Page 4 of Home to Christmas Island
When Alba moved back to Christmas Island three years ago, she wasn’t even here a week before she and Rose got together. We’d known Rose a little in school growing up, but she was two grades behind us, and our paths had never really crossed. Alba says when they met again, it was instant fireworks.
They came to visit me not long after they first started dating, when I was in between cruise ship routes. The three of us spent two weeks in Buenos Aires—and it took less than twenty-four hours for me to realize that Rose was here for the long haul. Her gentle, sweet nature really helps soften Alba, who can be a little rough around the edges.
Oh Flora, it means so much to us that you’re here, Rose pulls out of our hug and puts her hand on my cheek. I know it wasn’t easy for you, coming home, so thank you.
I feel another wave of anxiety. Rose is very openly affectionate in a way that doesn’t come naturally to me, but she does it so lovingly it’s hard not to react warmly to her. Still, I feel a bit of tension creeping into my shoulders, my heart picking up its pace. I take a deep breath and try to shake off the guilt.
I wouldn’t miss it, I say, and mean it. Not even my own stubbornness could stop me from being here for Alba and Rose’s wedding. But if you could get me out of going to the pub tonight…
Oh no, Rose laughs, patting my shoulder in apology. There is nothing on earth that could get you out of that.
I FEEL LIKE I’VE BEEN transported back to high school as Alba, Rose, and I cram into their bathroom, taking turns to straighten our hair and do our makeup. Alba doesn’t wear a lot on her face these days—a little mascara and bronzer for special occasions. But like me, she’s always been obsessive about her hair.
I watch her straighten each piece repeatedly. It reminds me so much of our teen years, when both of us would use a literal iron to get our hair ramrod straight, that I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
What are you giggling about? Alba demands, her eyes never straying from her own hair in the mirror. Rose answers before I get a chance.
She’s probably watching you straighten that same piece of hair for the fiftieth time. Her tone is playful, and she kisses Alba on the cheek after she says it. I notice her left hand as she cups my cousin’s cheek, her ring glittering in the harsh bathroom light.
Let me get a look at that ring in person! I squeal, ushering Rose over. Alba video called me while she went ring shopping and I’ve seen tons of pictures, but I can’t help the familiar twinge of guilt that I wasn’t here in person for their engagement.
Rose comes over and waggles her fingers at me as I ooh and aah over the ring. She gets a little teary as she says, Oh Flora, I really do love it. It’s better than anything I could have dreamed.
Okay no more of that right now, you’ll ruin your eyeliner! I laugh, wiping a tear off her cheek that brings a streak of black with it. Rose shrieks at this and Alba and I laugh at the sound. Rose is normally pretty chill, but she’s serious about her makeup, always doing it first thing in the morning, even if they’re not going out anywhere. Alba says Rose’s mom is exactly the same way. That thought feels like a rock in my stomach, and I mentally bat it away.
My cousin has made us both cranberry Moscow Mules as our pre-drink before heading to the pub—and a virgin one for Rose, who has graciously agreed to be our designated driver tonight. There’s no Uber in Cape Breton and it would be a waste of breath to try and call a taxi out this way.
I sip on my drink as I try to decide on my outfit. Alba is wearing her usual: head-to-toe black. Black cargo pants, a soft, black button-up flannel and I assume she’ll wear her black Blundstones that she’s had for years.
Rose has on a beautiful, flowy green dress with fleece-lined leggings underneath to keep her warm. The sleeves of her dress get wider as they get closer to her hands, reminding me almost of a fairy. She has on three or four gold necklaces, all different lengths, with green jade earrings that shine through the strands of her long dark hair.
I finally land on a pair of faded black jeans and a shimmering gold halter top, which is a bit ridiculous for winter, but I know it will be warm in the pub tonight. I’m leaving my long hair down in loose waves and I’ve done my most glam level of makeup, which for me means foundation, blush, and a little chocolate-brown eyeliner, since black always looks too dark on my pale skin. I opt for a brown mascara, too, which makes my green eyes pop.
I’m very aware that I’ll be seeing people I haven’t laid eyes on in over a decade. I want to look good.
Some part of me is desperate to prove that I have it together now.
Who all will be there tonight? I feel a little bit nervous about going to the pub, but I try to play it off, laying on a thick Cape Breton accent for my question.
The usual suspects, Alba says, raising an eyebrow at me.
I try not to gulp. At big gatherings like this, people often used to say things to my mother like—You’ve got your hands full with that one, dear.
It wasn’t that I was a bad kid, necessarily. I did well in school. I just worked hard and partied hard. And I always loved to find a new adrenaline rush.
But it meant I had a bit of a reputation for getting into trouble.
Come on Cousin, the night is young, Alba says before downing the last of her drink, pulling on her black Blundstones, and ushering Rose and I out of the house.
Chapter 3
WE WALK UP TO THE pub twenty minutes later, Alba’s arm linked with mine in the chilly night air, and Rose skipping ahead. When we walk through the door, it’s exactly the same as I remember it, although more cozy this time of year with the winter decorations. The chimney, which goes all the way up the back wall to the ceiling, is adorned with stockings and pine garlands. Crackling flames roar from the brick fireplace. I feel both happy to be home and weighed down by the years I’ve been gone.
Above the bar, there’s a loft area with more seating. It used to be one of my favourite places to sneakily watch the various musicians passing through. There’s tinsel hanging from the railing up to the loft, along with nautical ornaments that someone’s grandmother no doubt made from shells and driftwood found on the beach nearby.
Alba points out that hanging above the entranceway is a sprig of mistletoe, so we don’t linger. There are license plates from all around the world hung up along the back wall of the bar, and they each have pieces of holly tucked in behind them. There are string lights along the bar itself, as well as wrapped around the big, wooden beam that sits right smack in the middle of the floor. It’s so laughably inconvenient, that wooden beam—both for setting up tables and for dancing. But the owner told me once when I was young, after I had pestered him incessantly about why it was there: What’s done is done Flora, sometimes we have to be like the ocean, and move around our obstacles.
The band is in full swing by the time we arrive. The MacNeils & The McNeils are playing a cover of Green Christmas as many of the bar patrons sing along merrily. The lead singer’s familiar voice sends a rush of annoyance through me.
