Chapter 2 December 17
The call that decimates daydreams of margaritas and beach time for the holidays comes the following day.
I don’t immediately answer, because I’m stitching a sliced hand that got between a cup of Christmas-cake walnuts and a sharp knife.
The hand’s owner, a midforties woman named Jennifer, has a bob similar to mine.
Though hers is sleek, a polished curling under at the ends, while mine is staticky and limp from air-drying.
“I was rushing. You have to soak the cake in brandy for weeks, which obviously I’m weeks late for,” Jennifer says, wincing as I place the third stitch—it will take five to close it. The phone in my scrubs’ back pocket stops vibrating, the call sent to voicemail.
“Can you feel that?” I ask Jennifer, catching the wince.
“No. I feel nothing. Both literally, and figuratively,” she says, then leans her head back and closes her eyes. “What is it about this season that can make you feel so empty?”
“Definitely not the cakes and cookies,” I reply, and Jennifer lets out a short, mirthless laugh.
“You know, one of these years I’m going to spend Christmas under palm trees,” she says, sighing.
“No hustle and bustle. Definitely not making my mother-in-law’s cake recipe that has to be on the holiday table, because: ‘tradition.’?” She uses her good hand to signify the air quotes, eyes still closed.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” I reply, tying off the fourth stitch. “In fact, I’m booking a last-minute trip south as soon as my shift is over.”
Jennifer groans, cracking open one eye to look my way. “I am so jealous. Guessing you don’t have a mother-in-law?”
I smile and shake my head, understanding this woman means nothing by it. But her comment lands like a punch to my centre. There’s a pain in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. I tell myself it’s heartburn from my earlier breakfast sandwich, which I ate too quickly.
“I don’t. But I do have a mother.” I then turn my attention back to the final stitch. “So how much brandy goes into this Christmas cake?”
With ten minutes left in my break, I have just enough time to eat the candy bar in my hand while I scroll through vacation deals.
Also, I should probably check my messages.
My sister, Amelia, has already left two voicemails, and I’m sure a third is coming if I don’t get back to her soon.
The moment I have this thought, my phone vibrates again, announcing an incoming call.
The Sister , I see on the screen. “You are very predictable, Sissy,” I murmur, opening the candy bar wrapper.
I suspect she’s calling about Christmas—presents for our parents, holiday to-do-list items, which day I’m coming home.
Then I take a big bite of the candy bar, watching my mailbox flag number increase by one.
Of course I should answer it—that’s what a good sister would do. But I want to eat my candy bar without worrying about anything, including delivering the news that I will not be coming home for Christmas.
Almost immediately, a text message pings: “Call me back. It’s an emergency.”
I’m thrust back to this time last year, when I received a similar text from Amelia after ignoring her calls. Though that day I had not picked up the phone because it was Austin’s birthday and we’d mostly spent it in bed, doing celebratory things.
If only we had the sort of chemistry in every other aspect of life that we did in the bedroom.
For a moment I indulge that particular memory.
Austin has the most amazing hands. The sort that can sculpt fine details into a person’s face with flawless subtlety.
They’re creative, strong hands, and if there’s one thing Austin was even better at than surgery, it was using those glorious hands on my skin, and body, and—
My phone pings another text from my sister, forcing me back to the present.
“THIS IS NOT A DRILL”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so worried now. Our parents often used that phrase when we were kids.
“The leaves need to be raked before it snows this weekend, girls. This is not a drill. ”…
“Breakfast, and out the door in five, or you’ll be late for school.
This is not a drill .”… “Grandma is coming over for dinner, so time to clean up your rooms. This is not a drill. ” Amelia and I still employ it when a situation requires immediate attention.
One of the best by-products of working in a busy Toronto emergency room is a relative immunity to panic, even though it takes some effort if the situation involves a loved one.
I switch into doctor mode, relaxing my shoulders and taking a few deep breaths, before calling Amelia back.
I use my shoulder to hold the phone in place against my ear so I have both hands free to peel back the candy bar wrapper.
“Finally!” Amelia says, picking up after one ring and right as I take another big bite.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my tone no-nonsense but also muffled because of the mouthful of chocolate and peanut nougat. “Is it Mom? Dad?”
Our parents—Monica and Stark Munro—run Harmony Hills’ medical practice.
Mom’s the doctor, Dad the nurse, and they treat patients in a cedar-shingled Craftsman cottage near the town’s square.
The year prior, Mom, and the only doctor for miles, fell off a ladder while hanging twinkle lights on the clinic’s roof and broke her ankle.
I raced home after receiving Amelia’s panicked 911/this-is-not-a-drill!
text and subsequent phone call, but stayed only a couple of days.
Barely long enough to make a dent in the container of peppermint-mocha creamer my parents always made sure was in the fridge, knowing I like it in my morning coffee.
Austin and I were heading to L.A. for Christmas, a trip that he framed as an early Christmas present for me (and late birthday trip for him), but which ended up being neither.
I had envisioned romantic beach walks and long dinners and late wake-ups in our gorgeous hotel with an ocean view.
A stark contrast to Toronto in December, which is cold, grey, and often slushy.
