1.1 | Lost & Found

xvi. past

I N D I G O

I like to believe that Mom and I watched the world through identical eyes the colour of strong-brewed coffee. In summertime, we would lay in fields of cotton grass, puffs of downy white brushing our faces on days after our weekend drives to the lake on the outskirts of the city.

We're two branches of the same tree, mom used to say.

In wintertime, we waded through snow that was smooth as cake frosting. I liked to step in her mother's footprints; I knew the exact size and shape that her boots made: medium-size with rounded edges, patterned with hundreds of diamond shapes. My own boots made simple, horizontal lines. When I laid her lines over the diamonds, the shapes would twist and swirl. The diamonds became triangles and trapezoids, flowers and fish, stars, moons, and planets. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was walking and who was carrying whom.

Our bond felt like something right out of a story book. But that was before she started finding all her happiness at the end of empty beer bottles. 

I didn't know I had a future waiting for me at all at Harlan until Ezra barrelled into my life. 

On most mornings, Clarkson's Bakery is the most popular place in town. It's the weekend and I finally am planning on helping Olivia out in the Bakery. 

When we finally enter, Trick who makes the best cookies in Harlan - after Olivia - works behind the counter as she hums an old Bob Dylan tune, and the melody reminds me of this time when Mom and I got stranded at a diner during a blizzard, and she couldn't get us out because there was a citywide driving ban. We were there for four hours, and without its usual crowds, the place took on a kind of magic. We had all the food we needed and slept sideways in the big booths with the heat cranked up. Later, when our noses froze and our fingers ached, Mom made us hot chocolate with scoops of vanilla ice cream and sang Billy Joel song as I drank out of the pink-and-white diner mugs and took turns twirling around the floor, collapsing when we got too dizzy.

Now that we're actually inside the diner, I can see exactly why Dakota and Ezra always talk about this place like its magical. It looks like they hired the Mad-Hatter to decorate it. There are lights hanging from the ceiling, and ornaments in all different styles and colours. Some of the furniture is modern and shaped like boxes and domes, and some of it looks like it came from a fancy British tea party. The walls are blue and white with checks, and there is artwork from floor to ceiling on the entire wall behind the counter.

I walk over to a booth that has sunshine pouring all over the table in undappled rays when Olivia pulls me to a stop.

"Indigo?"

She's in the Bakery's uniform blue apron, walking around with a red tray carrying buckets of fries on retro roller skates. Her eyes are pale, a green crystallised moment frozen like an arctic ocean, frozen in a moment in time, and a beautiful one at that. Her hair looks smooth golden, like long strands of vanilla scented silk. Whether put up in a bun or let down, there's always something about Olivia's hair that makes her seem perpetually happy without any care in the world. 

"Olivia, hi! Mind if I help out?"

I nod eagerly, feeling a sense of belonging wash over me as I slip into the familiar routine of the bakery. There's something comforting about the smell of freshly baked bread mingling with the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. It's like stepping into a world where worries melt away, leaving only the simple joy of creating something delicious.

"Have you ever tried making the cinnamon rolls?" Olivia asks, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "They're one of our specialties, and I could use a hand rolling out the dough."

I nod eagerly, eager to learn the secrets behind the bakery's famous cinnamon rolls. Together, we gather the ingredients and begin the meticulous process of kneading and shaping the dough. Olivia's hands move with precision, her fingers deftly rolling out the dough into perfect spirals.

As we work, she shares stories about growing up in Harlan, painting vivid pictures of lazy summer days spent by the lake and cozy winter nights huddled around the fireplace. Her laughter is infectious, filling the air with warmth and joy.

Before I know it, we've finished making a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, the golden-brown swirls glistening with a generous coating of icing. Olivia beams with pride as she admires our handiwork, her eyes shining with satisfaction.

"Thanks for your help, Indigo," she says, her voice soft with gratitude. "It's been ages since I've had this much fun in the bakery."

As Olivia expresses her gratitude, a flicker of concern ignites within me. Beneath her radiant smile, I sense a hint of sadness lingering like a shadow in the corners of her eyes. It's a feeling I know all too well, the weight of unspoken sorrows casting a pall over even the brightest moments.

"It's nothing, really," she replies with a forced lightness, but I can sense the heaviness in her words. "Just thinking, I guess. You know how memories can sneak up on you when you least expect it."

I nod in understanding, but the mention of Theo during our midnight conversation weighs heavily on my mind. It's as though the pieces of a puzzle are falling into place.

"Is it... Theo?" I ask gently, my voice barely above a whisper. I have never been this brave ever before. 

A flicker of surprise crosses Olivia's features before she composes herself, her gaze momentarily clouded with sorrow.

"I... I didn't realize I was that transparent," she admits, her voice tinged with regret. "Yes, Theo was... someone special to me. But that's all in the past now."

I know she wants to drop the topic, so I don't say a word, but I know better than anyone that people's pasts always reach their present. How? 

Because I am living in the shadows of my past, every single day.

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