Page 23 of Home to Christmas Island
What the fuck do you want?
I can feel the rage that’s already bursting out of me start to sharpen into something mean.
You seem… distressed, he says, his accent seeming thicker somehow today. He doesn’t say more, only continues to look down at the lake.
Excuse me? I’m trying not to open my mouth, fearing what I might say to him. This perfectly nice man who stole our fucking house.
His tone is a touch softer when he says, I know, I know. I should probably leave well enough alone. But, he shrugs. I saw your rental car and then spotted you down here and, well, I felt like I needed to make sure you were all right.
I don’t need a babysitter, I snap, Of course I’m distressed, so can you just leave me the hell alone?
He looks over at me and I try not to have a reaction, I really do. But holy hell. The sunlight is bouncing off the snow, making every colour pop—and his green eyes are so bright. They’re quite a few shades darker than my own, like the leaves of a tree in the middle of summer. They’d almost be hazel if you weren’t looking close enough.
For some reason, that I don’t care to dwell on, this finally stops my crying. I stare for a bit too long, my mind blank and my breathing ragged, and a slow, soft smile starts to work its way up his face.
I didn’t say you needed a babysitter. What I’m suggesting is that maybe you need a friend. He looks at me for a second longer before turning his gaze back to the lake.
His tone is almost vulnerable, and I can tell his offer is genuine, which sparks about twenty-seven different emotions at once. When I only continue to stare at him, he goes on. If that’s not preferable to you, I can go back and sit in my car, if you’d like.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. What did you do to our house? I want to be mean; I want to pick a fight with him, but my question comes out quieter than I expect.
He doesn’t look at me, only continues to look down at the water. He lets out a long exhale before saying, I’ve done mostly upkeep. There were a few things I did have to change for safety reasons, as the house had sat empty for a little while before I got there. My heart lurches at that, but he continues.
Honestly, I haven’t wanted to change much about it. There’s an expression my mother used to say: What's for ye'll not go by ye. Means if it’s meant to be, it’ll be. And I got goosebumps walking into that house, like it was meant to be, he says, looking at me again before adding, It felt like home.
Home. The word stings and I flinch. It’s like a movie montage starts playing behind my eyes: putting glow-in-the-dark stars on the wooden beams along the ceiling; Mom covering every surface in Christmas village figures each December; breathing in the smell of the house after being away; Alba, Uncle Albie, and my mom crammed around our small kitchen table, all of us reaching over each other for whatever we needed; Mom and I sitting out on the front porch no matter the weather, talking about everything and nothing.
I seem to have this problem where, when in Alistair’s presence, I either can’t think of one single decent thing to say, or the words are tumbling out of my mouth before I even realize what they are. The latter is happening today.
Can I come see it? I don’t know if this will make things better or worse, I just know I need to be there again. It’s the only way I’ll be able to feel like I’ve really come home.
He watches me now and I suddenly remember I must look absolutely wretched, given the full-body sobbing that was happening minutes ago. I can feel the blush creeping up my neck and I think he notices it too. The wind blows a strand of my hair covering my cheek and he moves it out of my face.
What’s weirder is that I let him.
His voice is gentle when he finally responds.
Any time you like, he says, then stands, dusting the snow off his pants. I’ll leave you be, ‘Just Florence.’
I watch him walk back to his car. And as much as I’d never admit it to anyone, I find myself wishing he’d stayed.
Chapter 10
HEN, ROOSTER, CHICKEN, DUCK!
Alba, Rose, and I scream in unison as we run, with our hands all locked together, into the frigid lake. The phrase is new for me—apparently something Rose’s family says to get each other to duck into the water. But this is one of my favourite items on the Christmas Countdown: a polar bear plunge.
It actually started with my mother, who saw in our teen years that the Countdown had Alba and I truly bouncing off the walls in excitement, and knew we needed to burn off some serious energy. But it’s turned into a tradition for a lot of people who live in the area, and there’s a small group of us here today.
That, of course, includes Alistair, who I feel too embarrassed to acknowledge among the crowd.
I felt wrung out when I came back from the cemetery yesterday, but Alba and Rose were waiting for me when I got back. Alba had been pacing by the front window and Rose cradled me in her arms the second she saw my red, puffy eyes.
But this morning, something in me feels lighter. Like a jaw unclenched.
The ice-cold water helps, too.
From the lake house, we could at least jump into the water off the dock. It’s a hell of a lot harder to submerge yourself at this temperature when you have to run in from the beach.
