Page 54 of Home to Christmas Island
But a huge snowbank has half-toppled into the road and the rental car screeches into it. Before I even try to get the wheels moving, I know it’s stuck. My tires spin and spin, but nothing gives. I put on my four-way lights and rest my head on the steering wheel. I should call someone, I think.
When I finally lift my head back up, I see them.
The flashing blue and red lights in my rear-view mirror.
I know in my heart that it’s Alistair. He’s working today, after all.
He’s almost rigid as he walks up to the car. This time, the window is already down when he gets to me.
Heyyyyy officer, I—
Why, he grits out, in god’s name are you out on these roads? Alistair is the most agitated I’ve ever seen him. You couldn’t wait to get out of here, I guess? This was reckless, Florence, even for you.
His voice is bitter, it’s a tone I’ve never heard from him. I feel hurt by his words, but I know I deserve it. I left without trying to talk to him; left without saying goodbye. And put myself in a dangerous situation by getting on this highway.
He looks at my car and his eyes go wide, his voice now flooded with concern, Did you spin fully around? How did you get on this side of the road?
Something in me finally cracks when I realize that he’s more worried about me than he is angry—and he has every right to be furious with me.
He’s avoiding my gaze, but I look right at him and wait for his eyes to finally meet mine before I say, I turned around.
You turned around? His voice is a little skeptical. I nod. He’s quiet for another beat. I want his features to soften, to realize what I’m saying, but he stays guarded.
What happens now, ‘Just Florence?’
Well first, I say, unable to help my wicked grin or the tears rolling down my cheeks. I’m hoping you can give me a ride.
Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
COME ON, COUSIN, I’VE GOT better things to do today besides carting your ass around! Alba yells at me from her truck, laying on the horn.
I add the last piece of holly to a three-tiered fruitcake I’ve made for Christmas Day tomorrow. I’ve been using my work kitchen at MacLeod’s Bakery to do all of my holiday baking this year. I love being in here so much that I can’t help but use it—even in the off season.
Last spring, we renovated the kitchen in the main lodge of the B&B into a bigger space and put on an addition right next to it. We of course means Alba and Alistair did most of the heavy lifting on that project. I wanted a shop for the warmer months: a place where people could stop in and peer through the glass panes of a display case, deciding then and there what they were craving. I set up an area to decorate any specialty baked goods in the other half of the little store, so I’m always close by if customers or neighbours decide to pop in.
I run out to Alba’s truck. She’s picking me up since my car is in the garage this week getting its winter tires put on—a thing I totally forgot about during the years I lived away.
We chat for the whole drive as Alba brings me home. Since word got out after the wedding that the cottages are winterized, many people nearby have been renting them for family visiting over the holidays. Nice to have a little space, you know?
She stops in front of the lake house.
The pang of loss I used to feel when I saw the house is gone now. I’ve spent the last twelve months trying really, really hard to talk about my mom, and to let go of all of the shame and guilt around the years afterwards. Therapy helps, too.
The month before the anniversary of my mom’s death, Alistair and Alba sat me down—they make a formidable team, the Keep Florence From Going Off The Deep End Again Squad—and suggested, gently, that it might be a good idea to talk to someone. They’d found someone in Halifax who came highly recommended and did virtual sessions, so no fear of my therapy appointments making the rounds through Cape Breton.
I was a little annoyed, but I knew they were right. It was time.
After my first session, I felt pretty fucking raw. Alistair had suggested I join the call from the lake house while he was at work. When he came home, he didn’t pry. Only told me he was proud of me and that he loved me.
It was a pretty good motivator to keep going.
Alba puts the truck into park and turns to face me, but she doesn’t meet my eye. Her eyes are screaming something, but I can’t read the expression on her face.
What? I ask her, feeling taken aback, but she just shakes her head.
If I open my mouth right now, Alba says, looking anywhere but at me. I’ll say too much.
