That night, and even though I’m exhausted from being a stressed-out-nanny all day, I sneak back into the kitchen while Mrs. Perino is giving the girls a bath. I want to try and repay her how I can for her kindness. First, I do the dishes and clean the countertops until everything is sparkling. While Sage skips out to meet up with Angel so they can check on the rabbits ‘one last time’ I mop the floor, then head to a little back porch to tie the trash bag that needs to be taken out and set it by the door. Then, I quickly move the laundry from washer to dryer, before folding anything and everything I’ve pulled out of the dryer, stacking it in neat, sorted piles on top of the machine.

When I’m finished with the laundry, I turn and I look, really look, at the backyard through the glass on the back door for the first time.

I take in the picnic tables in the open piazza type area we skirted last night while taking out the trash. It’s near the largest barbecue grill I’ve ever seen, and in the fading light, the three little cottages seem cuter than I’d imagined them. Yes, they’re rundown with their weathered plywood boards and tilting foundations, but the tiny windows have been washed clean, and they gleam in the light like they’re twinkling eyes, beckoning me to peek in, to paint them. Each has its own porch and well-tended garden out front, full of flowers rioting in every direction.

There’s a little barn shaped building past the vegetable garden Angel had pointed out that’s set to the right and behind the cottages. I figure it has to be where the chickens live, because it’s yard is all fenced and there’s funny little ramps running up and down into chicken-sized holes that have been cut into the sides. I’m assuming the other low, shed-like buildings are where the rabbits are kept.

Curious now, I step out and head to the largest one, the one Angel had called Cara’s cottage. What draws me to it aside from sheer curiosity about Cara is this old, gnarled orange tree growing behind the house. Its height is not much higher than the cottage’s low roof, but it has these remarkable long branches that reach wide instead of up to the sky. They go over the rooftop in this way that’s almost hugging the whole thing. I can’t stop my eyes from soaking it in, nor can I stop my fingers from craving to sketch this tree. Like Angel had hoped, some remaining small, fragrant flowers are still blooming here and there.

The ground under the tree is all grass, but it’s over-layered with the dropped flower petals that have fallen from the fruit blossoms. There are so many that it looks like snow. Flower snow.

I walk around the back and peek into the window that makes up the top half of the back door. It has its own little charming kitchen, and back hall. Both decorated almost exactly how Mrs. Perino’s place is decorated in the big house, with the same old flooring plus the red and white checked curtains. The open shelves are stacked with Mason jars for drinking glasses and antique milk-white plates. Only, instead of an old wooden farm table there’s this gorgeous 1950’s era, chrome trimmed, green and white kitchen table that has matching chairs with vinyl-green seats. I catch a glimpse of the two bedrooms in the back, and from the kitchen I can see an open living room and some sort of a sunroom combined.

Enchanted, I walk to the side window, trying to get a better look at the space.

From this angle, I note the room has an old stone fireplace on the far end that matches, again, a mini-version of the layout inside the Perino’s’ main house. But that’s where the similarities stop. The wide-planked farmhouse boards that make up the floor have been painted white, but with wear and foot traffic, the wood shows through just enough so that it doesn’t look too stark. There’s also no clutter because no one lives there. For furniture, the room boasts this awesome, squishy-looking chaise longue with thick, turned wooden legs. It’s facing the windows of the sunroom.

“Of course… it’s perfect. So perfect,” I say under my breath, eyeing a second piece of furniture in the room. A huge, red velvet couch, also antique, that is placed facing the chaise. I can picture people in there, laughing, sitting with the fire crackling between them on a rainy day. As the light starts to fade some, my eyes go past the living room and into the attached and open, still bright sunroom located behind the seating area.

My heart drops all the way to my feet when I realize what I’m seeing. I clutch the window sill and hold my breath, because this room, it’s filled with things that I recognize.

Crave. Long for. Dream about.

“It’s an art studio,” I whisper, scooting one window over. Shivers spike down my spine and suddenly I can’t swallow. There’s a long white table covered in paint spatter, as well as two gorgeous antique wood easels set up next to a spot where the windows curve around and face the vegetable garden. There’s also built in white painted shelves, beside more shelves, floor to ceiling, all spilling over with art supplies.

My heart slams against my chest as I take it all in. Even if someone asked me to make a list, or do a sketch of what I’d picture a perfect home and a perfect art studio to be, I couldn’t come up with anything more perfect than this quiet, tree-hugged cottage.

Inside, on the walls of the living room, even leading into the kitchen, someone--Cara it has to have been Cara--has painted a tree that matches the tree outside. She’s done the branches so well that you can’t tell when the ones inside begin and where the ones outside stop. Even cooler, she’s embedded the words ‘I am’ into the mural in this way that the words look twined into the branches.

Looking around, I realize she’s done branches on each wall inside, not just one. But because it’s getting dark, I tilt my head to an awkward angle and squint-read what I think is written there: “I am Cara. I am me.”

Realizing I’ve been holding my breath, I breathe out, then in while my admiration for how she’s done this work of art grows. It makes the inside of the room seem alive. “So cool,” I mutter, as I walk back around the little house, scoot up on the porch and peer through the screen door, then the larger front window.

Now that I know what to look for, I’m hoping I’ll be able to read more of her painted words before it goes completely dark. I’m all but pressing my nose onto the glass and about to give up when the other words come into focus: I am here.

I am Cara.

I am me.

I am love.

As I read the words on each wall over and over, I’m unable to look away. I feel like I understand Angel and his mom more than I possibly could in such a short time, and I also get why they helped us. Angel’s compulsion, as he called it is more than that. These people lost the girl who created this overwhelming beauty. She was a daughter, a big sister, and a person even I long to know now.

How alive she must have been to paint something like this. How horrible it must feel to Angel and his mom to miss her and to know she’s never coming back. At least with our father’s situation, nothing’s final. We have hope that he’s coming home. That’s the one thing that keeps us going. Our possibilities, and scenarios--our dreams about our father could still come true. Our worries are simply worries, but their situation is so final. Permanent. Horrible. Forever painful.

Feeling guilty that I might have caused people back home, Joanie in particular, unnecessary worry and possible pain, I walk back to the main house, determined to call the one person I swore I wouldn’t call until after my birthday.