by Lucy Knott
The Handmade market is everything I thought it would be and more. The stall owners are friendly and eager to talk to us about their crafts. I feel inspired to pick up my pen and write about it all. I manage to pick up something special for my mum and dad and my heart is warm with the anticipation of being able to give them their Christmas present in person this year.
I don’t think about Scott for the entire afternoon as I take in every stall. Colt’s milkshake worked wonders. Unfortunately, it worked too well as by the time we venture back to the house, my good intentions of turning on my laptop and looking over my edits have disappeared faster than our plate of pancakes and waffles, and I feel like I could fall asleep standing up the minute I lay eyes on my bed.
Chapter 6
It’s five in the morning and two days before Christmas Eve and I can’t contain my curiosity about the forest any longer. I put on my brown snow boots, throw my hair in a loose braid and scarf, and tell my laptop that I will be back in no more than an hour to see to finally finishing off my script. Then I wrap myself up in my wool cardigan and olive-green puffer jacket with my well-worn leggings and sneak out of the sleeping house.
The fresh-fallen snow crunches as I step onto the deck; the air is cool but pleasant. I can hear an owl hooting in between the trees. I take that as my guide and follow his calls. The moon and the stars are enough to light my way and, somehow, I don’t feel scared being out here alone. My parents’ house lies in darkness. I believe the Christmas lights are on a timer to conserve energy. I walk past the hippie Santa and towards the towering pines. As I walk closer, the grandeur of the trees hits me and I’m immediately enchanted.
I trace my hands over the bark. Shavings of snow have settled in the ridges and cracks giving it a frosty tint. If I look closely enough, I can see the fuzzy outline of each snowflake that is hugging the trunk. I peel my eyes away from the first pine and follow a straight path past the other, not wanting to weave in and out of the trees too much in case I get lost. I’m not as familiar with the forest as I’d like to be. Scott wasn’t much of an outdoors man. The one time we ventured out here to visit my parents, he’d opt to stay indoors or visit the local bars and restaurants over getting up close and personal with nature.
As a kid I was always outside. Even in London, my parents walked everywhere, and I can count on one hand the weekends that weren’t spent at a park. Family holidays were spent hiking in Cornwall, visiting farms in the Cotswolds, or backpacking around Yosemite in California. It wasn’t until I got with Scott and moved into the middle of London away from my parents that I stopped paying attention to the great outdoors. And when my writing took over and I started working for Pegasus Entertainment I fell easily into a routine with Madi; curling up behind my desk, wrapping myself up in blankets on the couch, tapping away at my laptop. When we did acknowledge the outside world, it was for a walk straight to a coffee shop, parking our butts inside and commenting on the rustic, outdoorsy feel of the indoors; the irony wasn’t lost on me.
Up ahead I find a clearing where a couple of trees have been cut down making short stumps perfect for sitting on. I sit down and pull out the notebook that I had stuffed in my coat pocket. I look up from my spot on the stump and where the trees have been cut back leads to an opening in the canopy where the sky peeks through. It takes my breath away. The stars are golden and twinkling against the lightening sky, there’s a slight touch of pink mixing with the wispy grey and blue as the sun is beginning to rise and I can hear the faint twit-twooing of the owl I saw swooping in to the trees in the earlier darkness.
This would be the most idyllic spot for a romantic picnic and star gazing with your one and only. I shudder. I don’t want to ruin the moment thinking about Scott or romance, so I take a chilly breath in and watch the sad thoughts go by, replacing them with the sound of the owl and the rustling of the pines in the wind.
I put my pen to the paper and don’t pause to concern myself with conscious thinking. I write, and I write some more. I dare to write my deepest wishes, the scenes I can envision playing out in the beauty of this spot and the magic that nature can hold. It occurs to me that while, yes, a romantic night for two under these stars would be quite something, it’s incredibly special and beautiful by myself too. As I take in my surroundings once more, I don’t feel so alone.
The sky is much lighter when I next look up. Gone is the inky grey and black, replaced by a fabulous orange and pink, and I have but a few pages left in my notebook. My body, though now I notice it feels cold, is not tense. My shoulders are at ease, my eyebrows relaxed and my feet like feathers on the ground, delicately resting on the pure white snow.
