Page 11 of Home to Christmas Island
The first few months were almost fun. We dropped off all the passengers and most of the staff stayed on the boat. As Canadians, Alba and I didn’t need visas to work on the cruise ships, but with the new pandemic rules we couldn’t get off at U.S. ports. We figured we’d wait it out.
But then supplies started running out and people started to mentally deteriorate. Alba especially needed to get back to dry land. So the second we could disembark in Halifax, she got off the boat and drove straight to Cape Breton.
I couldn’t bring myself to go with her. Instead, I reached out to a friend we’d made while living in New York. Violet was working in Toronto at the time and offered to let me crash with her. Alba joined us after a few weeks and the two of us stayed in Toronto for nine months, working odd jobs and trying not to get sick until the ships were allowed to set sail again.
It was a weird, dark year—harder to keep myself distracted without the constant movement and busy schedule on the cruise ship.
Hey, why didn’t you invite Violet to the wedding?
Alba’s still chewing but she answers me anyway, I did. She swallows her last bite of muffin before continuing. But this is a busy time of year for people, and I got the impression something was going on with her family. She was back on Vancouver Island when I last spoke to her.
I regret that I haven’t reached out to Violet more; she’s definitely been a solid friend to me over the years and she always seemed to understand what it was like to have a challenging family situation.
I think she was pretty upset she couldn’t come, Alba continues, a shrug winding its way up her shoulder. I told her it was for the best, though. It would be rotten for her to finally come to Cape Breton in the dead of winter when there’s nothing going on here.
Oh yeah, nothing going on, just you getting married, I tease her. But thinking about all of this has twisted a knot in my belly. I distract myself by cleaning up the mess I’ve made in the kitchen.
As I start tidying up, Alba tells me our plans for the day. We can bring the muffins to Uncle Albie’s first. Then we have a few wedding things to drop off or pick up or both—so I’d better hurry the hell up and get ready, she adds while running out of the kitchen, knowing full well I’ll smack her with the dish towel for rushing me when she isn’t even dressed yet.
About an hour later, we’re bundled up in our winter jackets and pulling into Uncle Albie’s driveway. I smile at the perfectly sloped ramp leading up to the front door and then scowl, wondering if Alistair made this one, too.
Alba doesn’t even knock, just barrels through the door of her childhood home, which looks almost identical to the last time I was here. The front door opens into the living room, where Uncle Albie is sitting on a faded leather couch, doing a crossword. He doesn’t even blink as we barge through the door.
Morning girls, he says, peering up at us over his reading glasses. He’s wearing a dark blue wool sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He makes a face that’s uncharacteristically serious for him. Did we have too much fun last night? This is a longstanding family joke, and how he used to not-so-subtly ask us if we’d been drinking when we were teenagers.
Never, Alba and I answer at the same time. You can never have too much fun—and we’d never admit to her dad that we’d been drinking.
And he never believed us.
I look around the house and don’t see a thing out of place. It’s both comforting and eerie to see everything still the same as I remember it. It occurs to me that it’s lucky the house is only one level, now that Uncle Albie is having more difficulties with his mobility.
Look what Flora’s brought you, Alba says, doing jazz hands and shaking them towards the plastic container I’m holding. When I lift the lid, Uncle Albie gasps, My darling girl! But how did you get the recipe from my long-lost niece?
I shove a muffin in his mouth to shut him up.
ALBA AND I DRIVE TO Sydney for her wedding errands. She tries on her gorgeous, cream-coloured suit for final alterations, and I cry at how radiant she looks. We pick up lanterns, drop off her dad’s suit to be dry-cleaned and are now finally on our way back home. It’s late in the afternoon, a little after four o’clock, but the sun is already starting to set.
So, Alba says, and already I know from her tone this won’t be good. In order for us to finish our Christmas Countdown Catalogue, we have to do things in order, or the Christmas magic will be lost, right?
This was a rule we took very seriously as kids—and I know where this is going, hate where this is going, but I agree with a single, jagged nod.
Which means on the way home we’re juuust going to stop off at the post office. Alba is treating me like a wounded animal she’s trying not to spook. And frankly, I feel like one.
I don’t have time to say anything else before she pulls into the parking lot, if you can even call it that. It’s a small strip of gravel off the side of the highway, the tiny building so easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. I’d been so distracted by catching up with Alba that I hadn’t even noticed where we were on our drive.
We don’t have our letters, I try to argue, feeling the panic rise up my throat, but Alba pulls them out of the back seat. When did she put them there?
We can do this Flora, she says. We’re going in to get a stamp, that’s it. And then we can keep checking off the items on our Christmas Countdown. Easy peasy.
I can tell there’s no arguing with her. I try to dissociate from what’s happening, but when I climb out of her truck, I freeze.
This fucking guy again?
Alistair has come around from the back of the post office with an armload of string lights. There’s a strand already half-hanging from the awning, and a sparkling red-nosed reindeer covered in lights sits on the lawn, waiting to be plugged in.
It’s only five degrees outside right now and he isn’t wearing a coat, only a dark red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He always seems to have his stupid sleeves rolled up. No hat, no gloves, no uniform. I wonder if that means he’s not working today. Then I wonder why I even care—I don’t.
Alba pats him on his stupid, broad shoulder as she breezes by. Motioning towards all the lights she says, Looking good, Al!
