Chapter 7
THE NEXT THREE DAYS GO by in a blur. Rose and I make centrepieces for the wedding tables.
I sneak out on my own to do some Christmas shopping.
Alba and I tick things off our Christmas Countdown: bake Christmas cookies—check.
(Much to Uncle Albie’s delight.) Make paper snowflakes for the windows—check.
(Rose’s are by far the prettiest.) Build a snowman—check.
(It was a little haggard given the dirty, grey leftover snow Alba and I used, but it still counted.
And no one was pummelled into a snowbank in the process, so I’m counting that as a win!)
Unfortunately for me, Alistair seems to pop up everywhere.
He always has a smirk and a jab to throw my way, and as much as I try to shrug it off, it still gets a rise out of me.
The conversation in his car seemed almost intimate—and it only made me want to avoid him even more.
I managed to keep entirely away from him at the pub last night, distracted by conversations with people I’ve known my entire life.
But I noticed him glance over at me a few times.
I still don’t know what to make of that.
Alba, meanwhile, is getting more and more delusional that there’s something going on between us. She noticed him looking my way at the bar too, and this morning she’s finding all kinds of creative ways to drop him into the conversation.
I mean, I’ve known since I was thirteen that I much prefer women, she says, whisking milk in a pot over the stove in her kitchen. She’s wearing a red ugly Christmas sweater that I plan to steal: it has a smiling gingerbread man on the front with the words, Let’s get baked, in green letters.
But even I can admit he’s not hard to look at. Alba goes on about Alistair, cackling to herself and winking at me. What’s the harm in a little fun, Cousin?
I groan. What’s his deal anyway? Why did he come here?
She straightens at this, her face going serious.
I’m not totally sure. I think he wanted a change.
I get the feeling he wanted to get away from something, or someone.
He seems to like stability, routine. And he likes to keep busy, that’s for sure.
You two definitely have that in common. I don’t acknowledge this, so she goes on.
He’s very handy, always fixing up things here and there, she says before throwing in a bit too casually, Including at the lake house.
You really should see what he’s done with it.
I say nothing and she doesn’t push. But I mull this over, staring out the window towards the sun rising through the trees.
Out of nowhere I ask her, Did he ever date anyone after moving here?
I expect her to give me a knowing look at the question, but she only nods.
I feel both relieved that she isn’t teasing me and dread at whatever she’s about to say next.
You remember Catherine Murphy from high school? She was in the grade above us. They dated for a bit, but then she got a job in Charlottetown and that was the end of that.
I think I hate this. Catherine is beautiful and smart, but she’s also kind of meek.
Timid. And definitely a rule-follower like him.
I feel annoyed that this isn’t the sort of person I imagined him wanting to date.
I pick at my cuticles in irritation, not wanting to make eye contact with Alba, who I fear is already reading way too much into this.
How are things with Justin? Alba asks suddenly, her voice dripping with disdain and her eyes firmly locked on the pot of milk in front of her.
I can’t quite bring myself to meet her eyes either, so I pretend I’m still examining my nails. But away from the ship, hundreds of kilometres away from him, I finally admit to her, He’s kind of an asshole.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a look of something like relief pass over Alba’s face. This makes me feel strangely guilty.
He is an asshole Flora. And I think he’s jealous of how talented you are.
I can’t stand that guy. She’s made her feelings about him known a number of times, but I didn’t let it bother me.
I didn’t even let it sink in. I think I’ve gotten into the habit of dissociating from my life, and because I was happy to have someone else decide for me, it was easy to sweep her comments under the rug.
Alba places a mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of me. It’s covered in whipped cream, marshmallows, and tiny snowflake sprinkles. I normally start my day with coffee, but this is another item on our Christmas Countdown: make a wish over a cup of hot chocolate.
Tell me it’s done this time, Alba says. I nod, feeling rotten as the weight of her obvious dislike settles into me.
It’s not that I’m bothered that she never liked Justin.
I guess I’m irritated with myself for letting it go on so long.
My cousin shakes her head when I don’t say anything more and adds, It’s like he always managed to snuff the light out of you.
Alba takes my face in her hands. He never deserved you, she says, lifting my cheeks higher so my eyes finally meet hers. Again, that feeling resembling shame winds its way through me. Now, block his number and be done with it.
I have to look away before I can answer, slinking backwards and out of her grasp.
Well, I’ll have to see him when we’re back on the boat—
You’re going back? I raise my eyes to hers automatically at the shift in her tone. The look she gives me is so full of hurt I can’t breathe.
I mean, yeah, eventually. My job is there. What else am I going to do?
She stares at me hard. I feel embarrassed but I refuse to look away again. I can feel my face heating. She says, like she’s been rehearsing this, Why don’t you try, just once, leaning into and learning to live with the hurt, instead of running away from it?
Her words sting, but I can feel her holding herself back from whatever it is she really wants to say. I’m not sure what I think will come out of her mouth when she speaks again, but it isn’t this: When are you going to the cemetery?
