Page 32 of Home to Christmas Island
I go over to hang up the stocking, my hands still shaking slightly. Alba’s mom, my Auntie Beth, knitted these stockings the year we were born. Uncle Albie and my mother have matching ones, too. Had, I silently correct myself. Mom had a matching stocking. I wonder where it went.
Alba asks Alistair to take our picture in front of the fireplace. She makes us pose holding up peace signs, our hips jutting out to the side, like we would have done the last time we took a photo here. Alistair smirks from behind the phone.
He lets me poke around the house. It’s a little cabin surrounded by trees, tucked in off the highway. There’s a small loft for extra sleeping and storage, but everything else is all on one level. My former bedroom has been converted into what looks like both an office and a guest bedroom.
I don’t linger here, or anywhere for that matter—I can’t. It’s so easy to picture my childhood bedroom: the pink walls we later painted a soft green; the spot where the Spice Girls posters hung, later replaced by cut-outs from Tiger Beat magazines of whatever boy I had a crush on at the time; the purple flower rug, forever covered in glitter after Alba knocked over a container of art supplies; the picture of me and Mom dressed up for a re-enactment at the Fortress of Louisbourg, which always sat on my dresser; the drawers where I’d take my dolls for pretend sleepovers (and years later, hide alcohol in); and the curtains that I never, ever closed because I always wanted to see the water, even if it meant the sun woke me up.
This room in particular looks a little empty, but that’s only because I remember how chaotic and full it once was. But it’s clear to me from the care he’s taken that Alistair loves this house.
I poke my head into my mom’s bedroom. His bedroom, I silently correct myself. The bed is made, and everything is tidy, which was definitely not the case when I was growing up here. There are dark wood end tables on either side of the mattress, and I wonder if he made them himself. There’s also a candle on one of the nightstands that I really want to smell, but I don’t dare go inside.
I spy a photo on one of the nightstands. Alistair and a man that’s clearly his younger brother, what was his name? Finn. Finn who fell off the ladder. I can’t bear to cross the threshold, but I lean into the room and squint, trying to see the picture more clearly.
The two are instantly recognizable as brothers. Finn has the same shaped eyes, but isn’t quite as tall as his brother. His hair, also dark, is longer than Alistair’s. His grin is almost mischievous. The pair are standing in a beautiful green valley, brows both slick with sweat. I wonder what they were doing that day. I wonder, too, if Finn has ever been here. If he’s ever stayed in my house.
The thought makes me feel strangely lonely. I think I’m reaching the limit of what I can handle in one day. That raw, unmoored feeling creeps up on me again and I want to get out of here.
I walk back into the living room. Alba must have gone out to the truck to get the cookies we brought, which I forgot to bring in with us. We couldn’t come empty-handed, after all. She’s helping herself to what I assume is at least her second or third cookie, knowing my cousin.
Okay, I’m ready to go now. I say to Alba. I have to subtly wipe my palms on my jeans to get rid of the clamminess.
She nods, thanks Alistair, and walks out of the house without waiting for me.
Traitor.
So? Alistair asks. Any major changes that I need to address? I feel a little touched at the offer, because I’m certain he’d take the suggestions—or demands—if I had any. I can only shake my head no, crossing my arms across my chest. Alistair’s eyes soften. You can come back anytime you want, he says, and I know he means it.
He’s leaning against one of the wooden beams near the kitchen, his head is tilted to the side in a way that reminds me of a cute dog. I’d always wondered about you, you know.
What do you mean? While I’m grateful for the change in subject, this also makes me feel a little sick. What were people saying about me to make him wonder?
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, but it doesn’t feel like nothing. I think Albert was quite particular about who he would sell the house to. He never said it outright, but I had a feeling other people had looked at it before me and, ‘They weren’t a fit,’ were his words. When I pushed him on it, he said it belonged to his niece and she wanted it sold, but he knew that she’d want the right kind of person here, even if she wouldn’t admit it, he says, and my heart strains at that.
Then we had a beer out on the deck and talked for a while. He wanted to know why I was coming here, so I told him. He told me about you, and then later I heard a lot of stories about you down at the pub. People here really adore you, Florence.
I was up to mischief as a kid, Alba and I both, and I always felt that people were annoyed by me more than anything. The words are out before I can think, It was my mother they adored, not me.
He nods at this. They did. Everyone talks about her like she was a saint, and you this untamed, wild thing. But that doesn’t mean they don’t care about you as well. They’ve missed you, he nods towards the front window, Alba especially.
Why did you come here, anyway? I blurt out, curiosity getting the better of me.
To Nova Scotia? I nod and he continues. I wanted a fresh start. He looks at me for a long time, then says, I’ll tell you about it sometime, if you want to be friends.
I remember then that I’m rushing out of his house, my old house, and want to flee.
Something about the word friends has triggered another memory: me in the eighth grade, on the floor of this very living room, crying to my mother after school. A group of girls that I thought were my friends had tricked me into admitting that I liked Brad Carmichael, and then promptly blabbed to him about it. He had laughed, and I had wanted to die of embarrassment. Alba had warned me about them, but I couldn’t help it—I wanted these other girls to like me.
My mother’s voice from that day fills my mind: You have me, and you have Alba, your best cousin forever, and Uncle Albie all looking out for you. She was stroking my hair as I wept, feeling embarrassed and hurt and angry all at the same time.
I have to physically shake myself to dislodge the memory. I nod, then say to Alistair, All right. Friends. The word feels a little foreign on my tongue and Alba’s voice from the other night comes back to me: You two could never be just friends.
He reaches out a hand towards me and I have no idea where this is going. Does he want to shake on it? My thoughts start to spiral before he says, Phone please.
I unlock my phone and hand it to him. He creates a new contact for himself, saves it, sends a text to his own phone with my number, locks my screen again and says in a placating tone, I’ll spare you the embarrassment of having to ask Alba for my phone number.
I scoff at this. If I wasn’t so on edge, I probably would have tried to fire something back at him, but all I can think is that I need to get out of here.
My irritation must be written all over my face because he only laughs as I grab the phone roughly out of his hands and storm back out into the freezing afternoon.
