“Suit yourself,” Peggy says. “Call if you need anything.”

I turn on every light in the trailer in an effort to chase away the grey dimness of dusk and aloneness. I put the tea on. I watch the layers of fish-scale clouds in the sky grow darker as flecks of snow swirl and twirl and fall. I eat one of the godawful green-and-brown squares stashed in the freezer because one of the pamphlets from the doctor’s office said a quick hit of sugar might make my baby move enough so that I can feel it. Then I call Dave to rhyme off all the reasons why I can’t leave this place. When the sky is too dark to see the snowflakes anymore, and my head is too light for any remotely coherent thought, I go to my room and lie down in the cozy bed that I’m surprised to discover I actually made.

There’s always a snowstorm around mid-March here. While Toronto is beginning to melt into a semblance of springy goodness, the East Coast is getting smacked by Sheila’s Brush. The story goes that Saint Patrick had a mistress named Sheila, who happened to be his housekeeper. He kept her good and secret, and she kept him good and clean. But now in the afterlife, when Saint Paddy is being celebrated with a day of green drunken debauchery, Sheila takes it upon herself to purge and purify the land with one whore of a sweeping storm. That way, when spring finally comes, the Earth and the people are truly ready. And grateful as fuck. Last night, I dreamed about Mama. She was wearing her Greeting Gale dress but with her hair all loose and long and wild. She was laughing like mad and sweeping up a storm. A hard grinding rumble shoves me into wakefulness. I hoist myself out of bed, and slink into the kitchen to see what the hell.

There’s a snowplow out there clearing ten tonnes of fresh snow from the driveway. A couple of young fellas are shovelling a path from the driveway to the trailer. There’s an old guy pushing piles of snow off the steps. He gives me a big wave and a bigger smile. I don’t have a clue who he is, so when he knocks on the door a few minutes later, I hesitate. It is eight a.m. I’m schlumping around, bleary-eyed, braless, and filthy yoga-pantsed. And I don’t know the going rate for unsolicited snowplowing and shovelling services. The only money I have to my name is the stack of fifties in the envelope from the ladies’ auxiliary, and I wonder if I’d be violating some law of the land if I asked for change. G’wan, ya cheap bastard! Give them poor boys proper pay. And invite them in for tea, for Christ sake! Mama would haunt me for being cheap. And rude. I pull on a half-clean hoodie and open the door.