All the air leaves my lungs. It feels like a tidal wave slamming into my chest.
I don’t know, I say, knowing full well that it’s something I have to do eventually. Terrified that when I see her headstone, I will unravel completely. I try to shove the feelings aside.
You should go and see her, Alba says gently, her arms squeezing around me. I’ll come with you; we can go together.
I shake my head.
This is something I have to do alone.
She nods in understanding, then nudges the hot chocolate towards me.
Time to make a wish, she says, clinking her mug with mine and closing her eyes. She sighs when she’s done silently making her wish, and takes a sip.
I can’t think of anything to wish for. So instead, I close my eyes, and try not to think about my mother.
AN HOUR LATER, I’M SUITED up in my red parka and driving in my rental car towards the cemetery.
But when I see the turn that will bring me to the church up on the hill, I speed up—blowing right past it instead.
I know I’ll have to go at some point while I’m home, but I can’t help wanting to delay it a little longer.
I decide what I really need is some time by the water.
My whole life, I’ve lived near a major body of water.
I’ve always felt claustrophobic at the thought of living anywhere that’s fully landlocked.
I drive a little further down the highway in the direction of one of the local sandbars.
It’ll be covered in snow and slush and probably ice this time of year, but I don’t care.
The drive there is so familiar I feel certain I could get there with my eyes closed.
This, of course, reminds me to check my speeding.
God forbid I get pulled over by that man.
In a desperate attempt to get Alistair out of my head, I allow my thoughts to drift back to my mom. I know she would have hated how long I’ve been away from home. The guilt that cracks through me is like iron; heavy and weighing on me in an instant.
She was healthy, smiling, and happy the last time I saw her, waving goodbye to me from the front steps of the lake house.
It was in the early days of January—Alba and I had come home for Christmas and were leaving again to go back to school for our last semester in New York.
She’d hugged both of us about six times each before we left.
It had been the perfect holiday break. Alba and her dad slept over on Christmas Eve, Mom cooked an incredible dinner, and Uncle Albie outdid himself with the turkey.
That entire trip home, I would catch my mother smiling at me, this huge, wondrous grin on her face.
When I asked her why, she would shake her head and say, Look at you Flora, I’m so proud of you.
You’re growing up right before my very eyes!
Two months later she was dead.
It was a heart attack of some kind. It turns out she had a heart defect that we never knew about. Even if I tried, I’m not sure I could remember exactly what Uncle Albie said when he told me she was gone.
That entire month of March is like a black void in my memory.
I don’t remember who made the decisions about flowers or music choices or whether there would be a wake.
I only remember sitting in that church pew during the funeral and feeling like I was drowning.
I knew I had to get out. I fled before the service was even over.
I couldn’t take witnessing the burial or having to talk to people afterwards. I couldn’t take any of it. So I ran.
I went back to New York at first, managing to finish the six weeks I had left of my degree.
All I could do was put my head down and get lost in my work.
Once I was finished, I skipped graduation and got a job on a cruise ship.
Alba did the same, determined to stay by my side.
She tried to tell me about what I’d missed back home, but I honestly didn’t want to know.
Then, almost a year after Mom died, the lake house finally sold.
Remembering this, of course, brings my thoughts back to Alistair, who I was trying to get out of my head in the first place. I crank up the music to drown everything else out, and Babylon by David Gray comes blasting through the speakers of my rental car.
I pull onto the small road that leads down to the water, grateful for the car tracks already laid down in the snow.
Cape Bretoners love a Sunday drive, especially one by the water, so I’m not surprised that other people have been down here recently.
This spot gets used by a lot of folks who live nearby—it’s a kind of unofficial public beach.
But if the property owners mind everyone using it, they’ve never said anything about it.
After I drive over the train tracks, the woods finally clear, and I can see the open expanse of water. The lake isn’t frozen yet, since it hasn’t been cold enough to keep the salt water frozen.
Sections of the beach don’t have much snow left, washed away by water and time, and I can see the sand peeking through.
I park the car and pull on my matching hot-pink hat and mittens, grateful I brought them with me given how frigid it looks along the beach.
I fix my hair in the mirror, smoothing down the sections sticking out of my hat before I open the car door and get out.
I amble towards the water in search of a flat rock to try and skip across the lake, which is relatively calm today.
I feel a lightness being here. The wind isn’t too cold either, so I decide to walk down the shoreline for a bit. Part of it is nosiness. I want to see how the houses along the water have changed in the years I’ve been away.
There’s a sea-green house that I’ve always loved, which definitely looks a little worse for wear.
I reach back in my memory: it belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, who were in their seventies the last time I was here.
I wonder how they’re doing. I notice a new set of three stairs and a railing leading to the front door.
I get a gut feeling that Alistair built those stairs.
I practically gag at the thought, but I know there’s a very good chance he actually was the one who built them.
I have my head tilted, staring at the steps in front of the door when it suddenly opens.
But it isn’t either of the Sutherlands standing there.