Ruby
There are still months of darkness ahead before the first tentative flickers of spring return to these islands, so having my parents here is the perfect way to keep the bleakness of midwinter at bay.
I meet them at the airport and can’t stop hugging them, overwhelmed with the joy of our being together again.
Once they’ve unloaded their bags at their holiday rental, I lead the way to Igdrasil with them following in their rental car.
By the time the others arrive that night for Hanna’s birthday celebrations, Mum and Dad already seem very much at home in her kitchen.
The ice is well and truly broken when they present her with a bottle of aquavit for her birthday.
We make quite an inroad into it over the course of the meal, too, the noise and laughter levels increasing in direct relation to the decreasing level of spirit in the bottle as we toast our hostess.
I find myself looking around the table at the flushed faces of everyone in turn: my parents, Hanna, Jamie, Isobel, and Geordie—who has instantly bonded with Dad over the question of tractors (Massey Ferguson every time, they agree)—and I wonder at how far we’ve come, able to banish our grief for a little while, at least.
As I do so, I catch Jamie watching me, his expression inscrutable across the table.
He gives me a tiny nod as he raises his glass toward me in another toast. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but I think I glimpse the familiar sorrow in his eyes behind his smile.
I wonder whether he spends his days listening to the pain of others as a way of avoiding his own.
Is he really as calm and collected as he always appears, or is his choice of profession simply a mask for the grief he carries?
I want to ask him, as a friend, even though I know that can never happen while I’m one of his clients.
*
The following day, in the dining room—a seldom-used space whose main purpose seems to be as the place where we germinate the kale seedlings—I help Hanna set the table with a white cloth and make a centerpiece of candles surrounded by trailing strands of ivy.
We put more candles between the seed trays along the windowsills, and light them just after three o’clock, when the daylight is already fading.
They cast a welcoming glow as my parents pull up, and I see Jamie leaving his bod to walk the short distance up the hill to join us.
The house is full of the smells of cooking, the turkey roasting and the pudding steaming on the stove.
I’ve prepared a traditional Scottish meal, a contrast to the dish called pinnekj?tt that Hanna had made the night before.
She’d grinned when she’d caught me looking a little askance at the meat as I stood at the sink peeling potatoes.
“I thought you’d prefer this to lutefisk or a boiled sheep’s head, which were the other options,” she’d teased me.
The dry, fatty-looking lamb chops were very similar to the Shetland staple of reestit mutton, and while perhaps they didn’t look like much, they turned out to be deceptively tasty.
Jamie opens a bottle of wine and pours glasses for Hanna and my parents, making lighthearted conversation with Mum and Dad as we take our seats at the table.
Perhaps he understands how hard this day must be for them, as it is for me, and that the distraction of being among new friends in a different setting is very much needed this year.
Naturally, there are a few wobbly moments. Hanna pats my hand as I pass her plate to her, her gruff kindness making my eyes momentarily fill with tears, and Dad’s voice catches as he makes a toast to those who aren’t with us this year. But we get through it, our first Christmas without Lucy.
I wonder whether Hanna’s heart still aches for her sister as much as mine does for Lucy.
I smile at her, seated regally at the head of the table, a paper crown from a Christmas cracker askew on her thistledown hair, feeling a surge of gratitude.
Because of her, today has been bearable.
Her indomitable spirit is an inspiration.
It’s helping me begin to move toward making my own decision, as well.
Hearing her story of strength and resilience—through the unimaginable ordeals she’s endured—has taught me some important lessons.
As the host of tiny, steadfast candle flames along the windowsills continues to cast its glow, keeping the deepest winter night at bay, I realize that perhaps the most important one of all is this: even in the darkest times, the light will return.