The Northern Lights

Chapter 31. Just a Dream.

France, 2011

Sunlight begins to pierce through the blinds and onto her tanned skin. Azra wakes before Arlo does, walks down the stairs to the kitchen, her silky night gown flows effortlessly like spider webs carried by the wind. She was never a good cook. Before Eden's death she barely knew how to properly hold a knife. On her days off, while Arlo was at school, she had been learning how to prepare Arlo's favourite food. At first, whenever she read the recipe it seemed as though it was written in a different language. But now, she no longer needs a manual. A fresh crêpe is lifted from the pan and placed delicately onto a marble plate. She dresses it with sliced bits of sunshine coloured mangoes and thin slithers of syrup. Arlo's favourite.

With each fleeting moment, Azra's mind becomes plagued with flashing images from her slumber, they flash like frames from an antique projector. With each blink, Azra feels Eden's thumb against her cheek, the grass against her skin, the flow of water between her toes. His voice begins to take over, 'It's okay. I'm here now,' but when she opens her eyes, he is not there. And the only source of light above her begins to dull. She begins to tell herself that it was all a figure of her imagination. That it was all, just a dream. And in that moment of realization, Azra loses something she didn't even know was there- the thought that maybe, just maybe, she could see him again.

Before she can let out a sigh, Arlo comes into the dining room with his pyjamas on. A familiar scent bombards his nostrils. He is much taller now, he thinks that one day, if he keeps growing at this rate, he could touch the stars. Arlo notices a blank stare in his mother's eyes, "Mama? Are you okay?"

"Of course," she says with a smile, carrying a plate in her hand, "Hey birthday boy, I made you something, take a seat."

Arlo pulls himself up onto the dining table chair, his mother places the plate in front of him. His gaze is met with the French dish his mother has mastered. Azra smiles, is oblivious to the fact that the dish serves as an unwanted reminder to the most traumatising day of her son's life.

Azra notices the distinct look of pain in his face, knows her cooking isn't bad enough to cause that type of reaction, "Arlo? What's wrong?"

"Nothing- I don't feel well mama, can I go back into my room?"

"Of course," she watches him push away his chair, "Happy Birthday," she says, trying her best to smile, but her voice is drowned out by the sound of Arlo scurrying up the stairs and into his room.

Azra collapses onto a chair, this year is the third in which Arlo does not want to celebrate his birthday. Each bite of her creating is as sweet as sunshine, as she finishes swallowing the final bits of mango, Azra begins to wonder what to do or say- does not knowing those things make her a bad mother?

She stands from her seat, takes an envelope from the kitchen countertop. In it, an amateur birthday card containing best wishes and apologies, and a cheque worth any debt Azra needs to pay, but the money is, and never will be, enough to fill the cavity in her soul.

Another card, she tells herself, eyes studying the front of it. It is a colourful sketch of the Northern Lights, probably done with the finest of pencils and shading work Azra had ever seen. Edith has not been in Azra or Arlo's sight since the funeral. She disappeared, like the sound made when one snaps their fingers. Though she still sends letters, gifts, as apologetic gestures perhaps. But Azra does not need Edith to raise her child, all she needs is the ability to breathe, she is too stubborn to ask for help, and yet, she takes the money, opens the card to read. Just the same words as the prior year.

As she closes the colourful card, another letter falls out. Arza recognised the beautiful, curvy handwriting that belonged to the mother that had disappeared long ago.

Dear Azra,

I am sorry for my absence. More gifts have been sent, and I will continue to send money whenever I can. I wish I could see you and Arlo, I really do. Ivre has forbidden me, says that you are the reason Eden is gone. It is not true. God has spoken to me, told me that Eden is in a better place, up in the heavens. You are my daughter Azra, you are a Lumiere. I will continue to send letters, feel free to write back.

I miss you Azra, sending you and our little mountain my best wishes.

- Edith

Salty rivers begin to stream down her cheeks. She lets out a sniffle, a drop fallinga from her chin and onto the corner of the page. The words that Azra had always wanted to hear had been read by her instead. And so, she wipes away the final droplet that trickles from the corner of her eye and smiles. She carefully folds the page, before taking the colourful birthday card upstairs.

With the card in one hand, she approaches Arlo's door. Mid stride, before her knuckles meet the wooden entrance she stops and is interrupted by the soft and subtle noise of a child. It is the sound of Arlo, sniffling. The emotional stitches that seam both halves of her heart begin to tear.