Page 2 of Home to Christmas Island
Don’t be telling me any lies, he drawls, slowly, in what I think is an attempt at a Canadian accent. Is he mocking me?
My blood starts to boil. Who the hell does this guy think he is? I realize he’s still waiting for an answer. Where am I going? The thought makes my heart sink.
I swallow. Christmas Island.
Christmas Island. It sounds like a magical place for a winter getaway, but it’s really best in the summer months. That’s when you can swim in the Bras d’Or lakes—still salt water, but not quite as cold and with no threat of sharks. The community comes to life when the weather gets warm, and is bustling with tourists well into autumn, as people flock here to see the changing leaves.
It’s quiet in the winter. Except at the post office.
That’s where my mother worked for more than twenty years. And she was certain she had the best job in the world. Every year in December, hundreds, if not thousands of letters make their way to the tiny post office to be marked with a Christmas Island stamp.
When I was little, I would look in awe at the letters from around the world: Bermuda, Alaska, Germany, Mexico, Wyoming, Ireland. I would study all the different colours and designs on the stamps, imagining what these places looked like. I told Mom that someday, I’d see them all.
And I had.
Where, exactly, in Christmas Island? He clears his throat, his eyes still intense but there’s another emotion on his face that I can’t quite read. He’s looking at me now, scanning my face for some kind of reaction.
I try to block it out. The image of the lake house that flashes through my mind. The pop of the fire; watching the sun dance along the water; the soft sound of the breeze through the trees. My chest actually hurts. I push it from my mind and answer him.
To stay with my cousin, Alba Landry.
His face gives away nothing. I’m sure he knows her if he’s as intimate with my hometown as he seems to be—and I wonder if he’s heard of me through whatever rumours are swirling around the island about me.
It registers that I don’t know who this guy is, either. I scan his stupidly handsome face. His dark beard is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small scar near the crease of his left eye that makes him look almost rugged. No one from home has mentioned him to me before, that’s for sure.
He shakes his head with a sigh. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that because you were going fifty kilometres an hour over the speed limit, that’s more than speeding—you were technically stunting. So that’s a $2,400 fine, six points on your license and an automatic week’s suspension.
I’m gobsmacked. Speechless. Infuriated.
At thirty-two, I haven’t been home since the day of my mother’s funeral almost ten years ago. This is not how I wanted my homecoming to start. Fuming, I start to consider my options—I’m not above begging—when I notice him watching me closely. For a beat we just stare at each other. Then he looks away, off in the direction of the water, before clearing his throat again.
But, he starts, then pauses. But. If you promise to slow down, I’ll give you the lesser ticket. He taps the hood of the car, his eyes glance back at me once more, I’ll be right back.
Is it pity that’s prompting this? The oily thought works its way through me. Does he somehow know who I am? Does he know that my mother died and I’ve been running ever since? I wonder what else people have been saying about me in the years I’ve been gone.
And I wonder what they’ll say now that I’m back. Back, and pulled over again on my very first day at home.
I think I hate this stupid Scottish cop. What’s he doing here in Cape Breton anyway? I wonder if he knows my uncle, or the guys who work down at the pub. I wonder if he lives actually in Christmas Island, or one of the other surrounding communities that are knit together so tightly they all blur into one. Maybe he lives all the way in town and only happened to be out here, patrolling this section of the highway, looking for speed demons like me.
I wait with my arms tightly folded across my middle and my heart hammers in my chest. This feels like a bad omen, and I can’t help but ask myself if I’ve done the right thing by coming back here after all this time.
But there’s no avoiding it. I would never hurt Alba by missing her wedding. My cousin and best friend rolled into one. I haven’t seen her in far too long. Again, I feel like I could crumble under the weight of my own guilt, but I mentally push it aside. I’m here now, aren’t I?
The brute of a man comes back a few minutes later, my license and a whopping $295 ticket in tow.
I hope you have a nice time at home, despite the unfortunate start, he says before adding sternly, almost under his breath, And for the love of god, ‘Just Florence,’ slow down.
I’m tempted to speed off, but I tamper down my rage and pull away just under the speed limit.
Chapter 2
WHEN I DRIVE BY THE post office, I almost have to shut my eyes—not a great idea when you’re behind the wheel of a car. And definitely not one that would be sanctioned by certain Scottish police officers.
Feelings bubble up like acid as I pass by some of my old haunts, but I try to shove them down, down, down.
The memories pelt me like glass: My mom in her apron, baking hundreds of Christmas cookies for anyone who stopped in at the post office to mail a letter. Alba and I riding our bikes along this highway in the summer months, not a care in the world. The call a decade ago that changed everything.
I used to describe myself as a bit of a thrill-seeker. I loved the feeling of adrenaline and trying something new—I was always furiously determined to get better at something if I didn’t pick it up right away.