Instead, I spent much of the four days alone, as Austin charmed his way through early conversations about coveted positions at clinics serving celebrities’ plastic surgery needs.
Like I said, up until that point I had no clue he wanted to leave Toronto, let alone live in L.A. “Eventually, Elizabeth—not tomorrow!” he said, chuckling at my shocked reaction to his casual mention of this as we sipped room-service coffee on our oceanfront balcony that first morning.
“We’ve talked about this, babe,” he added, his tone mildly condescending.
Had we? The coffee was suddenly bitter in my throat and hard to swallow.
I had no recollection of this coming up, ever, despite our having dated for nearly a year.
Austin was born in the United States—in Boston—and had dual citizenship, but there would be far more hoops for me to jump through if we moved to L.A.
for work. When I reminded him of this fact, he merely said, “We’ll figure it out,” like it was a minor scheduling conflict rather than a major life change.
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything and everyone’s great, actually,” my sister replies now to my question, her voice bright and cheery. That’s Amelia: endlessly positive. An elementary-school teacher whose favourite saying is, “Let’s turn that frown upside down!”
“But I knew you wouldn’t call me back unless you thought something might be wrong,” she adds. “Plus, your voicemail is full. Again .”
“ This is not a drill? ” I try to keep the irritation at Amelia’s fake-out from bringing my shoulders up to my ears. I don’t want to add a tension headache into the mix.
Amelia lets out a squeal of excitement, and I jerk my ear from the phone, causing it to fall. It clatters to the ground in a way that makes me wonder if my screen has cracked.
“Shoot,” I mumble, then crouch quickly to grab the phone and put it back to my ear, just in time to hear Amelia say, “… in five days. December twenty-second! Can you believe it?”
“What’s happening on December twenty-second?” I ask.
“You are a spectacular doctor, but you are a terrible listener, Libby,” Amelia says.
“I know. But could you please repeat the first part? In five days, on December twenty-second …” I prompt, rolling my eyes at her admonishment while also acknowledging she’s not wrong.
I blame my work, which requires me to be a selective listener to seek out diagnostic clues.
But my loved ones deserve my full attention.
New Year’s Resolution Number One: Work on indiscriminate listening skills.
“ Actually , it’s six, if you count today… but, I’m getting married, and you’re my maid of honour!” Another squeal, but this time I press the phone firmly to my ear.
“You’re what?” The words fly out of my mouth, along with a piece of candy bar, which lands on the nursing station I’m leaning against. The nurse behind the desk gives me a pointed look as she places a box of tissues in front of me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, quickly wiping up the mess before crumpling the tissue in hand. Then I ask Amelia, “To who?”
At this she laughs, before letting out a sigh like she’s a librarian who has had to ask students to be quiet for the tenth time in as many minutes.
I resist the urge to remind her she is my baby sister, I practically raised her, and so please don’t treat me like I’m the immature one here when you’ve just announced you’re getting married . In five days.
“To whom ,” Amelia corrects, and my irritation flushes hotter. My shoulders rise to my ears. Here comes the headache. “And it’s Beckett, obviously. What a question, Libby!”
Beckett is Amelia’s girlfriend of nearly a year, so she’s not wrong—it was a dumb question.
“But… so quick? When did this happen? How did this happen?” I sputter.
“We have almost a week before the wedding. Loads of time. Besides, you’re coming home for Christmas anyway. It saves you a trip!”
“A week is not loads of time ,” I reply. “It’s a wedding, Mila, not a backyard barbecue.”
There’s quiet on the other end, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t ruin this for her, Elizabeth.
As if sensing my internal dialogue, Amelia says, “Don’t be a Scrooge, okay? I’m happy, Libby. I know it seems spontaneous, but we’ve been talking about it for ages.”
Ages? They’ve not even been dating for a full year.
Austin and I were together for two, and we didn’t even get close to an engagement, let alone a marriage.
Of course, I assumed it would happen at some point, but we were too busy with work to think much beyond career ambitions.
At least that’s what I tell myself now, as I feel a hint of envy creeping in.
“Sorry, Mila—you caught me off guard. Busy morning,” I say, walking to the trash bin and tossing in the tissue and partially eaten candy bar, my appetite gone.
With a quiet grumble of acknowledgement that I’ll need to cancel the bikini wax I booked earlier, I put a smile on my face and hope it translates to a more cheerful-sounding voice.
“Let me try that again. Congratulations! I am thrilled for you, and Beckett, too. I’d be honoured to be your maid of honour.”
“Will you be bringing a plus-one?” Amelia asks, probing the way only a sibling can.
“Amelia…” I start, to which she quickly replies, “I’m only asking because Mom asked. She wants to make sure your bedroom is appropriately prepared, in quotes.”
I groan lightly, closing my eyes. “As I’ve already explained, I have sworn off dating for at least a year… possibly forever…” Amelia laughs. “So no, there will be no plus-one, but thank Mom for me for prying, okay?”
“You bet!” Amelia says brightly. “Better run, but I’ll see you soon, Libby.”
“Bye, Mila. Love you,” I say, before hanging up. Then I click into my calendar, and delete the “Mexico” vacation banner. Guess I’m going home for Christmas after all , I think. Well played, Universe. Well played.