Writing gives me that release and I remind myself how lucky I am to love my job and to be working for a company that I adore so much. I smile as I fold my notebook gently to push it back inside my pocket; I need to get back and finish this script. I stand from the stump and do a little star jump to encourage the blood back to my feet when I hear crunching to the right of me. In my calm state, I don’t worry, I simply hold still not wanting to scare whatever animal it might be with my crazy jumping, if I am trespassing in its home.
Two giant snow boots come into view attached to my dad who steps into the clearing, holding two Christmas mugs. I can smell rich black coffee and a vanilla tea. Dad hands me the mug full of burning-hot coffee and I take it gratefully, with a smile.
‘I thought you might have turned into an icicle by now,’ he says with a playful smirk. Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he takes a sip of his tea, his bluey-green eyes assertive and on me.
‘How did you know I was out here?’ I ask, holding his gaze and knowing full well that my dad would always know where to find me. I was twelve the first, and only, time I ran away. My parents and I have always had a special bond and I never truly went through any awkward phase where I hated them. To me, my dad was the coolest person in the world. He took me to concerts, let me listen to music that other parents wouldn’t let their kids listen to and I never felt trapped or like my parents wanted me to be, dress or act a certain way – not like Madi’s did. As long as I was kind, did well in school and acted with love, there wasn’t a problem.
So, it had been a bit of a shock when I left a note one Friday night telling them that they were the worst parents in the world and that I had run away. Because I had never done this before, they didn’t have a record to go off, a pattern to follow. I could have been anywhere. But an hour into my having run away my dad found me in the most hidden-away part of Hyde Park.
If I remember correctly, I’d actually forgotten why I was mad by the time he had turned up. My dad always looked so cool in his ripped black jeans and vintage tees and faux leather jacket, that I greeted him with a wide smile. He had looked at me and said, ‘Nice choice, I used to come here a lot too.’ And that was pretty much the end of my grumpy years. I think a kid had got to me at school that day, picked on me for having dirty hippie parents and a dad who made soap for a living. I believed the kid and I let him get to me. I didn’t care to be laughed at. But when my dad walked into the alley looking like a dadlier, but still incredibly cool version of Jim Morrison, the memory of the kid’s opinion had vanished in a matter of seconds. My parents had taught me better than that – if it wasn’t constructive or kind then I didn’t need to listen to other people’s opinions.
‘Remember that day when you were twelve and ran away? Well, I still got it,’ my dad replies. He’s right, he hasn’t lost an essence of his cool since that day and I smile into my coffee that he is thinking about the same thing I am.
‘This place is beautiful, Dad, but even more so this time of year. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to visit for the holidays.’ I look around taking in the rising sun hitting the bark of the trees, making the snow sparkle. Dad looks around too, with a fond smile on his face, then his eyes come to rest on my face once more.
‘Are you going to talk to me, kid, or would you like your space?’ my dad asks, always so cons
iderate of my needs.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since my dad and I had an honest to goodness heart-to-heart and that pains me a little. Since my last visit, I’ve made time for quick phone calls and the odd Skype call, but I haven’t really made them a priority. Standing in front of my dad now, I don’t know how I’ve got through the last two years without his guidance and wisdom. Maybe that’s why I’m in this predicament I find myself in now with Scott and my lack of enthusiasm for work or anything in life.
I look into my dad’s blue-hazel eyes, which match my own, and the sparkle that is reserved for me is still there. Mum tells me he has had that since the day I was born, and it has never faded. I can’t lie to him. With my dad, the wall I have built over the past year comes crashing down. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. I’m not a guarded person, I’m more an open book. I wear my heart on my sleeve. The closed-off and reserved person I am becoming is starting to scare me. Under the covers of my bed, hiding from the world, is not where I want to spend the rest of my life.
