CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ~ ABBY ~ NOW
Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.
That saying has been playing through my mind since Graeme said it the other day.
I’m not sure how I feel about fate or destiny, and yet I can’t deny the pull I feel to this country.
Or to Graeme. He and I have spent a decade and a half orbiting each other, sometimes within reach, but often not.
Part of me has loved him since the day we met, and even our years apart didn’t change that.
I headed out on my own for a bit after lunch with the others today, and yet again found myself wandering through Greyfriars.
The quiet solitude of the graveyard seemed like the place to be as my mind spun with thoughts.
Should I have allowed things to go so far with Graeme last night?
Probably not. It was never my intention to send him mixed signals, but I realize that’s what I’ve been doing, and he deserves better than that.
I’ve been allowing my anxiety and my need for control led me down a path that’s bound to hurt both of us once more.
When I walked back through the gates of Greyfriars half an hour later, I had no more answers than when I arrived, but the voices in my head had quieted somewhat.
As I was walking down Candlemaker Row, something compelled me to venture into one of the shops.
I spent half an hour perusing the selection of occult items and books, and did something I rarely do: I bought things for myself.
I left with a candle, a perfume oil, and an amethyst crescent moon stone that the woman in the shop told me symbolized growth, change, and new beginnings.
The urge to buy things carried me into the shop I’m in now, and so far I’ve collected a couple of postcard-sized art prints by local artists, a pair of silver thistle earrings, and a wool Highland cow brooch that was handmade in Callander, the town where my grandma was born.
I stop in front of a display of artwork in various sizes and mediums. A soft laugh escapes me when my gaze lands on a watercolour word art print that says, Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.
If Fern were here, she’d tell me the universe was speaking to me and sending me signs. Maybe it’s time I finally listen.
I add the print to my basket and head for the checkout, pausing at the rack of books beside the counter. One about Scottish myths and folklore catches my attention, and I take it down for a closer look. The woman at the counter comes over as I’m eyeing the unfamiliar publisher logo on the back.
“All of these books were written by Scottish authors and published right here in the city,” she says, pointing to the sign at the top of the rack that reads ‘Proud to support local talent in the UNESCO City of Literature’.
“Edinburgh is the UNESCO City of Literature?” I’ve been to several bookstores in the city, and we visited The Writers’ Museum on our first visit here, but as a book lover and someone who works in publishing, I can’t believe I didn’t know that.
“Aye, since 2004,” she says. “The city boasts countless bookshops, and many shops like mine carry books too.”
We continue to chat as she rings up my purchases—including the book on Scottish folklore, plus one about hauntings in Edinburgh I think Fern would enjoy—and then I head back out into the sunshine. Without a destination in mind, I pick a direction and walk.
I’m approaching a small church on an unfamiliar street when a flash of white catches my attention.
A bride is standing under a cherry blossom tree, looking picture perfect as soft pink blossoms flutter around her.
The gems in her raven curls and on her dress reflect the sun, making me think of the faeries and other magical creatures in the book of folklore I just bought.
My fingers itch to snap a picture, but that would be too weird.
The bride turns her head in my direction, and a slow, inquisitive smile flits over her face when our eyes meet.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, you just look so beautiful,” I say.
Her smile widens as she lifts her full skirt and walks toward me. As she draws closer, I see she’s likely in her forties rather than her thirties like I first assumed. “Thank you. Are you Canadian?”
“How did you know?” I ask. “Most people hear the accent—or lack of one, I guess—and assume I’m American.”
She points to herself, the skin around her crystal-blue eyes crinkling with mirth. “Fellow Canadian.”
“Ahh, well, congratulations, fellow countrywoman. Are you marrying another Canadian or...?”
“A Scot, although we met in Canada,” she says. “We worked for the same company and were best friends for years, then fell in love.”
You can’t make this shit up. Knowing she wouldn’t understand if I started laughing, I bite the inside of my lip.
“What are you doing in Scotland?” she asks.
Now I do laugh. “Well...long story short, I fell in love with my Scottish best friend too, but I fucked it all up.”
She lets out a snort, then waves a hand in front of her face as she giggles.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s not funny, but I’ve been there.
