. I know you will.” Mom smiles.

               “I wish I had your confidence.”

               “I think you do. It’s buried deep down in there somewhere. I think you’re a lot more like me then you know.”

               “I think I’m just a coward, nothing like you.  You're brave. And as a result you’re doing what you love to do.”

               “You’re brave too, Sam. I know you are.”

               I shrug and sigh. Then, not wanting to drag us down into endless circles of hopeless conversation, I say brightly, “How about more tea?”

  We talk for another hour or so, before I have to go. It seems I'll be restricted to library hours for the rest of my life.  It's nearly eight, and the library closes then; I have to catch the bus and be home at eight-thirty or Dad will grow suspicious, since I'm supposed to be doing some type of school project there every night.  Mom walks me to the bus stop and hugs me goodbye.

               Just before I board she gives me one last squeeze.

“Bye Sam. Come see me again soon, okay?”

               “Okay.  I’ll call you tomorrow?”

               “That would be great. And Sam, everything is going to work out alright.”

               “Thanks.” I climb the bus stairs.

               But I don’t want just “alright” anymore. I want great.