Chapter 23
“I wanted to ask you about the party.” I busy myself with the coffee maker, measuring scoops with precision and counting in my head as I go. Except I lose count after the first two, focused on Miss Betty’s response.
“What about it?” Miss Betty asks, adding another log to the fire.
Liam has gone back to Slice of Life, but not before asking if I want to visit the farm and see the animals, maybe pick out a tree for the clinic.
I don’t tell him I have a low-key fear of large animals, and instead share my skills with a hacksaw (I have cut down many a Christmas tree with my parents over the years).
I’m already feeling that anticipatory nervousness, and excitement, of seeing him again.
As I try to formulate my question about the party, I add another scoop to the basket. This pot is either going to be too weak, or gasoline-level strong. Either way, not great.
“Libby? What’s your question?”
“So I was wondering if you’ve seen a to-do list lying around? For the party? I… I’ve misplaced mine.” I pour the water into the coffee maker’s reservoir, waiting for her answer.
“I do have an extra one, actually—Mila dropped a paper copy off a week ago, but I prefer to use my phone. Let me grab it for you.”
As Miss Betty heads off to retrieve this list, I sit in one of the waiting room’s chairs, marveling at how cozy everything is.
It’s the sort of place in which you wouldn’t mind waiting to see the doctor—homey and inviting, with plenty of natural light, warm wood, and comfortable chairs.
Contrast that to the waiting room of any Toronto hospital, with their bright fluorescent lights, cracked plastic chairs, scuff-marked linoleum flooring…
no comparison. Also, my shoulders are relaxed, I don’t have a headache, and my eyes don’t sting from the antiseptic cleaning smells.
For a moment I consider what it would be like to work here, permanently, alongside my parents.
Do I love emergency medicine as much as I think I do? I’m not sure anymore. Sometimes you get so used to a specific narrative you stop checking in to make sure it’s still accurate.
Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m burned out. Most docs I know, particularly those in the emergency room, are working on a half-full battery all the time. So where do I see myself in ten years? What do I want?
It’s about the small things , Liam said.
He was referring to relationships, but I’m starting to see how it applies to all areas of life.
The small things, like freshly brewed coffee and soft cushions, homemade air fresheners, and a kind ear when you need someone to listen—those are the things that matter.
“Here you go,” Miss Betty says. She hands me a piece of lined paper from a school notebook.
It hasn’t been ripped out, but rather a ruler has been used to make a clean edge, free of tears.
The check boxes are perfect squares; the handwriting pristine.
It has Amelia’s signature style all over it, and I’m grateful to my little sister for her fastidiousness when it comes to to-do lists, among other things.
“Staying Alive! Munro Medical Turns Silver” is written at the top of the list.
Oh my goodness. Of course.
My parents opened the clinic twenty-five years ago this Christmas. This surprise party is an anniversary party, scheduled for the same night and venue as chili night to make sure my parents—who wouldn’t miss this annual event—are none the wiser.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Miss Betty says. She’s behind me, and she sets her hands on my shoulders. “Where has the time gone?”
“I have no idea,” I reply, also realizing there was no such party last year.
What happened? Mom’s ankle, for one thing.
But if this party was scheduled—even if it was cancelled in the end—why didn’t I know about it?
Why didn’t my sister ask for my help? I would have stayed for this milestone event, no question.
Truth time, Libby. Okay, I would have come home for the party, but I would have presumed Amelia would handle the planning—and she definitely would have anticipated that, so she may not have involved me.
I’m so far away … schedule is insane … you’re much better at this than I am , I likely would have said when she floated the idea of an anniversary party.
I may also have argued that Mom and Dad took oaths as health custodians for the community, and therefore wouldn’t need, nor frankly want, this sort of fanfare (a not-so-subtle attempt to eliminate the need to be involved—if there’s no party, there’s nothing to plan!).
I would have been wrong, though, on all counts—except the one about my sister’s party-planning skills eclipsing mine.
Yes, our parents serve Harmony Hills, but the town that relies on them would want to express gratitude and honour the clinic’s legacy.
A legacy that will end with my parents, because without a successor there are only two options: sell the practice, or end up with an underserved Harmony Hills. I well up, considering all of this.
“You all right, Libby?” Miss Betty asks, rubbing my shoulders.
“Never better,” I reply, but my tone is strained. “Just overwhelmed that it has been so long. It’s a big deal.”
“Sure is, honey. Now, let’s take a look at what’s left to do.” Miss Betty pulls out her phone, uses her finger to scan her digital list.
“Check, check, check, check… looks like most things are handled. Just my photo collage and the cookies are left. Oh, and the party gifts need to have the tags attached. Have you seen them yet?”
I shake my head, having no idea what the gifts are.
