It's Tuesday, and the workshop is busy. I've been cutting steel all morning. We're making a new parts rack for Naveen. Apparently they're running some new bottle sizes, and want to have quick-change parts on hand for those, along with all their old ones. I remember the tripod style one we made years ago. Well, it was more like a three sided pyramid with wheels underneath, but it held all the parts. Actually, that one might have been for a labeller. Anyway, this one is taller than I am. About three metres long. It's technically four sections—I mean, two sets per side—but one of them is holding guiderails on top, and is cut away underneath to hold extra star wheels.
Lots of angled cuts to get the frame sitting right, and then a lot of welding on to the frames themselves. Mid-rails everywhere, so we can weld on posts and spikes for hanging the parts. Then the middle is going to have some lengths of two inch tube for the worms to sit on and slide in and out. It's kind of a monster build, but unlike our walkways, this is bigger in complexity than size. Not that it's going to be small. And that, for some reason, reminds me of the upcoming masquerade ball. Maybe because of your terrible joke at our first—and I'm so glad I was your plus one. It still felt a bit weird being introduced as your girlfriend though.
And speaking of weird, it's been unseasonably hot all day today. So much so that I'm down to just my t-shirt under the overalls. There's also the pile of walkway parts taking up half the workshop, because the plant had to run an extra shift last weekend to make up for a crash earlier in the week. Which means we're probably going to be in a bit of a rush to get stuff done this weekend. More than a bit, in fact. That's why I'm the only one working on this project right now, with Kristoff, Audrey, and Maurice getting the rest of the walkway secured to the truck—which was supposed to be here this morning.
Afternoon tea, and I jump when thunder echoes and rumbles across the city. I can't even see any clouds. Me and Audrey both get up to look around—in case it wasn't thunder, and something's gone horribly wrong in one of the nearby complexes. I feel something brush against my arm. Little twitches, maybe. No, sprinkles. I rush back into the workshop and suddenly the rain is deafeningly loud against the roof. It's torrential, and we can't even hear each other shouting over the din above us. Ten minutes later and it's gone, the sun is out again, but it's much, much colder than it was before.
At the end of the day, heading home, and it's feeling like it could be snowing tomorrow. Well, it will be the first of December, but still kinda early for it. For any heavy snow, anyway. I know Joan's gonna be waiting for us when we get home, getting stuff ready for swordfighting later tonight. And her final mid-term is on Thursday. She needs this—she's still stressing out, which isn't like her, so we'll have a talk after dinner too. And like I said, when we get home, Joan is there, in the kitchen, but much quieter than usual. She knows we know something is wrong.
"I'd like to talk with you after dinner, okay?" I try to give her my best motherly look.
"You're gonna try and convince to me to go swordfighting tonight, or do something, or take a shower, or—"
Kristoff cuts her off. "No, Snowflake, your mother is going to listen to you. I will be conveniently absent."
She pads over, barefoot, to whisper something in his ear.
He nods. "Okay then."
"I'm right here." I try to put just the right amount of indignation into my voice.
They're both laughing. I don't get it.
"What did I miss?"
"She told me exactly what you were going to say."
"Really?"
"Really, mom—or did you think I'd forgotten about last night?"
Crap. Well, I probably deserve it. It was kind of open season on her last night—she just kept leaving herself open.
She's looking at me while over-acting the shifty eyes. "Me and dad cooked up a secret plan."
"You're not supposed to tell her."
"Unless telling her only makes her worry more…"
"Clearly I did not think this through." Now they're both looking at me and smiling. Well, I expect no less from my family, but this united front is now slightly worrying. Which is probably exactly why she told me.
Dinner is kind of subdued, and we can all sense it. Kristoff excuses himself afterwards, saying something about invoicing. Well, it is the right time of the month. I beckon for Joan to follow me into the lounge room. She continues on and drags me upstairs. She flops onto her bed. I sit down at the foot of it.
"Is it the stress?"
"Yeah, mostly, I think—were exams like this for you, mom?"