Had that ‘all is lost’ moment where I thought our relationship was doomed and I should return to Canada.
And now here I am.” Her expression softens into a sweet smile as she pats the full skirt of her wedding gown. “What’s your name?”
“Abby.”
“Is it too late to fix things, Abby?”
When I consider my collective history with Graeme, I can’t help but wonder if he deserves better. I’ve hurt both of us over the years. I’ve also loved him with all my heart, and still do. And for whatever reason, he still loves me too and has made it clear he sees a future with me.
“Do you live here or are you just visiting?” the bride asks patiently when I take too long to respond.
“Visiting. This is my second time here.”
“And it feels like everything is somehow riding on this trip?” she asks, smiling when my eyes widen.
“Oh, honey, I’ve been there. I’m sure this is a grand oversimplification, but maybe the first step is moving to Scotland, or at least spending more time here.
You can’t fix your relationship if you’re halfway across the world, right? ”
A woman in a sparkly red dress appears on the steps of the church and calls to the bride, who says she’ll be right there.
“Would you like to come to the wedding?” the bride asks me.
The unexpected question leaves me flustered. “Oh, I can’t. I’m not dressed appropriately, and I really should get going. Thank you, though, for the invitation and for the talk.”
On instinct, we both step forward with our arms open. The hug is awkward because of my camera between us, but it gives me an idea. “Can I take your picture real quick? I want to remember the beautiful bride I happened to find under the cherry blossom tree on a random sunny day in Edinburgh.”
Her delighted giggle makes me smile. She poses where I first saw her, looking at me, and then looking up at the tree.
When I lower my camera, I expect her to dash into the church, but she comes back over to me instead.
“Will you take a picture of us on your phone and send it to me on BeSocial? I want to remember you too.” She rattles off her handle as I get my phone out, and I promise to send her the pictures once I’m connected to WiFi.
“I’m really glad we met today,” she says as she backs toward the church. “Maybe we can stay in touch, and you can invite me to your wedding. I promise I’ll say yes.” She winks at me and turns to open the church door.
“Wait,” I call. “I didn’t even ask your name.”
“It’s Nancy.” She waves over her shoulder as she disappears inside.
Laughter spills out of me, even as tears fill my eyes. Nancy was my grandma’s name. I tilt my head back, squinting against the bright sunlight. “Okay, Universe, you’ve got my attention. I’m listening.”
* * *
When I return to Canongate, I knock on the MacKinlays’ door.
No one answers, so I carry on up the stairs to Graeme’s flat.
I’m greeted by silence, although his jacket and boots tell me he’s home.
I venture down the hall and hear his voice coming from the office.
His professional tone and the short pauses in speech indicate he’s on the phone, so I go to my room and unpack my shopping, laying the items on the desk and pondering my sudden, out-of-character desire to buy things.
After my grandma died and I went into foster care, I became a minimalist. I have a vivid memory of the social worker telling me to pack my favourite things, and then taking over when I remained frozen and unable to perform the task.
I didn’t care what I took with me; none of it mattered without Grandma.
As I was moved from place to place over the next seven years, my foster parents provided me with clothes and other necessities, plus the occasional gift, but I never asked for anything or used my pocket money to buy more than treats or the occasional book, which I always donated somewhere after reading.
Owning things of importance felt like a risk; they could easily be taken away or accidentally left behind when I was forced to move on. Because I was always forced to move on.
I never lost the sense that places, things, and people were temporary.
During my first year at university, I knew I’d only be in my dorm room for a year, so I barely decorated.
The next year, when Drew, Fern, and I moved in together, they encouraged me to buy a few things for my room, and I chipped in on decor for the spaces we shared.
It was the first time since Grandma died that I felt at home, both within the space and with my little found family.
Even then, I knew it wouldn’t last forever.
My first apartment in Toronto felt like my dorm room all over again, not only in its postage-stamp size but also in knowing I didn’t plan to be there for long.
I lived in several places in Toronto, upgrading slightly as my pay increased, but that feeling of impermanence always lingered. Even when I lived with Rodger.