Page 19 of Home to Christmas Island
Morning, Red Sizzler, he says, and he sounds tired, too. He starts walking in my direction and all I can think is, I can’t catch a break.
When I don’t reply, he says, ‘And good morning to you too, Alistair,’ his attempt at a Canadian accent setting my teeth on edge.
But Mrs. Sutherland pokes her head out of the door to see who Alistair is talking to before I get a chance to reply. Flora, is that you? Her voice sounds a lot more frail than I remember it.
Hi Mrs. Sutherland, I say, and it comes out a bit sheepishly. I feel like a teenager again when she waves me over for what I assume is an inspection.
Come here so I can get a good look at you.
I walk from the beach over to the door and try to ignore Alistair, despite him watching me closely. I can see the wolfish grin slowly returning to his face, but it only makes me wonder why he was looking so stressed out in the first place.
My god girl, you’ve grown up! Mrs. Sutherland says, and I worry that she’s going to say something about my mother. She does. You look so much like your mother.
This is what everyone used to say, that we looked identical except for our hair—mine is red, and hers was a sandy blonde. My hair has been long since I was a little girl, and my mother always loved my hair. I would sit on the floor of the lake house, her up on the couch, and she would brush it or braid it while we watched TV.
Now where, Flora, did you get all of this beautiful red hair? And why didn’t I get it too? She used to say, laughing to herself. One day when I was a teenager, I finally worked up the nerve to ask her if it came from the other side of the family. I couldn’t bring myself to say, my father’s side of the family.
She had paused brushing my hair for only a moment before she answered. Well Florence, I’m not really sure. He didn’t have red hair, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t come from his side. She smoothed my hair down appreciatively before saying, with a touch of pride, But I suspect it’s the Cape Breton genes that turned your hair red.
It wasn’t until I was a few years older that the whole story came out. I had never really asked her too many questions about who my father was—Mom loved me more than enough for two parents. But I was curious.
In her mid-twenties, she’d had a brief fling with a man from Bathurst. She found out she was pregnant right before he was offered a job back home in New Brunswick. She debated keeping it to herself, but people talk, and she wanted him to hear it from her. He moved to New Brunswick anyway, and my mother never heard from him again.
It was apparently quite the scandal for my mother to decide to raise a baby on her own in our small community back then, but she was quick to shut down anyone who tried to criticize her. People will talk, Flora. That’s life. What anyone says about me behind my back isn’t my business. Then she laughed and added, And anyone who dared make a snide remark to my face, well, I just held you up real close to them. You had this perfect little cherub face, and you’d smile and charm the words right out of their sour mouths.
Thank you, I say to Mrs. Sutherland, dragging myself back to the present. I try to mean it, but it really hurts to think about Mom, to be compared to her. To think that she doesn’t know what I look like now. That she’ll never look any different from how I remember her.
How’s life been treating you? Still baking? Mrs. Sutherland asks, and I try to focus on her questions, keeping me rooted in the here and now.
Yes ma’am, I’m making Alba’s wedding cake, if you’d believe it, I say, and I swear Alistair stifles a cough under his breath at my politeness. I shoot him a glare, before I turn back to Mrs. Sutherland and add, The house looks almost the same as I remember it.
Mrs. Sutherland barks out a laugh at this. You never were a good liar, Flora. ‘Almost the same,’ she says, she gestures towards Alistair at this. It looks very run down dear. You know it, and I know it.
I try not to wince. It really doesn’t look that bad. It just needs a fresh coat of paint.
Yes, well Alistair offered to do exactly that in the spring, didn’t you? Alistair nods at this and seems a little embarrassed. I mean, come on, could this guy stop being so charitable all the time?
Well, that will certainly help, I say, wanting desperately to get away from this conversation.
How’s life on the high seas? Did I hear you have a man on the boat? I want to curl up and die. I forgot how nosy people here are—and I know if this intel is coming from Alba or her dad, whatever she’s heard can’t be anything good.
There’s no man, I say, shaking my hands and backing away. It was nice to see you Mrs. Sutherland, but I’d better be going, I pretend to shiver. I think I’ve lost my stamina for the cold weather.
Nice to see you too Flora. Come by anytime you like, she says, then adds, Try not to set any fires while you’re home, all right dear? She barks out another laugh and I try to contort my face into anything but a grimace.
Mrs. Sutherland shuts the door and I attempt to make my way back to the beach without any further conversation with Alistair. He’s not having it, though. He just walks beside me and begins his routine line of questioning.
So, there’s a man on the boat? His voice is teasing, but again, there’s that hint of curiosity, like I’m some kind of crossword, and he’s searching for the letters to fill in the boxes. I hate how quickly word travels around Cape Breton. I don’t even bother to acknowledge his question.
What are you doing here anyway? Chasing down poor Mrs. Sutherland to give her a speeding ticket, too?
He makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a scoff. I was only checking in on her. She’s well into her eighties now, and lives alone. So, I stop by when I can. That exhaustion creeps back into his voice.
Where’s her husband?
He looks at me sadly. He passed away a few years ago now. Their kids are spread out all over the island, so they do visit a fair bit, too. But, he shrugs. I feel like I should help her out when I have the time.
This makes me feel a little queasy. I’ve missed out on so much. Everyone here would have attended Mr. Sutherland’s funeral. My mom probably would have baked something to bring to the reception afterwards, if she had been alive.
