Sketches (25 page)

“But if he's gone, why don't you just go home now?” Brent asked.

I'd asked myself that same question hundreds of times, and each time I'd got the same answer. “I'm not ready. Not yet, but maybe soon. I've been home for visits, and I talk to my mother and sister on the phone all the time. But not yet.”

I didn't want to talk any more about any of that. “I'm just so glad that things are working out so well for all of you.”

“Couldn't be better,” Brent said. “We have a place to live, and our business is up and running.”

“Thanks to Nicki's help,” Ashley said.

“I didn't do much,” Nicki said.

“She helped to get us a government grant to buy the materials to set up our business,” Gizmo explained.

“All part of the job,” she said.

Brent looked around. “What does a hard-working man have to do to get something to eat around here? There is food, right? I was promised there would be food.”

“There's food,” I reassured him. Miniature food, but it was food.

“Enough talk, it's time to chow down!” Brent and Gizmo spotted one of the waitresses circulating on the far side of the room and made a beeline in her direction.

“Maybe I'd better just keep an eye on the two of them so they don't eat everything in sight,” Ashley said, smiling, and she headed off to join the boys.

“I'm so glad they came,” I told Nicki. “I love them so much. I'm so glad everything is working out for them. It wouldn't be right for me to be safe if they were still out there on the streets.”

“They're going to make it,” Nicki said, “Are things
really
going well for you?”

“As good as they can. Sometimes it's tough.”

“But you are getting through it?”

“Trying to.”

“And your mother . . . is she trying too?”

I nodded. “Really hard.”

“It's all right that you're still angry at her.”

“I was never angry at . . .” I stopped myself mid-sentence. “I'm not as angry as I was.”

“Anger is natural. But try to remember, she was a victim too. Have you been seeing your mother and sister often?”

“A few times a week. I even slept at home last Saturday.”

“And how did that go?”

“It wasn't easy. I hardly slept at all. It just didn't feel safe being in my room again.”

Nicki nodded knowingly. “Did you talk to your social worker about it?”

“A little bit.”

“It sounds like those are the sorts of things that you should expect. Be patient with yourself, and don't be too proud to ask for help,” she said.

“I don't know what I would have done without your help.”

She smiled. “I didn't do that much.”

“Yes you did. Without you, none of this would have happened for any of us.”

Nicki shook her head. “I just helped a bit, helped with the outline . . . the rough draft . . . the sketch. Filling the painting with colour and making it come to life, that's up to you.”

“I just hope I can do it,” I said.

“You can. Just remember, there are people who care.” She paused. “People like that,” she said, glancing over my shoulder.

I turned around. It was my mother. She had told me she would come, but it still surprised me to see her there. This was part of a world that I'd come to know, not the world where she and I knew each other.

“She really does care for you,” Nicki said. “You have to learn that forgiving is different from forgetting. And I don't mean just forgiving your mother, but yourself.”

Nicki reached over and put a hand on my shoulder, and it almost felt like some of her strength, some of her wisdom, rushed into me.

“I'm going to look at the artwork now,” Nicki said. “I'll talk to you later.”

Nicki walked away, leaving me alone in the crowd. I looked over to where my mother stood. She was alone in the crowd too. She still hadn't seen me. She looked
anxious, unsure of herself, scared, alone. I knew all those feelings from the inside.

She looked over and saw me and our eyes met. She smiled and I smiled back. Suddenly she didn't look so scared or alone. And suddenly I didn't feel so scared or alone either.