Page 3 of Home to Christmas Island
But it’s as if over the last few years I’ve been on autopilot, surviving only on fumes to try and distract myself, to get by one day at a time.
I pull into the driveway of the bed and breakfast and smile at the sign that reads Rose Cottages. Alba surprised her fiancée by naming the business after her. Rose is, quite literally, a rose—she is lovely and sweet, and she cried when she saw the name.
I have never seen Alba so happy, even if it’s mostly been through a phone screen. A pang of regret stings in the back of my throat. We text every day and FaceTime a few times a week, but it’s not the same as seeing her in person.
I pull up beside the house and put the car in park. As I turn off the engine, I hear the front door bang open. I’m barely even out of the car before Alba runs down the front steps and into my arms.
She crashes into me so hard that we fall into the snow, laughing hysterically.
You’re here, Alba says, sighing with what almost sounds like relief.
I’m here, I say, my voice trembling slightly. I inhale sharply, leaning back into the rage instead of the other emotions trying to crawl their way to the surface. And, I got pulled over by the world’s biggest jackass. Some Scottish come-from-away cop who gave me my first-ever ticket. Who is that guy?
Alba grabs me firmly by the shoulders, and her dark hazel eyes, which miss nothing, scan my face. Her straight, dark brown hair is shorter than the last time I’d seen her in person, cut into a long bob that suits her. After a beat, she gives me a devilish smirk, something about it making me feel right at home and homesick at the same time.
You got pulled over? By Alistair?
I blink. I don’t know, I didn’t get his name, though it’s probably written on the ticket, I say, gesturing towards the car.
And he gave you a ticket? Alba’s eyebrow quirks, her lips slowly curving into a smile that is positively devious.
Yeah, like I said, total jackass.
Alba is looking at me in a way that I know means she knows more than she’s letting on. What about this guy could she possibly have to keep from me?
What? I ask her, feeling a smidge defensive.
She chuckles and shakes her head, clearing the strange look off her face, Of course you were speeding. You deserve a ticket after all these years. But he’s actually a good guy, she shrugs. Dad loves him.
Her father is my Uncle Albert, or Uncle Albie, which is what I’ve called him since I was a kid. He’s a loud, occasionally obnoxious, take-no-bullshit kind of man. I never knew my own father, so Uncle Albie is the closest thing I have to a parental figure left.
He was married to my mom’s sister Beth, who died of ovarian cancer when Alba and I were toddlers. But when she was pregnant, Uncle Albie was so convinced it was a boy they would name Albert, he took to calling the baby little Albs before it was born. When a little girl showed up instead, it didn’t faze him at all—and baby Albert Jr. became baby Alba instead.
Uncle Albie and my mother basically raised the two of us together. We were always our own version of a family, having Sunday dinners at the lake house and getting swapped between homes if one of the parents was working late.
But Alba and I spent most of our time at the lake house, where mom and I lived. We would make forts in the woods nearby when we were little and lounge on the dock by the water in our teen years. Every so often, my mother would have enough of our antics—especially during the first six months after we learned about making prank phone calls—and so we’d venture up the hill to play at Uncle Albie’s house.
That sharp pain in my chest is back. The guilt slithers in, coiling there and reminding me of all the years I’ve missed out on, especially with my uncle.
When can I see him? I breathe. Alba lights up at this.
Tonight, at the pub of course, she says, and I groan.
Non-negotiable, Alba says. It’s the first of the Christmas Ceilidhs, which are being held on Sundays this year. And guess who’s playing tonight? She’s fully laughing now as I slump further into the snow, and start to wail loudly. I can’t believe my rotten luck today.
Not them Albs, tell me it isn’t them! Them being The MacNeils & The McNeils, a local band that irritates me to no end. They’ve been around since Alba and I were teenagers. They always cover the same old songs, use way too much fiddle, and I swear the lead singer is always a little bit off key.
Alba laughs fiendishly, looking a little too delighted for my liking. Who else, Flora? She shoves me and says, The whole pub is going to fall off their chairs when they see you tonight.
The pub in Iona is really the only gathering place anywhere near here, apart from the fire hall which sometimes holds events. Iona is one of the many places that makes up this section of the island along Highway 223, each community so small that to anyone passing through, they would all seem like the same place. The next closest gathering spot is a good thirty-minute drive away. Alba and I have spent many, many a night at the pub—where else was there to go?
But her words, the whole pub, send a flood of anxiety through me. Word travels fast around here and I wonder what people will make of me finally coming home. I know most of the people who live here don’t mean anything by a little bit of island gossip, but sometimes it still stings. The whispers about my mother raising me alone, the talk about me being a bit of a wild child in my teen years. I can’t help but cringe inwardly.
Alba must see the change of expression on my face because she says, Aw, come on Cousin, they’re not so bad for a local band. I bet they’ll play all your favourites if you ask nicely. It’s almost menacing the way she says it and she pokes me in the side. I bat her hand away.
Rose appears at the still-open front door like a ray of sunshine, her golden brown skin and long, dark hair glossy in the light of the porch lamp. I see her shoulders shake as she laughs at the pair of us in the snowbank.
Get in here you two, you’ll freeze to death! She calls out to us, still laughing, and her honey-smooth voice makes me smile so big I realize my cheeks are freezing. I run up the steps to Rose and pull her into a hug, breathing in her smell of cedar and saffron.
