“Jacinta, how about you give your real estate agent friend a call, and make Sarah Spenser get her goddamn For Sale sign off my land.”

It took a couple of weeks of haggling with Saint Sarah, and more than once I had to remind Char and Peggy that they were not to go trying to speed the process along. But now, the sign is gone.

This land is mine.

I probably should be inside hauling Willy out of bed, or Javexing the bejesus out of something in preparation for company coming. Instead, I’m parked on a stump seat near the firepit, staring at the little pokes of green dotting the yard. The mystery bulbs I found under the hoarded piles of newspaper have begun peeking out of the earth. The ones I planted all over the yard in an act of guerilla garden apology for burning Mama’s proudest memories. The ones I assumed Mama would be here to see, even if I wasn’t. Maybe they’ll be blooming in time for the proper celebration of Mama’s life, which Wendy and Allie are on their way over to help me plan. When they arrive, I tell them to ignore the mess and the rumble of Willy’s snoring that’s bound to be the backdrop of our conversation. But I did put the tea on at the crack of dawn, so it is good and strong.

“Death isn’t the opposite of life.” Wendy swirls her pointer finger around the edge of her nearly empty cup, as she gazes out the kitchen window at the just-starting-to-awaken rambling rose. “Death is the opposite of birth. They’re like bookends. In between is the story we call life. My vision is that we relate to death in much the same way as we relate to birth. That we see it as a transition. A painful, yet normal and natural part of the human condition.”

I glance over at Allie, expecting to see the roll and flutter of her lash-laden eyes, her head cocked in a sardonic tilt, traces of a barely swallowed smirk. Instead, I see strands of deep ruby and shimmery rose weaving their way through her wobbly blue halo, making it stronger. Brighter. Less wobbly. More beautiful. And when I finally pry my eyes away from Allie’s colours, I see her looking at Wendy in a way I’ve never seen her look at anything that wasn’t wine, chocolate, or super deluxe, high-tech medical equipment before. A look of profound gratitude. Of reverence. Of love. Holy Shit. Allie Walker is in love. With The Wendigo. And as Wendy drones on about celebrations of life and planning for death, I just sit there grinning like a fool. Allie will have someone to love her and take care of her and help her make sense of herself when I’m gone.

But the lovey-dovey shades of Allie Walker evaporate when Char comes crashing through the door and into my kitchen. Sweating, panting. Like she’s run all the way here from Peggy’s. Which she has. With her baby secured to her back with an elaborate scarf contraption.