It’s true that Régine has a tendency to worry.
Checking in on her seventeen-year-old son because he’s cooking on his own? I question my friend:
“Does he sometimes forget to turn off the stovetop?”
“No, he is very attentive,” she responds.
However, knowing myself, I would probably react the
same way if I had children.
That day, our stroll combines with a mission – to find Mila, Régine’s daughter, a Halloween costume. The fifteen-year-old gave us only two options: pirate, or magician. I like that despite her young age, she thinks beyond female clichés. While I appreciate this particular personality trait, I notice that other facets of this youngster torment her mother. As we wander around the store, Régine photographs the costumes and then endures her daughter’s blasé responses via text messages. I mess around hiding the price tags as I suspect Mila’s disdain may stem from their bargain value. As time goes by, I try to convince them both to make a choice in order to fulfill our mandate.
Taking advantage of the situation, we chat happily between findings. We piece together a lovely ensemble composed of a long dress, a star-spangled hat and a cute little cauldron to hold the candies in.
Mila will be surrounded by several classmates while
trick or treating. Despite that fact, Régine confides her intent to follow the
group from a reasonable distance. She specifies
that her daughter has agreed, which surprises me. Perhaps the teenager feels the same fears as
her mother, unless without admitting it, she likes knowing she’s close by.
“Why don’t you disguise yourself as well?” I say to my
friend. “This way, you will be reassured and Mila’s schoolmates will not
recognize you.”
But Régine is not certain she will carry on with her
plan.
The next day, a soft wind agitates the candles inside
the pumpkins, and the spider webs fixed to the walls. Groups of colorful
children crisscross the neighborhood, mostly accompanied by an adult. Phosphorescent
elves escort mischievous princesses. Tiny werewolves ring at doors, suddenly
intimidated as they recite their text. Mila’s group includes seven teens aged
between fourteen and sixteen. Behind them trots a sickly witch, half leaning on
her poor broom. Her black dress drags on the ground, while a wide-brimmed hat
hides her face. She could have made an effort, thinks Mila. Not only is she the
only one burdened with a parent, but on top of that, her mother has no style.
At least, she won’t be recognized. Also, she will carry the treats. Luckily, my
own costume fits me perfectly, thinks the teenager, as she admires her little cleavage
sculpted in pink.
As the evening ends, the group begins to disperse, one
home at a time. Mathias firmly holds Mila’s hand with his bear paw. His full honey
pot rivals his girlfriend’s harvest. He will escort her back to her place. What
better than a delicious kiss on chocolate covered lips?
“Never mind, I am going home with my mother,” Mila
lets out. “Do you see that creature there, further away?”
Mathias notices a funny looking person immobilized a
few feet from them.
“Don’t you want me to say hello?” he asks.
“No way, it’s too embarrassing. Good night.”
“I’ll call you later!” says Mathias, full of hope.
Mila gets closer to the witch. She gives her the cauldron
and starts walking again. Entranced in the memories of the evening, she doesn’t
feel like talking. Lucien . . . Mathias . . .
And on top of it, her costume overshadowed that of Chloe! It is only
once she reaches the lighted pathway of her home that the young girl turns
around. The witch is gone. The cauldron lays on the sidewalk. A bright object among
the sweets draws the young girl’s attention. She squats and picks up a red
brooch, which she looks over with much curiosity. There’s no doubt, this is Grandma’s
brooch. Deeply touched, Mila feels an uncommon bond with her mother: gratitude.
She wanted this brooch. Régine claimed not to have found it.
She misses her grandmother so much. Four weeks already.
Mila pins the jewel on her cleavage. Super-beautiful, she thinks when the front
door suddenly opens.
“Sweetheart!” exclaims her mother. “Here you are, safe
and sound!”
“Yes Mommy,” responds Mila in a sob. “Grandma watched
over me.”