Page 8 of Touch the Sky
I watch her play for a minute. The tip of her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth, a habit she somehow picked up from her dad despite how little time he spends with her. She’s rolled up the sleeves of her huge black hoodie with the built-in floppybunny ears, but the cuffs are slowly sliding their way back down to her gangly wrists.
I wait until she gives a frustrated shake of her head and lets the guitar drop in her lap before I rap my knuckles against the glass. Her head jerks up, her hair falling out of her face to reveal the summer freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose.
“New plan for the day,” I say as I yank the door open. “We’re going for a drive.”
She huffs and puffs at first, but it’s clear guitar practice isn’t offering much dopamine today, and we’re piled into the truck ten minutes later.
“What do you say we go check out La Cloche?” I ask while she’s clicking her seatbelt in.
“Is that that place with all the art galleries?”
We saw the town mentioned on some tourism brochures when we came out for a long weekend this summer to meet Léon and get a feel for the area, but we never made it that far up past Saint-Jovite.
“Yeah, that’s the one. They’re supposed to have all kinds of different artists there. We could browse around a few shops. They probably have a bakery or something like that too. We could get…”
Shel does an excited little wriggle in her seat as we both shout, “Treats!”
That settles it. I shift the truck into gear and steer us out to the highway, heading along the same route I took to La Grange Rouge, which is just a few minutes outside La Cloche proper. I let Shel play DJ, and soon, the sounds of her latest K-Pop obsession are drifting through the speakers.
The rapid pop beat is a stark contrast to the slow pace of our surroundings, but I can’t complain when she looks so cute bobbing her head to the rhythm and mouthing the few English words interspersed throughout the lyrics.
We’re just fifteen minutes outside Saint-Jovite, but we’re already the only car on the road. Thick trees stretch up high above our heads, their leaves just starting to glow with the first traces of orange and yellow. The forest is dense, spiky firs and pines adding a shock of dark, shadowy green.
The two-lane highway is cracked and crumbling along its edges, a few potholes adding to the obstacle course effect as we wind along the curves of the rolling mountains. I tap my fingers on the wheel to the beat of the song, sinking deeper into my seat as some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
More than anything, it was the driving that convinced me I could feel at home here when we visited in the summer. I spend so many hours on the road for work that some nice scenery is a major bonus, but it’s more than that. There’s something about rambling through the Laurentian Mountains that just feels easy. Dependable. Still.
They’re the kind of mountains that stretch all your problems out across their gentle peaks until you can see the life you thought was a tangled mess isn’t so knotted up after all.
That’s what I want, for me and for Shel. I want a life that feels solid and smooth, not a string of makeshift decisions snarled with guilt and doubt.
I just want to stop doubting. Just for one second, I want to be sure I’m doing the right thing for my kid.
After another ten minutes, we reach the highway exit with a sign for La Cloche. We cruise up a mostly straight road, the woods on either side of us thinning to reveal the first few houses and wide, grassy lawns. The houses get closer and closer together, all of them featuring quaint details like pastel-coloured shutters or a homemade swing hanging from an ancient maple’s branches.
I find us a parking spot just before we hit the main street. Shel skips ahead of me as we walk over, the bunny ears of her hoodie flopping against her back.
It’s no longer high season, but the main street is still bustling with a decent amount of tourists. Most of their arms are laden with brown paper bags as they weave from shop to shop. The buildings are a mix of cozy brick facades and clapboard painted in vibrant hues, the window displays bursting with even more colour. The sidewalks are lined with old-fashioned iron lampposts all draped with fluttering banners.
“This is so cool!” Shel shouts, waving me over to join her where she’s stopped in front of a window showcasing a selection of different crafting kits for kids. “Can we go in?”
“Of course,” I tell her.
We spend a couple hours like that: window shopping and browsing around any boutique or gallery that catches Shel’s eye. More and more weight seems to slough off my shoulders as I watch her grin and gasp over the treasures we find.
She’s been quiet since she started at her new school. She’s always been the kind of kid who spends a lot of time on her own, wrapped up in her imagination, but this has been different.
I know an adjustment period is inevitable. The therapist she meets with online to process the move, paid for with the help of my parents, has assured me of that, but still, the relief of seeing her bounding around and giggling like her usual self today is enough to make my knees feel weak.
Then again, that could be due to the fact that it’s almost two in the afternoon and we’ve completely forgotten about lunch.
“What do you say we go find those treats?” I ask as we’re heading out of a textile workers’ collective, our pockets bursting with all the business cards we’ve been grabbing as we browse.
“Treats!” Shel shouts, punching the air.
I laugh and tug on one of her bunny ears while I scan our surroundings for the nearest food-selling establishment. I spot something called Café Cloche across the road, and the chalkboard sign out on the sidewalk advertising fresh cinnamon buns is all it takes to convince us.
Inside, the place is cute and cozy but just a little too warm to be comfortable. Almost every seat is filled with customers while even more of them form a line snaking up to the counter. A quick glance at the trays of baked goods under the glass confirms our treat of choice hasn’t sold out yet, so I send Shel to use her nimble child powers to secure us a place to sit while I wait in line.
