Page 18 of Home to Christmas Island
I shake my head.
This is something I have to do alone.
She nods in understanding, then nudges the hot chocolate towards me.
Time to make a wish, she says, clinking her mug with mine and closing her eyes. She sighs when she’s done silently making her wish, and takes a sip.
I can’t think of anything to wish for. So instead, I close my eyes, and try not to think about my mother.
AN HOUR LATER, I’M SUITED up in my red parka and driving in my rental car towards the cemetery. But when I see the turn that will bring me to the church up on the hill, I speed up—blowing right past it instead. I know I’ll have to go at some point while I’m home, but I can’t help wanting to delay it a little longer.
I decide what I really need is some time by the water. My whole life, I’ve lived near a major body of water. I’ve always felt claustrophobic at the thought of living anywhere that’s fully landlocked. I drive a little further down the highway in the direction of one of the local sandbars. It’ll be covered in snow and slush and probably ice this time of year, but I don’t care. The drive there is so familiar I feel certain I could get there with my eyes closed. This, of course, reminds me to check my speeding. God forbid I get pulled over by that man.
In a desperate attempt to get Alistair out of my head, I allow my thoughts to drift back to my mom. I know she would have hated how long I’ve been away from home. The guilt that cracks through me is like iron; heavy and weighing on me in an instant.
She was healthy, smiling, and happy the last time I saw her, waving goodbye to me from the front steps of the lake house. It was in the early days of January—Alba and I had come home for Christmas and were leaving again to go back to school for our last semester in New York. She’d hugged both of us about six times each before we left.
It had been the perfect holiday break. Alba and her dad slept over on Christmas Eve, Mom cooked an incredible dinner, and Uncle Albie outdid himself with the turkey. That entire trip home, I would catch my mother smiling at me, this huge, wondrous grin on her face. When I asked her why, she would shake her head and say, Look at you Flora, I’m so proud of you. You’re growing up right before my very eyes!
Two months later she was dead.
It was a heart attack of some kind. It turns out she had a heart defect that we never knew about. Even if I tried, I’m not sure I could remember exactly what Uncle Albie said when he told me she was gone.
That entire month of March is like a black void in my memory.
I don’t remember who made the decisions about flowers or music choices or whether there would be a wake. I only remember sitting in that church pew during the funeral and feeling like I was drowning. I knew I had to get out. I fled before the service was even over. I couldn’t take witnessing the burial or having to talk to people afterwards. I couldn’t take any of it. So I ran.
I went back to New York at first, managing to finish the six weeks I had left of my degree. All I could do was put my head down and get lost in my work. Once I was finished, I skipped graduation and got a job on a cruise ship. Alba did the same, determined to stay by my side. She tried to tell me about what I’d missed back home, but I honestly didn’t want to know.
Then, almost a year after Mom died, the lake house finally sold.
Remembering this, of course, brings my thoughts back to Alistair, who I was trying to get out of my head in the first place. I crank up the music to drown everything else out, and Babylon by David Gray comes blasting through the speakers of my rental car.
I pull onto the small road that leads down to the water, grateful for the car tracks already laid down in the snow. Cape Bretoners love a Sunday drive, especially one by the water, so I’m not surprised that other people have been down here recently. This spot gets used by a lot of folks who live nearby—it’s a kind of unofficial public beach. But if the property owners mind everyone using it, they’ve never said anything about it.
After I drive over the train tracks, the woods finally clear, and I can see the open expanse of water. The lake isn’t frozen yet, since it hasn’t been cold enough to keep the salt water frozen.
Sections of the beach don’t have much snow left, washed away by water and time, and I can see the sand peeking through. I park the car and pull on my matching hot-pink hat and mittens, grateful I brought them with me given how frigid it looks along the beach. I fix my hair in the mirror, smoothing down the sections sticking out of my hat before I open the car door and get out. I amble towards the water in search of a flat rock to try and skip across the lake, which is relatively calm today.
I feel a lightness being here. The wind isn’t too cold either, so I decide to walk down the shoreline for a bit. Part of it is nosiness. I want to see how the houses along the water have changed in the years I’ve been away.
There’s a sea-green house that I’ve always loved, which definitely looks a little worse for wear. I reach back in my memory: it belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, who were in their seventies the last time I was here. I wonder how they’re doing. I notice a new set of three stairs and a railing leading to the front door. I get a gut feeling that Alistair built those stairs. I practically gag at the thought, but I know there’s a very good chance he actually was the one who built them.
I have my head tilted, staring at the steps in front of the door when it suddenly opens.
But it isn’t either of the Sutherlands standing there.
Chapter 8
ALISTAIR’S TALL FRAME, WHICH IS becoming irritatingly recognizable to me, comes into view as the door opens all the way.
Of course I’d run into him here.
Nice to see you, Mrs. Sutherland, Alistair says, his accent rolling off his tongue as he steps outside of the house.
He looks up to find me staring at him from the beach. I swear he almost jumps and for a second, that arrogant, jab-throwing mask seems to be down. He’s not in uniform this morning, wearing a light grey toque and a midnight blue winter jacket that he’s still in the middle of zipping up.
I can’t help but notice that he looks a little tired today—and clearly spooked to find me standing there, looking right at him.
