Daisy bought some fruit, power bars, beef jerky, a six pack of stout and a carton of American Spirits from the store. She ate her breakfast at a picnic table and watched Bruce drive the Vixen to its new space and then back it into position. Bruce ran Daisy through a tutorial on hooking up the RV to power, sewer, water, cable TV and a propane tank he supplied. It was all simple enough and Daisy caught on quick. Bruce handed her the keys and said he had the title ready to sign over. Daisy said she’d get the money transferred to Bruce’s account later that afternoon.
Over the next three hours, Daisy transferred the rest of Lorna’s possessions from the laundry room into the rig: pots, pans, toaster, cutlery, dish towels, bath towels, throw rugs, throw pillows, cleaning supplies and spices from dill to paprika. But there was more than just the essentials. There were crocheted coasters and porcelain woodland creatures. There was a gilded clock and candles. There were cassette and VHS tapes. There were books, too, Westerns and bodice rippers.
Daisy then ransacked her Volvo for anything she could use in the RV and discovered she had nothing clean to wear except for some red sweats.
Well, Lorna’s clothes were clean, so Daisy picked out a choice lime green and baby blue Western shirt with some exquisite embroidery and put it on over the sweats and felt like a new woman. (Wearing a vintage Western shirt has a tendency to do that.)
Daisy rolled out her sleeping bag on the bed, crawled in, and rolled around like a giggling kid on a camping trip. She thought about sacking out for a few minutes, but there was too much to do and her energy level demanded action. She checked her phone for messages and about a dozen urgently awaited her response, including three from doctors. Daisy didn’t respond. She got up and surveyed her handiwork. At last, the Vixen’s reappointment was complete. Long live Lorna! Daisy sat down on the couch to rest and admire her new home. She fired up a cigarette. Are RVs really a home? she thought. Doesn’t RV stand for recreational vehicle? I’m not going to be vacationing here. A mild panic gripped Daisy, but a long drag and slow exhale calmed her down. Daisy looked again around the Vixen. Something was missing. She couldn’t place it…
It lacked Christmas and Christmas was almost here. What the hell was happening? Daisy hadn’t cared about Christmas. Her favorite Scrooge-like line at work was, “Christmas is shit.” That always busted them up in the operating room.
Daisy raced into town first for groceries and asked a clerk about thrift stores. She got the lowdown and a few minutes later was rummaging through a shop whose proceeds benefited an animal shelter. Half an hour later, Daisy was loading up the Volvo with boxes of lights and decorations, extension cords, power strips, a fake tree, a couple of outdoor plastic Santas, and an all-dog miniature nativity scene that was so bizarre and preposterous that it demanded purchasing. How Daisy was going to display this nativity scene hadn’t yet come to her. But it would. She was on a roll. Rolling