Page 42 of Home to Christmas Island
After the funeral, for example, Alba says, blowing right past my lame rebuttal. Everyone from Christmas Island was here, wanting to support you, to show up for you the way your mother always showed up for them. I wish she’d stop, but she doesn’t. Instead you let your pride, your stubbornness, stop them from seeing you, what, cry about your mom? Of course you were going to cry!
I can feel the fear of judgment on me that day like an extra layer of skin. It wasn’t only that I didn’t want them to see me cry, although I’m sure that was part of it. It was all the years of knowing my mother was judged for me. The way I was always getting into trouble; that I never knew who my father was, and she had to raise me as a single mom.
I try to think back to that day. Can I have really misread it so badly? I reach back in my memory and think of all the flowers in the church. Who had put those there? I know on a logical level it was impossible for my uncle to have done everything on his own, which means he had help. Which means maybe there were people wanting to help me, too.
But the realization is so painful, I shove it aside, trying a different tactic with my cousin.
You have— I feel the anger like acid in my throat and it trickles onto my words. No idea what it is like. To be here, when she’s not here. To miss her—
I don’t know what it’s like? Alba is shaking her head at me, looking incredulous. To miss her? To lose a mother? I know both of those things perfectly well, thank you very much.
This is sliding to a dangerous place that neither of us can come back from. I’m breathing heavily, not sure whether I’m about to burst into more tears or scream at her. Alba rubs her palms over her eyes in frustration.
Are you this stubborn, Flora? That you would stand in your own way to prevent even a shred of happiness for yourself? The rage has evaporated from her voice and only a deep, weary sadness is there now. You don’t have to be miserable for your whole life, you know. You’re allowed to be happy, even though she died. Auntie M would want you to be. And you could be happy here—I know you could; I’ve seen it these last few weeks. You could have everything you ever wanted, possibly more, right here at home.
Possibly more. I know she’s referring to Alistair here, but before I can dig into that further, she continues.
I feel like I have one chance. Her voice cracks and I feel something in my own chest crack at the sound. This is my one shot to get through to you, and if I can’t, well, that’ll just be it. You’ll be destined to this wandering, half-life forever. I don’t want that for you, Flora. And your mother certainly wouldn’t want it for you either.
With that, she stands up abruptly and storms upstairs, leaving me alone in the glow of the Christmas lights with my thoughts.
Chapter 18
GET UP, GET UP, IT’S CHRISTMAS!
Rose is jumping on my bed when I open my eyes. She throws herself on top of me, hugging me tightly.
Merry Christmas Flora!
Merry Christmas Rose, I say, hugging her back. Where’s Alba? I feel a flood of anxiety mentioning my cousin’s name, my thoughts snapping back to our fight last night.
She’s getting the coffee going. Come on, she says, singing, There are presents downstairs!
We open our stockings first. These two have really gone overboard. Someone—Alba, obviously—has put a silicone forehead mask in mine. It’s for that frown line you asked Santa about, she says, her tone a little frosty.
Things are still tense between us, but I try to ignore it. Well, I say, pointing with my eyes at her stocking, wanting her to pull out the knee brace I put in there for the same joke. Santa heard about that knee pain, too, I guess.
After breakfast, I decide to go to the cemetery. Partially to give the almost-newlyweds some space, partially for my own space from Alba, and partially to give myself some time to think.
I don’t want to go back to New York. I found the size of the city overwhelming when I was in school, but the program was so great I didn’t mind at the time. I love the travel and the constant movement on the boat, but career-wise it feels stifling.
In every possible way, it feels stifling.
What would you do if you stayed here? The thought emerges out of nowhere. I try to picture it. It comes to me instantly: I’d open a bakery, probably at the bed and breakfast. I could make wedding cakes in the summer and fall…
I pull up to the cemetery right as this thought finishes. I shake my head to try and clear it. I have never pictured myself moving back to Christmas Island. But then again, I’ve never really pictured my future at all—I was too busy running from my past to think about it.
I’ve brought along two pieces of the cinnamon and cranberry coffee cake Mom always made during the holidays, intending to eat a slice here to feel close to her. But when I reach the headstone, something about it doesn’t sit right. She doesn’t feel here to me. A soft breeze rustles through my hair, and I think of Mom on the wind.
In my gut, I know where she is. Where she’d want me to be today.
I text Alistair.
Florence: Merry Christmas, friend! What are you doing over there?
What we were doing two nights ago definitely ventures out of friend territory, but—
Alistair: Merry Christmas, Just Florence. I’m drinking the world’s biggest cup of coffee. You?
