Page 41 of Home to Christmas Island
All the air goes out of the room. Alba blinks, then inhales in a way that tells me she’s trying to stay calm, before asking, Why? The question is so, so cold.
Because I have a life that isn’t here. I say, as if that should be obvious. She doesn’t hesitate for a second.
You don’t have a life.
What is that supposed to mean? The words sting, and I quickly decide that I don’t actually want the answer she’s about to give me. Albs please, come on, you know I can’t stay—
Why can’t you, exactly? She has gone terrifyingly still, and I know what’s coming.
Because I don’t want to, I say, but my trembling lip betrays me.
What about Alistair?
What about him?
She looks at me, pinning me to the spot. I try not to swallow.
Don’t give me that shit, you like him! Her tone is getting more and more agitated, like she’s losing her grip on herself. You know what Flora, I think you really like him.
I’m not you Albs, I’m not going to come home and meet the love of my life and stay forever. And I’m not just going to stay here for some guy. I only came back to see you and Rose get married. That’s all. It’s the final straw that teeters Alba over the edge and into a full-blown rage.
My cousin explodes.
What do you think is going to happen if you stay here? That some part of you will die if you face it? Well guess what Flora? That’s already happened. She stands up as she finishes her sentence and starts pacing in front of me.
You’re a ghost. You’ve been on autopilot for a decade, stumbling through life in a haze. I never, ever thought I would see the person you used to be. But I’ve seen her here— Alba chokes on her next words, angry tears spilling over her cheeks. I have missed you so much. And not just because you’ve been away, because even when I do get to see you, it’s like one-tenth of your former self.
Alba sits down beside me on the couch again. She looks like she wants to reach for me, but doesn’t. She takes a deep breath. I want you to stay here—and I think you want to stay too, but you’re scared. Tell me why. What is it you’re afraid of?
I feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t form the words, Everyone I’ve ever loved leaves or dies, but they hang in the air between us anyway.
Alba keeps going, trying a different approach now. What is it you’re going back to? You’re miserable on those ships. I was there for years, remember?
Everything I’ve worked for is there, I say, trying to defend myself. All of the work I’ve done—
No, I don’t buy it, Alba interrupts me, slicing her hand through the air to cut me off. You don’t get any creative freedom with your baking. It’s not like you can rise any higher in the ranks there. Besides, your dream was always, always, to be your own boss. To do things your way, to bake what you want. And I know that you wanted to travel, and you have, and you still can! But you don’t have to be on that stupid ship to do it. She takes a heaving breath as I sit there, staying quiet. I don’t know what to say.
But then Alba throws out her final card.
And I know you’ve ended things with Justin, so what possible reason could you have for going back to that life?
How do you know that? I’m racking my brain trying to figure out how she could have learned about my text to him.
She smiles, but it’s bitter. He called me to try and get in touch with you. After you texted and blocked him.
What did you say? I realize quickly that I don’t care what he said to her. I think I’m far enough away from the situation now that there’s no risk of him worming his way back into my life.
I told him where he could shove his chef’s hat, for starters. Alba seems pleased with herself about this. I said that, for once, he should take you at your word: that you are done with his shit and to leave you the hell alone. Then I said if he contacted me, or you, again, I’d call the cops. The way she says this makes me think she means Alistair, and I’m suddenly certain that this is exactly what she means.
Some part of me knows she’s right but I don’t want to admit it. What am I going back to? But I can’t ask myself that question—it feels too raw, too overwhelming—so instead I lean into the rage.
And what would you have me do here, then? I slap the tears off my cheeks. In this boring, sleepy town where nothing ever happens? It wasn’t just me that wanted to get out of here, remember? And then you came crawling back to it.
Alba ignores the spear I’ve thrown her way, knowing on some level, I think, that it’s a distraction from the real conversation happening here.
Open a bakery, like you should have done ten years ago! Or don’t stay here if that’s really what you want—which I don’t think it is, for the record. But that’s fine, go back to New York, or go to Toronto or anywhere else, but stop running. Her eyes are wide now, and I can tell it’s about to all come crashing out. You can never let anyone in, Florence. Ever. Not even me. You won’t let anyone help you.
That’s not true, I say, but we both know I’m lying.