‘I’m struggling, Dad.’ The words come out surprisingly calm. My dad’s face wrinkles, but his olive complexion, grey stubble and kind eyes make me feel safe and free from judgement. He puts an arm through mine and starts walking between the trees. My toes are grateful for the movement. The thoughts inside my head have been distracting me from how cold I have been getting. I take another sip of coffee and with the blood now pumping through my veins, my body is warming up again.
We’re walking in silence and I’m getting lost in the sherbet-pink-coloured clouds that are disappearing into the baby blue sky that is peeking through the canopy of oak.
‘I’m here to listen,’ is all my dad says and it’s all I need. I pull my attention away from the falling snowflakes, from watching them glide through the air and nestle on the blanket of snow below and I take a cool breath in. It’s the first time I’m going to speak out loud to someone other than Madi about what’s happened between Scott and I, and even though it’s my dad an unexpected terror washes over me. It’s unpleasant and not warranted. This is my dad, I tell myself, but the terror remains stubbornly in place.
Suddenly I’m scared that my dad might scold me for doing something wrong, or that he will give me a disappointed look for being a bad wife and not being strong enough to get over this whole ordeal. I feel like a failure; my shoulders droop as we walk. I want to run away, to throw my mug across the snowy path. The battle between conflicting thoughts in my brain is immense. A strange mix of emotions is stirring in the cauldron that has become my stomach, a dash of guilt, a drop of humiliation, a sprinkle of worthlessness and a splash of am I a terrible person if I open my mouth and speak badly of Scott? It’s all there and it’s all uncomfortable. Scott’s words were ‘It’s your fault.’ Would my dad think it was my fault too?
My dad squeezes my arm that is linked through his, as though to let me know it’s OK and with this small act of love, the floodgates open. I turn to him, heaving heavy sobs. My shoulders are moving up and down, my back is hunched over and my face buried in my dad’s thick, soft jacket. My knees are shaking, doing their best to hold me up while small cries escape my lips in intervals, between breathless gasps.
A good five minutes, maybe more, go by before my tears start to slow down. I step back, wiping my eyes and dripping nose on my puffer jacket. My dad slowly releases me, only letting go when I make eye contact.
‘Kid, listen to me. I want you to stop putting pressure on yourself to get over it. Our hearts all heal at different rates. Put your mind at ease and let it absorb all these emotions. The struggle comes from trying to deny them.’ His words come out gently, with his usual laidback charm. He wraps an arm around my shoulder, in a half sideways hug, and kisses me on the top of my head. Then we fall into step again.
‘But, sweetheart, can I ask that you do me a favour?’ he asks. My tears have subsided now. I’m feeling a sense of calm simply listening to my dad – a man I can trust with my heart and soul. I can feel the good energy emitting from him and it’s rubbing off on me. I know that my dad staying calm is not by accident; the energy is all his doing and for my sake.
I nod in response.
‘Stop punishing yourself, kid. It’s easier said than done, I know, but have you been meditating like we taught you?’ He gives me a sideways glance, his features soft. No expectations are formed in a furrowed or raised brow, which makes me feel safe to open up.
‘I haven’t, no, and what do you mean stop punishing myself?’ I ask curiously.
‘Replaying all the hurt, his actions, his words. You can do nothing to change them, my love. They are your past, but they are not your present. I ask that you try and meditate on that.’
I look up from my snow-dusted boots and see my parents’ house up ahead. With no more coffee left in my mug a chill seeps through my thick clothes and into my bones. I’ve been out here for some time now. There is an essence of forgetting time when watching the sky change colour; blossoming from a mysterious black to a sad grey, to a bold and fluorescent orange and pink, to a clear and peaceful baby blue. I’m not ready to go inside just yet. Between the sky and my dad’s words, the dull throbbing of my heart is becoming more upbeat. I understand what he is telling me.
‘Sugar, the universe only provides moments in life that we need. It may be time to rediscover yourself and chisel away the blocks that society has built around you, without you knowing. London life is so fast-paced, even marriage sometimes. It’s easy to forget who you are when you’re caught up in it all. Thirty is a funny age. I can only suggest you meditate on this time of re-creation.’
