“Dad comes back to babysit all the kids when I go to the hospital. After arriving and realizing I’m empty-handed, I duck into the gift shop. The selection is limited to overpriced stuffed animals, Willow Tree statues, and Glosette raisins. The man behind the cash says, “Can I help you?” He wears a name tag and a blue pin with volunteer typed in bold letters. “Just looking for a gift,” I reply, stopping at a rack of bibs that say Spit Happens. “Boy or a girl?” “Girl.” The bibs don’t amuse me. The...y amuse middle-aged women with tight perms and turtlenecks. “How about music?” He points to a collection of CDs by a Pepsi machine. I glance over the display and pick one featuring Celtic lullabies, then go back and choose a Spit Happens bib because it will likely also appeal to piano teachers like Allison-Jean. “Will that be everything?” the volunteer asks. “That’s it.” He rings the stuff in and jams the items into a tiny bag. I stop and pick up a coffee at a Tim Horton’s kiosk before heading up to the fifth floor.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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