Page 28 of Home to Christmas Island
What’s happening? I ask Alba, who is up on her tiptoes trying to get a good look at the scene. The crowd seems a little on edge, the line of parade floats fully paused now, but the Christmas music is still blaring.
I think it was something to do with that little kid, she says. But he seems okay.
A woman is holding a toddler, I would guess a little over two years old, sobbing uncontrollably. Alistair is kneeling down to talk to her.
Alba leans over and asks the people next to us, Did you see what happened?
The two women, both in their sixties or so, nod gravely. One of them says to us, The little guy ran out in front of one of the parade floats. His poor mother just about had a heart attack, but he’s fine.
The parade resumes shortly afterwards, the mother and son moving further back into the crowd and away from the road. It occurs to me that had it not been fine, it would have been Alistair’s job to deal with that situation.
Fuck, poor Al, Alba says, as if reading my thoughts. Thank god the kid is okay.
I realize that Alistair has probably seen some bad shit working as a police officer. Really bad, if I had to guess.
I don’t like the pit of worry that forms in my stomach and the thought that appears out of nowhere: This is the kind of career where people die on the job.
I don’t like that thought one bit.
I’M LYING IN BED LATER that night, rolling all of the events from today around in my mind like stones. I was happy to see Alistair at the parade tonight. No matter which way I spin it, that is an undeniable fact.
He has a job where safety is a real risk. Maybe not so much in rural Cape Breton, but still—bad things can happen anywhere. It’s not that the thought never occurred to me, but it never really sunk in. Or maybe it’s that I didn’t care. Do I care now? It feels like I do.
I wouldn’t want to take that choice from you. Alistair’s words from the beach come back to me for what feels like the hundredth time. I know why that exchange has been replaying in my mind so much and I accept that it’s finally time to deal with it.
I pull out my phone and it surprises me how quickly I type out the message. Normally, I would want to have this conversation face-to-face, or even on a call. But Justin hasn’t exactly given me the respect I deserve over the last few years, so I’m fine with doing this over text. There’s also a tiny part of me that worries if he gets me on the phone, he’ll talk me into changing my mind again. And I realize that isn’t what I want.
I sit with that thought for a few minutes, as new ones start bubbling up. I don’t want to be with Justin. Not now, not ever again. I deserve better. I was wrong—and this one appears seemingly out of thin air—I wish I’d ended things sooner.
But I don’t want to live with any more regret.
There are several messages from him that I haven’t read yet and I don’t read them now. Despite me asking him for space while we’re both off work, he hasn’t respected that at all. This only fuels the fire more and reaffirms to me that this is the right thing to do.
I re-read what I’ve written one more time.
Hey Justin. Hope you’re having a good holiday break. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve decided we need to end things permanently. I think you’re a great chef and I’m sure we’ll find a way to develop a professional working relationship going forward, but I’ve realized this isn’t what I’m looking for. Since you weren’t respectful of my initial request for some time apart, I’m going to block your number once this is sent.
I toy with the idea of adding another line, that I hope someday we can be friends. But I realize that it isn’t true—I don’t want to be his friend.
So instead, I end the message with: Wishing you all the best.
I take a deep breath and press send.
After the text goes through, I block his number and put my phone on the side table, not even bothering to plug it in.
It takes me mere seconds to fall asleep.
Chapter 12
THE NEXT MORNING, ALBA, ROSE, and I pack into the car, heading to breakfast with Santa. It’s an annual Christmas event put on at the fire hall. We all came downstairs wearing red: me in a soft wool sweater that fits like a glove, Rose in a long red dress that goes down to her ankles and Alba in a bright red flannel. The three of us looked like we planned our outfits to match, but none of us bothered changing.
Who’s playing Santa Claus these days then? I ask, remembering old Mr. Leblanc, a retired firefighter who used to don the costume every year. But he was ancient when I was a teenager.
Alba gives me a sideways smile, peeking from her side of the truck.
I’m not telling you. She says it in a singsong voice.
Who is it?