I squeeze my dad’s arm and take in his words as we come up to the deck. Away from the shadow of the trees the light of the crystal blue sky engulfs me. I sit in one of the wooden rocking chairs and stare out across the skyline, my mind swimming in and out of words my dad has said and total quiet.
A few moments pass when atop the table I notice there are two mugs, one with coffee and one with tea, and two slices of Mum’s cinnamon loaf. I can smell its inviting aroma. Mum must have seen us wandering the grounds. We grab the fresh mugs and I’m grateful for the warmth it gives my palms and fingers.
‘Thank you, Dad,’ I say offering him a smile that I know reaches my eyes. ‘I’ve missed you. I needed that,’ I add, understanding his message and feeling a million times better having heard it.
‘Ah, the universe knows this and that is why you’re here,’ he replies with a small smirk and a wink, before sipping his tea and sitting back in his chair.
I contemplate his response. He’s right; the universe was pretty smart bringing me here. I’d put up a front for so long, pretending that I was fine without my parents, but the universe knew better. A moment passes, then I let out a chuckle. The universe and Madi are strangely alike.
Chapter 7
The cold tingle in my cheeks and the tip of my nose has been replaced with a warm flush, thanks to Mum’s endless coffee refills and cinnamon cake, which has a healthy dose of flavourful spices weaving their way through the foundation ingredients and are enough to give me a powerful kick. By the time we walk back into the house, the sun is well and truly out for the day and lighting up the sky. It’s still early and stunningly peaceful around the house and outdoors as the sun blazes through the wall-to-wall windows that make the living room slash kitchen area one of my favourite rooms in the house.
I had gotten so comfy in the confines of my office, my cosy nook of a writing space over the years, but since we got here to Colorado, I have fallen in love with being able to absorb the sunset and sunrise each day from every angle. There is no escaping it, almost like it is forcing me to look up and experience it, eager for attention after I’d neglected it for so long.
It’s difficult not to notice that the house now smells like Christmas. A sweet vanilla and cinnamon scent mixed with citrus and cocoa arises from the biscuits that are cooking in the oven. I smile as I start to peel off my layers of clothing. The fire is
roaring, the flames making the tinsel garland above it sparkle, and when I look over to the dining table, it’s covered with colourful bowls filled with every kind of sprinkle you can imagine: hundreds and thousands, silver balls, crunchy snowflakes, Christmas trees and chocolate slivers and curls.
A fresh batch of Christmas-tree-shaped cookies rest on a holly-patterned plate in the centre of the table. My mum smiles at my open-mouthed gawp as I take in the scene, the winter wonderland she has created. She walks by me bearing another tray of cookies, this time Santa-shaped, and I give her a hug that nearly causes a few Santas to topple to their demise. She kisses the top of my head and in a smooth, swift move places the Santas on the table out of harm’s way.
Then she turns back to me offering a bright smile and a piping bag bursting with red icing. She doesn’t ask about my three-hour foray into the forest or pry into what I was talking about with my dad, because that’s how cool my parents are.
My dad is busy in the corner hanging up our coats, then he joins us at the table where Mum naturally and ever so softly grazes his forearm in a loving manner. She hands him a piping bag filled with vibrant purple icing, no doubt coloured using beetroot. My parents have been vegan since I was a baby, but they never forced it on me, allowing me to make my own decisions. My mum is a fabulous cook, her dishes so vibrant and full of earthy flavours, and my dad’s not bad either – he can make a mean meaty mushroom burger. I never had reason to complain when sitting down to home-cooked meals. Over the years though, I found myself cooking to meet the tastes of Scott and my friends or to accommodate the lack of time or desire to be in the kitchen when swamped with deadlines. Just the smells of my mother’s biscuits has me licking my lips and longing to don an apron and have her teach me everything she knows.
I wrap an arm around each of my parents and plant a kiss on their cheeks, then take a seat at the table. At that moment I hear slippers shuffling along the wooden floorboards. Madi enters the room with a yawn. Her usually perfectly coiffed locks are on top of her head in a messy bun, flyaway baby hairs sticking out every which way. She is bundled up in her black and white polka dot dressing gown, her bare face still glamorous-looking, her skin bright and radiant.