"It's been a while," A long while. "But no, I don't think I ever stressed out this hard, especially on mid-terms. And have you asked yourself why you're so stressed?"
"'cause of the exams, duh." I can just imagine the look she'd give me if we were face-to-face.
"Baby, you've had exams before. Why are these exams stressing you out?" I've got to make her see the distinction here.
"They're… umm… important exams?" I can tell she thinks it's a bit of a stretch at this point.
"Sure, they're important, but how much of your grade is really in them?"
"A bit, I'm sure. Can't be all of it." She sounds calmer now. "Why weren't you asking me this the other week?"
"Because I thought maybe it was normal jitters—or that you'd find a coping strategy—or that you'd ask us for help if you needed it," I turn around, and she tilts her chin so we can see each other. "So I'm gonna ask the question: Are you okay?"
"No… I'm stressed, and angry, and feel bad, and I want to see Tink again, but she's at some kind of retreat with her mom, and I'm always wondering what if I fail one of these exams and what if I keep failing it and can't pass the end of year tests and I mean you've totally seen my report cards and I've got some weak subjects and I really want to pass everything so I can just move but I don't even know what I'm moving on to and these aren't even the important exams so I've got no idea what I'm doing and now—oh my god, I sound like my mother…"
The shock in her voice can't hide how close she is to tears. She's overwhelmed, and just doesn't know how to handle it. Yet. "Well, thanks for that vote of encouragement—but I don't think that's the biggest problem right now." I pause, letting her look away if she wants to. She doesn't, just wipes away a tear. "How do you feel, right now?"
"Stressed, and weak, like the whole world is gonna fall apart on top of me, and then I feel kinda crappy for dumping all of this on you and I'm lonely without Tink—she couldn't even take her phone."
It takes courage to admit all that. I didn't have it at her age. I gesture for her to go on, in case there's more. She just shakes her head, flopping back down.
"I bet Elsa never felt like this."
"If I'm honest, it'll probably break you heart. If I lie, it might break mine."
She holds her hand up, miming giving me something. "Have a trowel." I blank for a moment. Oh. Maybe I did lay it on a little thick.
"Yeah, I get it. Elsa had tough days. Especially towards the end. She didn't want to be a burden—and she saw how much it was taking out of me to care for her."
"That's—I mean this exam stuff—it's different," she's doing the thing with her hands. "It's going to affect the rest of my life, isn't it?"
"A little. There's still plenty of things you can do to move it in any direction you want."
"Mom…" there's an odd edge in her voice. "I don't know how." She sighs heavily, sitting up. She spreads her hand equivocally. "I don't even know what I want right now."
I shrug melodramatically. "Well let's start small then: would you like me to stay here?"
"Not down there," she smiles at me. "I could really use a hug."
I climb up on the bed and wrap my daughter in a tight hug. She hugs me back, tighter than she's done in quite some time. "Okay, harder question: Do you want to go swordfighting tonight?"
She shakes her head.
I push her away gently. "Then you have a responsibility to fulfil, don't you?"
She stares at me for a moment. I point to her phone with my free hand. "Oh, crap, right, I better tell Phil I'm not coming."
The call takes her all of 30 seconds. I frown at her. "Okay, really hard question: Wanna go explode some marshmallows in the microwave?"
She just stares at me blankly for a moment before finally registering.
"Come on, we'll make dad clean it."
I really shouldn't be encouraging this—but it's comfort food, and only once did we actually explode them. Okay, twice, but that second time was an accident. It's also a contest to see who can get the biggest, puffiest marshmallow without exploding. You gotta watch carefully though, because those things deflate fast. It helps to sandwich it between two thin biscuits, and crumblier is better. It's like a warm cookie filled with tasty marshmallow goo. And if you're not careful little strings of chewy sugar from it will set like rock on the plate you're using.
Joan's at the table, eating another marshmallow/biscuit sandwich. I sit down in the chair next to her. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I… I'm not sure I know what the problem is, mom." She turns to look at me, putting her hands on the table. "I mean, it's there, but the words… trying to figure it out is hard. If I could figure out why I'm so stressed, maybe I could do something about it. Anything."
