Valley Girl

It’s Thursday, October third. I’m sitting at home, or I call it that, but in fact, it is anything but an ordinary place of residence. From the very moment my eyes witnessed the light of day, my mother, Lily, and I have lived inside an antique motor vehicle, like wild runaways from the circus. The seventeen-foot-long white recreational vehicle is older than I am and very much abused in mileage and external damage. I cannot possibly recall how many times it broke down on us in the middle of a long journey, but despite the troubles, it is our cozy sanctuary and our only home. Inside its thin metal walls, I learned to fall asleep while the big tires rolled softly and the vehicle shook smoothly, like a child’s rocking chair. From one blue sky to another, we continue to drive across strange lands, creating unforgettable memories that I happily carry in my heart. Precious recollections that mean more to me than any printed photograph or a written diary. “Valerie? May I come in?” My mother’s sweet voice catches me unprepared, pulling me away from an article on color palettes. I look up, and she is standing in the doorway with a mug in her hand. “Of course, you may. Please, come in.” Not only do I welcome her warm company with open arms, but also the sweet treat she brings. “I made you some hot cocoa.” Her dimples sink into her pale cheeks as she walks into my cold chamber with my favorite pink mug. I quickly fold the corner of the page to mark my place, setting the magazine on the bed beside a round decorative pillow. “Yum! It looks and smells like heaven.” The mug is beautifully topped with whipped cream and a light dusting of cocoa powder. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best!” I proudly say. She is, without a doubt, the best human being I have ever known or loved, always thinking of me. Especially now, with the end of the summer season in Long Island, the weather is starting to change rapidly. Our mobile home lacks a functional heating system. Somehow, the cool air always finds its way in through the window cracks, day and night. “You’re welcome, sweetie.” She sits on my bed with her wavy brown hair fully down, dressed in her striped long-sleeve purple pajamas, ready to crash. She looks tired with puffy bags and dark shadows under her emerald green eyes. “Are you feeling all right?” I question her ghostly state, secretly worrying about her mental health. She spent the entire afternoon in her room in quiet mode again. It was a mood she experienced every once in a while, and as usual, she failed to offer an explanation to ease my mind. “We barely spent time together today.” “I’m fine, sweetheart. I’m just a little tired. That’s all.” She swallows, forcing her matte, full lips to stretch in a thin line as if she’s trying to make the smile act on her behalf, but it leaves a trace of conflict in her gorgeous eyes and more questions in my mind. “Are you sure there is nothing bothering you?” If I had a penny for every time I asked her that, I would be buried in gold by now. “Yes, honey, I’m sure. Drink your cocoa before it gets cold.” She immediately dismisses my concern and the possibility of digging deeper when a pile of folded blue jeans in the translucent tan basket catches her eye. She gets off the bed, turning her back to me, and walks the four feet to the corner to give the clean laundry her full attention instead. “You’re right. I’m being too nosy again,” I giggle, agreeing to disagree, before taking my first sip. The melted whipped cream is airy and buttery, lending the cocoa an extra sweetness, while the warm ceramic cup transfers its heat to my cold hands. “Are you all done prepping for the craft fair next weekend?” “Yes. I’ve been ready for a long time!” Her voice dances with excitement while she rearranges the clothes inside the zippered closet. She is still looking forward to the fun event and to selling her beautiful handmade clothing. “I just need to run out to the store tomorrow and get more of the green wool yarn. I’ll need it for the Christmas sweater I’m planning to knit for you.” Suddenly, her mood shifts from neutral to electric. She takes her seat back on my twin bed, placing her right hand over my knee as I lie tucked beneath the thin blanket propped up at a ninety degree angle. “No, ma’am. Tomorrow is Friday. You should take a real day off for once and get some rest. Besides, it’s only the beginning of fall. You still have plenty of time to knit the sweater before Christmas.” I already know how fast she operates. At her pace, she’ll likely finish the sweater in a week, if not less. “Maybe I’ll stay in, but only if you stay in with me.” She winks—a playful challenge. She knows I love sneaking out early to paint the sky and the sunrise, even when the horizon is heavy with angry clouds. As a freelance artist working in watercolor, acrylics, and everything that breathes vivid colors, painting is my passion. “Oh, come on! You can’t do this to me.” We both laugh. “I don’t know about that, Valley Girl.” She shifts her eyes in a comical way, reminding me of our old neighbor in Arkansas. He used to watch me playing near the pond by his historic home, waiting for the tiny fish to surface for my leftover breadcrumbs. He’d sit on his front porch across the cloudy water, reading the daily paper. “Hey! It’s you again. Valley Girl!” he’d shout with a wave and a gap-toothed smile. His glasses were so powerful that they magnified his dark eyes, but he always recognized me instantly. One day, the house was sold, and I never learned what happened to the man who gave me my nickname. “It wasn’t me who came up with these terms and conditions,” she adds. “This was your idea.” “Okay, fine. You win. I’ll stay in too.” I roll my eyes, surrendering to her wishes. “That’s my girl.” She giggles as I take another sip of my drink before placing it on the short metal cabinet beside the bed, when a strange craving hits me. “Do we have cinnamon buns?” Suddenly, I have a strong desire for the warm, woody aroma of spice to complement my drink. As it turns out, the last few scoops of chocolate pudding I had after lunch weren’t enough to satisfy my sweet tooth. “I’m sorry, sweetie, we don’t.” She gives me a regretful look. “I was going to make some, but we ran out of cinnamon. I’ll get a fresh jar next time I’m at the market,” she says, gently brushing my loose hair with her thin fingers. Her nails are unmanicured and uneven, constantly breaking from the detailed knitting she does. “Thank you.” “Anytime, beautiful.” She takes a deep breath, looking so closely into my eyes that she seems to be studying my features. Perhaps I resemble someone she once knew; the words on her lips seem frozen in the air as she stares without moving a muscle.