Candace - Chapter - 4

Friends are Friends Forever

“Within two years,” she said softly, “something terrible—tragic—is going to happen to your family.”

My mind raced. What was the worst tragedy imaginable? Almost instantly, my thoughts went to Cliff. We were dependent on him. Was he going to die?

I had wanted nothing to do with fortune-telling.

But one of my first freelancing assignments for a city newspaper was to interview an astrologer who had begun using a computer to predict timing—melding ancient palmistry with modern technology to produce automated analysis. If I was going to be a journalist, I needed to be willing to cover whatever story crossed my desk. So I nodded and accepted the assignment.

I arranged the interview. The astrologer was warm, articulate, and entirely unthreatening. Yet at the end of our conversation, she asked if she might see my palm.

I extended my hand, politely, almost professionally. As journalists, we often use ourselves as the ultimate test.

Now she was telling me that “something terrible—tragic—is going to happen to your family.”

To make matters worse, I had just realized I was pregnant again. Would I never get this birth control thing under control?

Her words clung to me: something terrible—tragic—is going to happen. I began to wonder—uneasily—whether this message was from God, who had been known to use unlikely messengers. Had God not spoken through a donkey? Had He not used the stars to guide the wise men?

Not long after, I inadvertently stumbled upon a new government funding program offering stay-at-home mothers opportunities for retraining. I applied—and when the funding came through, I applied to study journalism, the most prestigious program in the city.

I was absolutely delighted when I was accepted and invited for an interview. But instead of affirming me, the registrar urged caution. Each year, he explained, they received two hundred applications. Fifty were accepted. Only twenty-five would graduate. With three children, my chances of completing the program were slim, he warned me. Still, he said, my application was too strong to deny. The final decision was mine.

Cliff had encouraged me throughout the entire process and promised he would help. But I knew his position was demanding, and my thoughts kept returning to Candace. She would need to become a second mother to the two younger ones.

When I asked her, she didn’t hesitate.

“Of course, Mom,” Candace said.

With that simple, generous assurance, I decided against all better knowledge to take the course… took on the challenge of the boot camp course.

But before it even began, I prepared obsessively. I mapped out a two-year plan. The house was put in perfect order. Clothes were organized in advance. Schedules were written and rewritten. Everything was arranged as carefully as I knew how—as though order itself might keep disaster at bay.

*****  
By then, Candace had settled into George V Elementary School and seemed to be thriving. Her after-school companion was Deana; the two of them moved through their days with an easy, unselfconscious closeness. One afternoon they would sunbathe, rubbing oil on each other’s arms while listening to music; the next, they would be talking about God with the same openness and seriousness.

In the same classroom, Candace also found another close friend—one who reminded us of her first best friends in the North, back in Battleford. They attended a Camp Arnes club together, and their bond deepened quickly.

Good friendships always seemed to give Candace a quiet confidence, a maturity beyond her years. So when I asked her for special help, she didn’t hesitate. She simply laughed.

*****
It was a warm afternoon when I decided—rashly—to take all three children shopping with me. In the store they stayed close, but once we were home and I asked for help with the groceries, they grabbed the lightest bags and raced into the house before I could protest.

As I struggled to lift three of the heaviest bags at once, nudging the trunk closed with my hip, I looked up just in time to see a mangy black cat streak between Syras’ short legs and disappear into our house. Instead of being startled, Odia—right behind Syras—slipped inside and shut the door, almost as if she were protecting the stray.

A wild cat loose in the house with my children. I pictured shredded drapes, a feral beast hissing from beneath the couch, refusing ever to emerge again.

I burst into the kitchen. “Where’s the—?”

But what I found wasn’t chaos. Yes, the grocery bags had been dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor, but all three children were crouched on the living-room rug, gathered around the cat, crooning to it as if it were a baby.

Something felt off. Too familiar. Too… practiced.

“Candace,” I said slowly, “has this cat been in here before?”

She stood up, suddenly guilty, and nodded.

“Has this thing been in our house… a lot?”

“Well… not that often,” she said, trying for casual. Then she sighed and came clean. “Maybe a bit. Aw, Mom, she’s not that bad. She’s a stray. She doesn’t have a home, and everyone in the neighbourhood loves her. Her name is Percy.”
“Percy is a male’s name,” I pointed out.

“We all thought she was a male,” Candace said. “But she had kittens.”

