Page 47 of Home to Christmas Island
You guys are the worst, I mutter under my breath. But unfortunately, Alistair, that does mean I still can’t taste whisky without also tasting vomit. So, none for me, thanks. I shake my hands at him in refusal and notice he’s got quite the frown on his face—it feels like a lifetime ago that his scowl made me see red.
We’re going to have to do something about that, he shakes his head. I’ll start researching exposure therapy methods tomorrow. I can’t imagine being with someone who can’t appreciate a good whisky. Goes against my DNA.
Everyone laughs at this, but I'm a little stunned by his candour. Being with someone? It’s like I can feel my fight or flight kicking in, but I can tell the comment hasn’t rattled Alistair at all. I’m not sure it even registered.
An hour or so later, we’re all gathered around the table as Alistair helps Uncle Albie bring over the turkey. My uncle is beaming. He sits down beside me and pats my arm affectionately.
So lovely to have you here, Flora, Uncle Albie says quietly to me. I feel like I could cry, but the pit in my stomach changes to something sour when he says more loudly to the rest of the table, All right Florence, if you could lead us in grace, please.
This was something my mother always did at Christmas. Always. I’m sure the panic is written all over my face.
Dad— Alba starts, but Alistair clears his throat.
I actually have a good one, if you like. It’s a Scottish grace typically saved for Burns supper in January, but I think we can make an exception. He winks at me when he finishes the sentence. He clearly saw the panic in my eyes and didn’t question it, just quietly stepped in and offered to take the burden from me. But he’s left the door open enough that if I wanted to, I could still do it. It’s entirely my choice.
I don’t dare open my mouth to say anything, so I only nod at him, feeling awash with gratitude. Something about my uncle wanting me to step into my mother’s role hits a nerve. I’m still not ready to acknowledge that she’ll never sit down to another Christmas dinner.
Some have meat and cannot eat, some cannot eat that want it, Alistair has bowed his head slightly and everyone else seems to have followed suit. I can’t bring myself to look away from him. But we have meat and we can eat, so let the lord be thanked.
He looks up at me when he finishes, his face serene—and so much rolls between us in that look. I mouth two words, Thank you. His grin only widens. And it occurs to me that Alistair fits in here, sitting with my family like this is completely normal. It reminds me of finding the right ingredient when I’m baking something new: like it was meant to be there all along.
I just had to find it.
Chapter 21
AFTER DINNER, ROSE AND I stand over the sink. She’s washing the dishes while I dry them. She looks over her shoulder and makes sure no one else is in the kitchen right now. The others are busy clearing off the table.
You know, she says quietly. He’s a lot more playful with you than anyone else.
She hands me a pot to dry and I don’t respond right away, so she goes on. There’s a lightness to him with you that isn’t always there. I think you help loosen him up, Flora.
I’m spared from having to think of a reply as Alba comes barrelling into the kitchen with more plates.
My god I am stuffed to the brim, she says, putting down the dishes and ushering Rose out of the way. My turn, she says, kissing her partner on the cheek.
The big day is coming up quick, you two, I say.
Not quick enough, they both say in unison and burst out laughing.
Alistair pokes his head in the kitchen. Can I help with anything?
Yes, I say while Alba and Rose say, No, again at the same time. They grin at each other. I hand Alistair the dish towel and perch myself up on the kitchen counter beside him.
Are you just going to watch me dry these dishes, Fast Florence? Or will you be helpful and put them away? He holds out a plate to me, his eyes dancing.
Mmm, just watch I think, Al, I say, testing out the nickname and grinning, and not taking the plate from him.
He tilts his head down and makes a face, the gesture as clear as day: Are you serious right now? I chuckle and hop down from the counter, putting the plate away.
Alistair glances over, noticing some of Alba and Rose’s pictures on the fridge. There’s one of the three of us in Argentina; another of Alba, Violet, and I from that dark year in Toronto. Our little Covid bubble.
Alistair points to Violet, Who is that? Her medium-length dark hair has streaks of purple here. We’re out on the balcony of her apartment. She has on giant sunglasses and an I heart Toronto T-shirt, some of the tiny tattoos along her shoulder visible below the short sleeves.
That, I tell Alistair, is our friend Violet. We met in New York when we went to school there. This is when we stayed with her in Toronto for a while, during the pandemic.
You would love Violet, Alba chimes in, as she finishes cleaning the last dish. She’s super weird, but in the best way possible. I feel a pang of missing Violet and I tell Alba we should try and FaceTime her tomorrow. She agrees, emptying the water from the sink, her role in the cleaning-up finished.
Alba walks out of the kitchen and flings herself dramatically onto the sofa in the living room, lamenting again about how much she’s eaten, while Uncle Albie tries to find something on TV to watch.