“They are so cute—turned out really well. Monica’s book club made them all, bless those bookish ladies and gents!
The gift tag is clever, too. Let me try to remember…
” Miss Betty taps a finger to the side of her face, then holds it up, her face brightening.
“ Twenty-five years of sleighing sickness—ho, ho, healthy! ”
I laugh at the festive pun. “I’ll do the tags,” I say, now seeing the item about halfway down the list. Ah, the party gifts are ornament-shaped bath bombs. Cute.
“It’s lovely the two of you are doing this for your parents. They work hard. Too hard, I think. But what’s the option?” A shadow passes over Miss Betty’s face, and I long to ask, Is everything okay, with my parents and the clinic?
But before I can, the clinic’s phone rings. “Excuse me, Libby. I should get that.”
“Please, don’t let me stop you. I was about to head out anyway.”
“Munro Medical, this is Betty.” There’s a pause as she listens to whoever is on the other end of the phone. I start gathering my things. Miss Betty clicks into her laptop, eyes scanning the screen. “I can squeeze you in this afternoon. How about two o’clock?”
I slide my arms into my coat sleeves and zip it up; then, with a last wave and smile to Miss Betty, I open the door, Christmas bells chiming as I do.
Glancing into the kitchen, I see Mom and Dad side by side at the butcher block island, chopping veggies for the salad and whisking dressing.
We’re having a green salad with our cinnamon French toast, because: balance .
Mom used to make us eat carrots and celery with our birthday cakes, always found a way to add zucchini to every baked good, and a piece of fruit was paired with rare take-out French fries.
Dad’s singing along to Christmas carols, and Mom nods her head to the beat.
I’ve always taken their solid marriage for granted. My parents make it look easy, which perhaps was part of my issue with Austin. I assumed it should be easy, which was naive. Success takes hard work, whether it’s a career or a relationship.
Amelia and I are setting the dinner table, and I know our parents can’t hear us with the music playing. “Mila, how about I do the tags for the party favours?”
She looks up at me, slight surprise on her face. “Oh, great. That would be a big help. I have all the supplies at my place, if you’re okay to do it there?”
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” I reply, laying out the cutlery. “Miss Betty gave me her extra list.”
I swallow hard, embarrassed by my lack of awareness.
I should have remembered this anniversary without any reminders.
I’m hoping what I say next doesn’t sound accusatory, considering how much work my sister has clearly done for the party.
“Why didn’t you ask for my help earlier?
I would have been glad to do more. You took on a lot, it looks like. ”
Amelia stares at me, arm poised with the water jug mid-pour. “Libby, I did. Don’t you remember? We talked about it briefly, last month. I asked you to come home early, and you said you couldn’t.”
I stare back, feeling the frown settle onto my face. I have no memory of this. I suddenly realize I’ll never know what happened to the party last year—there’s no way, and no one, for me to ask, because the future is currently being rewritten.
Glancing back into the kitchen again, I watch Dad and Mom bump hips to the music, laughing as they do. I have thought very little about my parents, the clinic, and how integral they have been to the community here. Shame fills me, soon followed by melancholy.
Amelia continues filling the water glasses. “You said you’d be there for the party but couldn’t leave work much before that. And then, weirdly, you showed up early anyway. Like, days early…” She shrugs, eyes on the water glasses.
My hands shake lightly as I set the forks onto folded napkins. I’m glad she’s not making eye contact, because I am struggling to hold a neutral expression.
“You said you took a few extra days off work, and I should take advantage of your empty schedule. But then you got sick, and, well, truth be told, everything was already mostly done. Miss Betty was a huge help. Becks, too—she did the invites. Did you know she does beautiful calligraphy? Hand addressed all of them for me. For us.”
I watch Amelia’s lips turn up into a subtle smile. “Huh, wow,” I reply, thinking about the wedding note cards Mom and I attached to the candy canes, and how a year from now Amelia and Beckett will be starting a life together. “She’s a good friend.”
“She is.” Amelia sets the water jug on the sideboard, puts the salt, pepper, and maple syrup in the middle of the table. “It’s going to be awesome, seeing their expressions. I can’t believe we’ve kept the secret.”
Her voice is lowered, but Dad—who suddenly appears in the dining room, salad in hand—catches the tail end of her comment. “Kept what secret?” he asks.
Amelia and I exchange a quick glance, then I say, “Your salad dressing. We’ve never asked about your secret ingredient…”
Dad places his hands on the tablecloth, which is covered in silver bells, leaning towards us. “Nutritional yeast,” he whispers. “Flakes of gold. But don’t tell your mother—she thinks it’s vile stuff.”
Amelia and I burst out laughing, silently crossing our hearts and pressing our finger to our lips in a vow of silence.