If only I had the money to pay the astronomical price they were asking.
I chuckled, though inside me frustration swelled. This was just another thing on a long list of things that I would never be able to give Brenna.
Every night for the next week, Brenna asked me questions about our inn. What would her room look like? Would we eat with the guests? Where would she put her toys? Could she have a playroom? What would Stella’s doghouse look like?
A week later, I was in Dollar Dayz, cutting through the art supply section, and I noticed this twelve-by-twelve-inch sketchbook.
I bought it.
And that night I began to draw the Gingerbread House for Brenna.
If I could give her nothing else, I could give her this—a way to imagine it.
A year and a half later, it’s brimming with drawings. Of cottage gardens and lush bedrooms, of grand wraparound porches with people sitting around bistro-style tables, drinking their coffees. Of a kitchen sizzling with home-cooked meals. Of a peaceful lakefront, quiet in the morning and full of laughter in the afternoon.
Somewhere along the way, I found a part of me that I had lost. I found the ability to dream again. And the Gingerbread House became my dream, too.
Of a beautiful house that was so impeccably decorated that guests would be in awe as they stepped inside. Of a life where I could sit on that porch and watch Brenna roll through the grass with the dog she asks Santa for every single Christmas.
For years, I’ve hated Balsam. Not for its quaint main street, lined with charming shops and decorated by a canopy of mature trees and overflowing planters. Not for the picturesque landscape that surrounds it, nestled within a valley south of the mountains and surrounded by forest and lakes. Not for the odd sense of calm in the air, even as the streets come alive on weekends with countless tourists.
At first it was simply because I was a teenager, and most teenagers don’t fare well in small towns like this. And then it was because of how the people in this quaint, picturesque little valley town treated me.
Now that I’ve come to terms with my life—I’m probably never leaving here—I’ve been able to step back, to look at Balsam through a different lens. To try to convince myself that maybe it’s not so bad. The children’s parks are clean and well maintained, the streets are quiet and safe. Keith complains that his shifts consist of driving drunk tourists back to their hotels and listening to the same people try to finagle their way out of speeding tickets, but that’s not so bad. I may have wanted to escape, but then again, all these people are desperate to leave their big city lives to escape here. Maybe I’m the lucky one. Maybe there’s a way I can still make a great life for Brenna and me, here.
I realize that the inn is an impossible dream, but it has given me something to think about besides paying bills and work, and worrying about whether or not I’m a good mother. It’s almost therapeutic, working on it at night, when I’m bone tired from a busy shift and sitting alone in my living room.
Only silence comes from Brenna’s room now, so I tuck away the sketchbook in the side table drawer. Taking a deep breath, I do what I’ve been dying to do all day: I hit the Power button on the remote control, my stomach rolling as I scroll through the channels to find the news, afraid of what I might hear.
That Brett Madden took a turn for the worse.
That he didn’t make it.
I finally stumble on a Philly news channel. It’s a generic sports recap. The dull buzz of two commentators arguing over a referee call fills my tiny living room. It reminds me of weekends at home when I was younger. There was always a sports channel on in the background when my dad was around.
Someone says “Brett Madden” on the television and everything else fades into to the background. They’re showing a hockey game, the last game the Flyers played, and the camera follows a man wearing a construction orange-and-black jersey with the number 18 and the name MADDEN printed across the back in white, as he weaves around players like a dancer, his movement graceful but lightning fast. Once, twice, three times, he sinks a puck into the net, and the crowd goes wild.
Despite my father being an avid fan and my brother a talented player, I don’t know hockey. I don’t like it much, either, and yet even someone as ignorant as me can see that Brett Madden is truly gifted.
Because it’s not enough to be born into extreme wealth and family fame.
They show several seconds of the team colliding into a tangle of sweaty bodies at the end, the joy they feel palpable. The camera pans to a shot of two men embracing on the edge of the rink. It’s impossible to identify them if not for their jerseys, which read MADDEN and GRABNER.
My stomach clenches. This was their last game before the accident.
Twenty-four hours later, one of them would be dead.
The camera flips to the newscasters again to discuss the accident, highlighting the main details as if everyone hasn’t already heard them a hundred times. I keep waiting and hoping for more information on how Brett Madden’s doing, but they have nothing more to give and seem more focused on his contract and what this devastating loss may mean to the Flyers’ chances at a Stanley Cup.
The screen then flips to a taped interview of Brett. I stare at the broad-shouldered man filling the screen, dressed in a black tuxedo and wearing a dazzling smile, his wavy sandy brown hair combed back to curl at the ends. He’s answering questions about his children’s charity work with eloquence while flashes go off. He has a deep, smooth voice, the kind you feel in your chest.
I have no idea what a typical hockey player looks like, but he looks every bit the movie star right now, facing the camera with the comfortable ease of someone who has spent time in front of it. And I suppose he has, being Meryl Price’s son.
This man . . . I stare at him and think he cannot possibly be the same man hunched in the passenger seat of that crumpled car, unconscious and bleeding profusely from his forehead.
He cannot be the same man I begged and pleaded and screamed at, to please get out of that car.
He cannot be the man I tumbled with into the swampy ditch.
He cannot be the man I saved.
He’s utterly flawless.