Chapter 3

So, you want to talk about it?"

"Just because she isn't here doesn't mean she isn't real." Justine said looking up at him.

"She's real," Patrick said, "and she's still your Mom, but other people have trouble understanding that."

"You understand?"

"Yes." Justine heaved a deep sigh then shook it off.

"Then this is what I want to do." Justine sat up and patted the bed beside her. "I want to paint the whole room this dusty blue that I found downstairs. Then we need to tape off the squares and paint them these other colours, there's a green and some yellow, I think some purple, and I thought I'd leave one square pink."

"Your quilt won't match."

"There's another one in the linen closet that will work. Please, Dad?"

"You start moving everything to the middle of the room, and I'll go check to see if the paint is any good."

They spent the day painting the walls blue except for the square that Justine had very carefully taped off. The trim got a new coat of white since they had some white in the basement. Sunday, Justine came home from Sunday School and started taping off the blocks for the different colours. They worked all afternoon. When they were finished, Patrick had to admit that it was a stunning look.

Justine brought out the other quilt that she had found.

"Ah," Patrick said, "I wondered if you were talking about that one. Your Gran made it in case we ever had a boy. It was the last quilt she ever made."

"You were going to have another baby?"

"Well, we had so much fun with you that we wanted another baby. Gran just hoped it would be a boy."

"Then Mom got cancer."

"That's right."

"And she couldn't have more babies."

"No."

Justine buried her nose in the quilt. "It doesn't smell like Mom."

"I wouldn't think it would. Probably more like the cedar balls she put in everything to keep things from smelling musty."

"Remember when we hung a bunch of them on the Christmas tree?"

"Definitely. Wait here, I have something for you." Patrick went to his room and pulled a box from the closet shelf. He carried it back to Justine's room. "Look at this." He put the box on the bed beside her. "This was your Mom's stuff."

Justine opened the box and squealed when she saw the tiny bottles of perfume and all the little containers of makeup.

"You're a bit young to wear any of this yet, but Mom would want you to have it."

Justine was carefully opening each bottle and sniffing it.

"This one," she said, "this is the one she was wearing the last time she read me a story. I remember she was reading Pippi Longstocking to me and she smelled like this." She dabbed a little on her finger and rubbed it on her teddy bear. "Mom used to do that so the bear would smell like her and I would sleep better."

"I never knew that," Patrick said.

"Oh, Daddy, I miss her so much!"

"So do I darling, so do I."

"Do you think she'd like my room?"

Patrick stood and turned around slowly. The new paint had somehow not made her old white furniture look shabby, but just comfortable. The colour wall was striking, but not overwhelming. The new quilt fit perfectly to pull the whole thing together. It was like seeing one of Ingrid's projects completed. The smell of her perfume added her blessing to the room.

"She'd love it. Mom would be so proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad." Justine looked up at him. "What did Mom always cook after she finished a job?"

Patrick had to think for a moment. Ingrid did have a special meal that she cooked to celebrate the successful completion of a contract.

"Meatballs," he said, "I remember I used to tease her that meatballs belonged in spaghetti, but she liked them with this special sauce on rice. She said it reminded her of home."

"Can we cook them? Please?"

"Let's go look up the recipe."

They went out to a twenty-four hour grocery store near where Patrick worked to find the ingredients they needed. Then went to work.

"Ewwww," Justine said as she mixed the meat with her hands. "It's just like play dough, but a lot grosser."

"Your Mom would make a whole bunch of them and freeze them so she didn't have to make them that often." Patrick stirred the sauce and put it on a low heat. The rice was already cooking so he and Justine made rows of tiny balls to put in the oven to cook.

They watched decorating shows on TV while dinner gradually filled the house with familiar odours.

"Let's do this again."

"What, paint your room?" Patrick asked.

"No, cook Mom's recipes. It smells like she is watching us. She doesn't feel so far away now."

"OK then," Patrick said, "you choose the recipe when you get home from Sunday School. We'll go shopping to get what we need."

"Cool," Justine said. "Are they really going to paint the room that colour with that couch?"

For a second Patrick was sure that Ingrid was sitting in her chair and had winked at him. Instead of the sharp stab of grief he expected he felt warmth flow from his heart.

***