Page 45 of Home to Christmas Island
He rubs his hair back off his forehead—stressed, clearly, about dredging all of this up. He adds, as if it’s an afterthought, That always bothered me, that he never had any kind of criminal record. Or at least one that I knew about. It still bothers me, honestly.
Is that how you got into policing?
Yeah, probably. I remember even as a really little kid, I didn’t like when friends would do things that I considered dangerous. I was always the kid running off to get the teacher, I let out a little laugh at this. But it upset me, to know that they could get hurt. Then when I got a bit older, it’s like I developed this sixth sense whenever I was in a big group of people—I was aware of everyone at all times, and aware of myself, too. I never wanted anyone to feel unsafe around me, and I still don’t. I don’t want anyone to feel like I did as a kid, in those moments.
He sighs, rubbing his eyes. I track the way the blanket falls off him slightly, exposing more of his bicep. I try to focus on what he’s saying and not the zap that surges through me.
To be honest though, for a lot of people, police officers do the opposite. Just a cop being somewhere makes them feel unsafe, and honestly, I get it. When I find myself in that kind of situation, I try to be as calm and non-threatening as possible. But a lot of officers don’t do that, they seem to feed off the anxious energy or something.
He glances over at me when he finishes speaking, an almost-chuckle escaping him. Sorry, that’s a lot. The job is a lot, honestly, but therapy helps. Knowing I’ve made any sort of difference helps, even if it’s something small like making a ramp for your uncle or volunteering to put up Christmas lights.
You go to therapy? I ask, a little surprised.
You don’t? He responds, looking right at me when he says it. I try not to squirm out from under his gaze.
I haven’t before, no.
Why not?
This guy is so direct and doesn’t seem to give a single fuck about it. He stares right at me, waiting for an answer, and I’m stubborn enough not to back down from a challenge.
There’s a lot to unpack, I guess. I haven’t really ever been brave enough to do it. If I’m being honest, I haven’t wanted to, either.
Well, what’s the worst thing that would happen if you did? He reaches out to play with a strand of my hair, weaving it through his fingers. Open up about it, I mean.
I can feel my shoulders tensing, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that’s so open and raw, it wouldn’t be fair to avoid answering his question.
Well, I would have to admit that it’s real, I say, a lump forming in my throat. That she’s really gone. If I run away from it all, I can sometimes pretend. Pretend that she’s still here, at home in Cape Breton, still alive and happy.
He chuckles softly. I was a runner too. I think that’s why I came here initially. Like if I could separate myself from that life, I could pretend all the bad stuff hadn’t happened to me. But it catches up with you eventually. I’m grateful I had friends on the force who encouraged me to go to therapy. It started off with talking about work stress, but honestly once that ball started rolling, it opened the door for everything else.
I can’t bring myself to answer, worried that if I open my mouth again the tears will start. I think he reads that all over my face.
It wasn’t easy for me to open up about all of my own shit at first either, you know, he says, his tone so gentle it’s in danger of making me burst into tears. But learning to live with the pain, to cope with it, is better than running away from it. A life on the run isn’t a real life at all.
I stay quiet, because I can sense he’s not done. He finally admits, his voice hoarse, It’s hard for me to talk about it, the stuff with my dad. I reach up to move a strand of his hair that keeps falling into his eyes, tracing my hand across his forehead. He sighs and closes his eyes at the movement. It makes me feel greedy, this chance to look at him fully. His hair looks more unkempt than I’ve ever seen it and I smile, knowing I’m to blame for that. I trace a finger along the scar by his left eye.
With his eyes still closed, he asks me, his voice almost a whisper, What was Christmas like, with your mom?
It hurts. God, it hurts. I try to force past the pain. It was perfect, I say simply, my voice quiet. Always. Stockings full of presents, incredible food, board games. Alba and her dad always used to spend Christmas Eve here with us, actually. Uncle Albie would sleep in my room and Alba and I would camp out in the living room, waiting for Santa to come.
He opens his eyes again at this, smiling. I can only imagine what sort of traps were waiting for him at the bottom of that chimney.
I laugh. We did try once, but mom told us he had special magic that would tell him if there were traps involved. And he didn’t visit those houses. That stopped our plans pretty quickly.
He chuckles before asking, And what were your plans if you did catch him?
Oh, it was purely a catch-and-release situation. We only wanted to see him with our own eyes—then we’d feed him cookies and send him back on his merry way.
That’s quite the scheme. His smirk is back, but this time it doesn’t irk me. In fact, it does the opposite.
Over on the dresser, Alistair’s phone starts to buzz.
That’ll be Finn, he says, standing up and pulling on his boxers and a shirt. He grabs his phone and comes over, kissing me on the forehead. He’s incessant, he’ll keep calling if I don’t answer, so I’ll go chat with him in the living room for a bit. You can come say hi, if you want, once you’re dressed.
With that he goes out into the hallway and I hear a voice, similar to Alistair’s, yell out, Merry Christmas Allie! There’s a pause and then. What’s got you looking so smug?
I hear Alistair laugh but he ignores the question completely and wishes his brother a merry Christmas. I eavesdrop, just a little. It sounds like Alistair’s mom called before I arrived, and she’s currently, according to Finn, running around the kitchen with our aunts like a chicken with her head cut off.
