The note card has the number twelve in the corner, and the message sprinkles a warm feeling over my skin. “Hi, Mom,” I say and it feels natural. I like it. “Where are you going?”

She’s holding a pan that’s covered with a plastic lid. “There’s a boy in Kiko’s class, and the poor kid is allergic to peanuts, dairy, and gluten, and it’s his birthday today. She asked if I could make something for him that he could share with the class.” She lifts the tray, smiling. “Nut-free, dairy-free, and gluten-free, and they are so good, too, if I do say so myself.”

“That’s great.” The interaction is normal and yet surreal, and I can’t help but feel the loss of the years that her alcoholism laid to waste. It makes a lump grow in my throat.

She touches my shoulder when she moves past me. “You’ve got guitar lessons with Maree later, is that right? She loves her lessons with you.”

“Oh,” I say, and feel my shoulders lift. “That’s nice.” A buzz from my phone. “I’d better go. Bye, Mom.”

I walk on, but when I reach the doors to BTI, I look back and see her standing in the middle of the tunnel, staring after me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Saturday, February 16

I’m walking next to Sefina out the doors of BTI and into a bitterly cold but clear day, the winter sun a chronic underachiever. I’m wearing snow pants, a winter coat, and waterproof mittens. Even with all the warm gear, my nose drips and the skin on my cheeks tingles. Snow piles high up the concrete stairs, giving the abandoned boats that litter the property across from our building a winter-wonderland effect. It’s beautiful and I’m enjoying the walk. But where Sefina and I are going is the question I can’t currently answer.

“Are we going to lunch?” I say.

“We’re going snow machining with Tate Dunn,” she says, her voice muffled by a fleece gaiter she wears around her neck and the lower half of her face. “And then he wanted to take us out to eat.” She looks up at me, her movements stiff from the layers around her head and neck. “He lives here now, and he’s the harbormaster.”

“Oh.” My stomach flip-flops as I try to picture Tate as being old enough or responsible enough for that kind of a job. But the first image that comes to mind is him at seventeen: tall and lanky, his eye black and swollen, saying goodbye to me in the early hours before school.

“Snow machining?” I say.

“Up Shotgun Cove Road,” she says from behind her gaiter. “He thinks you need to get out of BTI more. He says that the fresh air and experiences are good for you, even if you can’t remember having them.”