I stared at the creature. It looked as though it carried every flea in Winnipeg. I grabbed a broom and tried to herd it out the door, but Percy darted behind the couch. When I prodded the broom beneath the furniture, she shot upstairs like a streak of smoke. There was no chance I was catching her.

Candace sighed, went upstairs, and called gently. Percy came at once—of course she did—and Candace carried her out the door.

“I don’t want that cat in our house ever again,” I said, meeting Candace’s look with one of my own.

Through the window, I watched Percy scamper down the sidewalk toward another house, utterly unbothered. She was an odd-looking creature—slightly deformed, humped, moving with a strange sideways gait. Her long black tail even had a kink at the end.

“She has got to be the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen,” I muttered.

I turned just in time to see the pain flicker across Candace’s face.

“Mom, don’t say that,” Candace said softly. “Percy is a wonderful cat. She’s had it tough. Her kittens died. But she plays with us kids.”

“You don’t think she’s ugly?”

“Once you get to know Percy,” Candace said, “she doesn’t look ugly anymore.”

I turned back to the window. Percy was now perched proudly on a white fence post. I couldn’t imagine that cat being wonderful for my children-- and yet, somehow, she already was.

Candace stood beside me. “Mom, can we play with Percy? She really is good with kids. Syras loves her.”

The thought of a stray cat carrying who-knows-what into my house made me shudder. But the three children stood in a perfect line—pleading eyes, hopeful faces—and it is astonishing what a mother will agree to in such moments. Once again, I had no real choice. I had to let her do it her way.

“As long as I don’t know about it,” I said at last, surrendering control.

Candace lit up. That was all she needed.

After that, I never saw Percy in the house again. I never found a single black hair on the pale-yellow rug. As far as I knew, she had drifted on to another neighbourhood.
 
*****
The two-year course turned out to be exactly what the registrar had warned it would be: a boot camp in learning, compressed into ten intense, over-scheduled months.

And yet, what I remember most is not the pressure, but the rhythm—and the fun. I worked relentlessly at my studies, but I also protected our family time with intention.

Friday nights were sacred. After impossible hours all week, we went to McDonald's every Friday just to talk—often entertained by Candace, all of us drawn into her stories and sharp observations. Then we shopped for the coming week—along with, of course, some junk food. Later we piled onto the sofa together, watching television. A true night off.

I had also bought a family swimming membership so we could go once a week. Both Cliff and Candace were beautiful swimmers, completely at ease in the water—deep or shallow—playing happily with Syras and Odia. Watching them frolic together was pure delight: diving, jumping off the sides, splashing without restraint.

I was especially envious of Cliff and Candace because they could swim underwater as easily as on top of it. I never could. My body always floated. Even when I was skinny, I had an astonishing buoyancy.

So Cliff and Candace decided to help me. I would climb down the deep-end ladder—or jump straight in—and they would try to pull me under.

It became a contest. Somehow, my panic always won; I would wriggle free and bob back to the surface again. Every time we went swimming, we tried.

And then, one day, I finally touched the bottom of the pool. I dared to open my eyes and saw their watery smiles of victory. That was enough. I never had to do it again.

After that, I was content to swim and bob on the surface, watching them glide like the dolphins they were.
Still—what fun we had.

Those days—structured, imperfect, ordinary, and full—remain bright in my memory.

*****
 
Our summers were spent at Camp Arnes—a lovely respite for all of us. This was where Candace and Odia became the quintessential “camp brats.” They roamed the grounds as if they owned the place, utterly at home.

And again, there was a special friend for Candace—Heidi, another camp brat. The two were inseparable: swimming, swinging on the old wooden swings, helping with the horses, competing fiercely on the miniature golf course, eating together in the bustling dining hall, and attending Wigwam chapel services every evening. They lived the entire summer barefoot and sun-touched, moving in a kind of freedom that only a children’s camp can give.

But there is another Candace moment I remember just as clearly.

One camp mother confided her frustration: her son’s birthday was approaching, and she had no access to their usual resources—no way to give him a proper celebration. I mentioned it casually to Candace. Without hesitation, she offered to plan a surprise party.

She began immediately. By the next day, she was ready.

When the birthday boy arrived at our cabin, he found the doorway completely blocked by balloons. He had to pop his way through just to get inside. Once he stepped in, the space unfolded like a treasure hunt: surprises tucked into corners, balloons drifting across the floor, tiny gifts, treats, and handwritten birthday wishes carefully placed throughout the room. For two full hours, the cabin was transformed into a world of wonder.