"You said the exams, right," I put down a half eaten biscuit before continuing. "And feeling like it's the rest of your life?"
"And Elsa not feeling like this—or maybe always feeling it; I don't know," there's a defeated sigh. "It's like all of this, and none of it, and I just wish sometimes I could ask her."
A sad smile quirks my lips. "I wish you could too, baby… but life just didn't work out that way."
She frowns, thinking. "Maybe… maybe that's what I want, and I'm stressed as fuck—" she's bright pink, but I say nothing. I'm not gonna punish her for a slip of the tongue right now. "—really stressed out, because what I want is impossible. Or something."
"I'm pretty sure she'd have words similar to mine about that last report card."
"But…" she's thinking, gears turning. She's sad too, maybe about putting something together. "But I'll never know. I'll never be able to see her like that. And I think I asked once if you could miss someone you'd never known, and I'm really feeling it right now, and I just don't know if I would've been good enough for her."
This is what it is. She's afraid she's not good enough for you. Like she can't live up to some imaginary expectations. I'm fairly sure I didn't force any on her—and she knows you weren't infallible either. It's still hard, and I feel like I need to talk with Cara again. Or a widower that has children. Because I'm not sure I can do this on my own and I'm an idiot. She's looking right at me, tears in her eyes, and I have completely zoned out. I shake my head sadly, then pull her into a tight hug. And I tell her the two most important things I can think of in that moment.
"Elsa would have always loved you; she was your mother, same as me." I lean forward so she can rest her chin on my shoulder. "And you aren't her. You don't have to be. You get to be who you want to be."
"A little direction would still be nice sometimes."
"Stop picking so many fights at school?"
She laughs, shaking her head slightly.
"Keep trying new things?"
She gives me a petulant frown.
"Take a drama class—hey, hear me out. Learn to tell a story; or use it to be an actress—or a stuntwoman, knowing you. Or even a body-double, well, you'd have to be older, but it's a thing…"
"And you wouldn't… judge?" She sounds really unsure—and quite curious.
I spread my hands and shrug. "Why?" One eyebrow goes up, like she's still waiting for the rest of it. "I mean, why judge you for something like that; it's your body, and I'd hope it would be your choice if you were planning on doing something like that, but it wouldn't be for me to judge. Not after what me and Elsa did that one time anyway…"
"I'm going to regret asking this, aren't I?"
"Then don't," I wink at her. I know she can't resist. She facepalms, then gestures for me to continue. "It involved a mountain, a little too much wine, and a trail we thought was private. And the autumn sun."
"I think you can keep that one to yourself."
"I probably should," I give her a smile. "But just so you know, the next part I tell you is going to involve a bit about our lack of a sex life, because it forced me to talk more in therapy—which helped me more than I'd like to admit."
"Or you could just tell me about the therapy part, and keep anything else as a summary."
"I could…" I let her see an evil grin. "But someone told me they had an evil plan."
"That's not until later—and it was a 'secret' plan, anyway."
"Well I'm dishing my revenge early, just in case." I stick out my tongue. "Maybe you should find your partner in crime before I come up with something even better to tell you…"
She leaves the room very quickly. I'm a terrible person sometimes. Maybe a wonderful person too. Elsa would tell me I was. Both, in fact. But she always said I'd make a great parent. I wish I could've seen her become a parent too. I guess she is; just not in the way I thought. She said she'd be there in spirit—along with all those threats to haunt me. Which, for some reason, reminds me of that scene in Firefly; the one where Wash is joking around with Zoe: 'Here lies my beloved flower; somewhat less lovely now she's all corpsified and gross…'. I think you liked that one too, especially when I threatened to add it to my eulogy.
You really did see the best me in me, and you helped me see it in myself too. Maybe that's why I keep thinking of you, wishing I could ask your advice for Joan—because I want to do for her what you did for me, but I don't quite get how. I'll figure it out, eventually.
