Page 6 of Home to Christmas Island
He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis when Alba and I were in high school. It was a scary diagnosis at first, and the four of us didn’t really know what to expect, since the symptoms can vary so much. But it thankfully progressed slowly. Alba tells me that these days, he can usually make do using his cane. Over the last year, however, he’s had to use a wheelchair more often to help him get around outside the house.
Keith comes over and ruffles my hair. I shriek, trying to smooth it back into place, while he and my uncle laugh.
Good to see you Flora, Keith says, and there’s warmth in his voice that tells me he means it. Can I trust you won’t be setting any fires in our fine establishment tonight?
It was one time, I protest, trying to forget that I did once, perhaps, sneak into the kitchen here to try and bake something. It was in the early days of my baking journey and, well, I’m thankful Keith had a fire extinguisher.
She might very well set another fire, but I think it’s worth the risk, Uncle Albie starts. I’m dying for one of her sweet treats, and frankly I’m hoping she can get started right this second.
Flora, as you well know, has a lifelong ban from our kitchen, Keith says, his pale blonde mustache twitching slightly. He’s speaking with a mock sternness that tells me he’s teasing. While the anger may be feigned, I’m pretty sure the lifelong kitchen ban is real. I feel like I’m twelve years old again—slightly embarrassed, and trying desperately not to get defensive over the familiar jests from people who have known me all my life.
After Keith has been fully tormented with threats of me taking over the kitchen entirely, he claps my uncle on the shoulder and returns to the bar.
Soon I find myself surrounded by familiar faces, as people spot my recognizable red hair and come over to say hello. Word spreads through the bar like wildfire, and I feel a bit like a local celebrity on a homecoming tour.
Flora, it’s been an age! You must be here for Alba’s wedding?
How’s the big jet-setting life treating you, Florence?
Do you ever get seasick? Of course not—you’re a Cape Bretoner after all!
No fires here tonight, right Flora?
The fire joke gets made several more times before I’ve finally done my rounds of the bar and can get back to time spent with my uncle.
Did you see my ramp on your way in? Uncle Albie asks, puffing out his chest proudly as I nod, feeling a surge of admiration for him.
Alba told me this story over the phone right after it first happened. The pub wasn’t wheelchair accessible, with three steps leading up to the door. So when Uncle Albie began using his chair more regularly, he made quite the fuss.
The first piece of garbage they tried to have me use was too steep, he says, showing me with his hand what seems like quite a strong incline. It’s all about the angles, little Flora. All about the angles. Well, I wasn’t having any of that, I’m not one of those muscle heads who can use my feats of strength to get into the goddamn pub.
I laugh, feeling delighted to be here in my uncle’s company. So what did you do? I ask, pretending I don’t know this story. I’m happy to hear his version of it anyway.
Well, he says, leaning in closer to whisper conspiratorially. I think I could have gotten up the ramp if I really tried, but I didn’t want to put in so much effort every single time. My muscles get tired, you know. So, he says, sipping his rum and pausing for dramatic effect here, I made a scene.
You didn’t!
Oh, I did. You’ve never seen the likes. ‘Don’t they want my money? Don’t they care about a lifelong patron?’ That’s what I said. Thankfully, Alistair was there.
My stomach drops a little at that, and I feel my eyes narrow into a glare—not this guy again.
They didn’t quite know what to do with me, but thankfully for the lot of them, Alistair was back in twenty minutes with some wood and his tools, building me the perfect ramp—just the right gradient you see, he says, motioning the angles with his hand again. Not too steep.
At this, I can’t help but glance over at Alistair. He’s talking to the same man from earlier, who I don’t immediately recognize, and seems to be enjoying himself. He takes another swig of his stupid craft beer.
And that’s when Uncle Albie says one of the worst things I’ve ever heard.
He’s the one who bought the lake house.
Chapter 4
MY HEART STOPS.
I knew, of course, that the lake house belonged to someone else now. I’d signed the paperwork, after all. But it’s hard to live with your own choices sometimes.
I chose, in my cloud of grief, to tell Uncle Albie to sell it. I couldn’t bear it. I begged him to take everything out and put it all in storage. I vowed I’d never step foot in that house again.
I couldn’t, when I knew she wouldn’t be there.