Later, he told us what he remembered most: the large plush armchair set in the center of the room, reserved just for him. Sitting there, he said, he felt like a king. Cliff’s magic show was another highlight, scattering small moments of awe through the room. He said he had never felt so special, or so important, in his life. Honored. Spoiled. Doted upon. It was as if the entire day had been created just for him.

We were astonished by Candace’s creativity and thoughtfulness—though not at all surprised by the look on the birthday boy’s face when it was over: pure, unfiltered joy.

Someday, I thought, whether as a wife, a mother, or an event planner, she would surely make a life out of creating celebrations. Parties were her gift.

People were her gift.

*****
And then there was music. Candace had rhythm in her bones. Music wasn’t background noise—it moved through her, carried her, became part of the way she existed. Since I couldn’t follow its currents the same way, I encouraged her, quietly in awe. Roller-skating nights became her stage; she glided to the beat as naturally as breathing.

One evening stands out. Cliff had been put in charge of the music for Camp Arnes’s roller-skating night—a kind of DJ for the evening. For weeks he wandered the Christian music stores, testing tapes, borrowing, swapping. Candace sat with him, absorbed, offering her thoughts with a wisdom beyond her years—not just about the music, but about people: what they liked, what they needed. She helped him pick the songs that would make the night come alive for kids her age.

That Friday evening, they danced and laughed at the rink. The next morning, sunlight spilling into the kitchen, she appeared in the doorway. I was stirring cookie dough, racing against it hardening.

“Mom, I found my song,” she said. “I want you to hear it.”

“Play it while I put these on the pan,” I said, glancing at the dough.

“No,” she said, gentle but firm. “I want you to listen. No distractions. I’ll wait.”

She curled up in a chair, watching me, excitement quiet in her eyes.

“Is it rock?” I asked.

“No. You’ll like it. It’s by Michael W. Smith,” she said. “It’s just… mine. I love the words. I love the music.”
“What’s it about?”

“Friends,” she said simply. Friends are Friends Forever.

I smiled.

When the cookies were in the oven, I followed her into the living room. She pressed play. The song drifted around us—warm, wistful, full of harmony and longing. I leaned forward, listening. Most of the words slipped past me, but the message shone clearly: the beauty, the value, the sacredness of friendship.

When the last note faded, she looked at me with a triumphant little grin.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

I nodded. It fit her perfectly. Not just the song, but the way she chose it, claimed it, made it hers.

We talked for a long time that morning—about friends, about loyalty, about love that could be fierce and gentle all at once.

From then on, that song became hers. Every night before bed, she played it—a quiet anthem, a melody that carried her heart out into the world, a song of connection and belonging that was all hers.

*****
By the end of the two years, Candace had become more than a daughter—she was a companion, a partner, even an emotional anchor for me. One afternoon, walking down the back alley to the corner store for bread, we were talking about rock music. I was expounding on my philosophy, words tumbling out in earnest, when suddenly Candace burst out laughing.

“Mom, you’re different.”

I froze. “What do you mean?” Horrified, I waited for her to clarify.

She shrugged, calm and matter-of-fact. “It’s not a bad different. You just… you let me do things my friends can’t, and you don’t let me do things they can.”

I stood there for a long moment, caught off guard, then started walking again our flip-flops clapping softly against the alley stones.

“You don’t really care about some things,” she continued, groping for words, “but you teach me about life. You pick out the important things.”

I was puzzled—and a little worried.

She smiled at my silence and went on. “Sometimes when my friends don’t know what to do, I tell them things you’ve told me. And they think I’m wise.”

Wise. The word echoed in my mind. I had always wanted to be wise…

But in that moment, it wasn’t I who held wisdom. It was Candace, reading my heart, reflecting it back to me, reminding me of all we had built together. I was aware of the significance of that day: we had made it. I could now pursue work that was respectable, fulfilling, substantial. The fear of our lives being tragically undone—the astrologer’s warning—had passed. This was the real graduation.

And yet, strangely, I was grateful for the fear. Those two years of living intentionally—discipline, planning, closeness—had shaped us, strengthened us.

Now I was ready. Filled with confidence. We were filled with hope.
​
My feelings of dread were gone.  It was only then did I realize how potent that message of doom had been on my life.