by Molly Ringle
“I’ll keep it for you and see if I can get it sharpened. Then if he decides he’s sick of Shelly, you can let him have it.” Laurence smiled at his own double entendre. “Between the ribs, preferably. Quick upward thrust.”
“It’s all yours. But I did get you a real present.”
“Got one for you, too. Want to wait till tomorrow, or would you like it now, to cheer yourself up?”
“Oh, hell, give it to me now.” I dropped my hands open on the counter. “Why should I have any reason to be alive tomorrow?”
“Always thinking positive. I like that.” Laurence opened a drawer, moved aside a guest log book, and pulled out a small paper bag. “Close your eyes. Keep your hands out.”
I obeyed. He chose my right arm, pushed my coat sleeve up, and rustled in the bag. “Going to give me a manicure?” I asked.
“A tattoo. One that says ‘Oregon Scientists Do It Better and Wetter.’ Actually, this is kind of funny, considering what Gil got for Shelly.” He lifted my hand, and even in the depths of my self-pity I experienced a girlish warmth at that rare touch of our fingers. Laurence, the patron saint of hand washing, didn’t touch anyone if he could avoid it.
I felt cool metal on my wrist and heard a click.
“There,” Laurence said. “Huh. Not bad.”
I opened my eyes. It was a gold bracelet, old-fashioned and solid and hinged with a clasp to fit a lady’s wrist perfectly. And, I chuckled to notice, it was engraved with curling rose-vines. In fact, at first glance I thought it was identical to the ones Gil bought for Shelly, only in gold instead of silver. And in place of the rock-band logo was a pearl surrounded by carved leaves.
It impressed me out of my bad mood. “That’s really gorgeous.”
“Seemed all right.” He tilted his head to look at it. “Shannon dragged me into an antique shop the other week, and we found it there. She helped choose it, of course. I can maybe identify the metal, but I’m clueless about fashions.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at him. I was startled to realize that, if the counter hadn’t been between us, I would have jumped up to kiss him on the cheek. Imagine the recoil that would have provoked. I toyed with the bracelet instead. “I hope you got her something, too.”
“Shannon? Of course. Silver locket, for a picture of her Redcoat boy.”
“And Amber?” Asking that question reduced my spirits. Stop it, I told myself. He doesn’t belong to you. Nobody belongs to you.
Laurence smirked. “What do you get for the girl who has nothing to live for? All the same, got her a perfume she was drooling over at the chemist’s.”
“Ah.” Jewelry beat perfume, I exulted in my head. Or did it? Were they equal? “Well. I’ll bring down your present now, if you want.”
“All right.” He relaxed into the chair behind the counter.
I jogged up to Room 17, found Laurence’s gift, and paused a moment to admire the bracelet on my arm before returning to the front desk.
He pulled the layers of tissue paper away from the bundle I brought him, then hefted the little steel gun in his palm. “Now, I know you can’t buy these here. Not legally.”
“Not real ones. Sorry about that. But since you’re always cooking, I thought it would be a more stylish way to light the gas stove.”
Laurence turned the muzzle upward, pulled the trigger, and smiled at the inch-long flame that appeared. “I always wanted one of these. But I never smoked, so what was the point? Good thing we’re in a primitive country where you still need fire to get the stove going.” He clicked off the flame. “You’re right. That will be more stylish. Danke schoen.”
“You’re welcome.” Feeling suddenly shy, I retreated. “I better wrap that sweater for Amber.”
He aimed the gun at me, closed one eye, and sparked a flame into existence. “Ciao, bella.”
* * *
I awoke on Christmas morning with no stocking to dig into, no tree to sit under (unless I wanted to sit in the lobby), and no family member to hug. No boyfriend around, either. Not even the limited-engagement sort.
It was still dark outside, and the holiday decorations strung over the street clinked and chimed in the wind. A pang of loneliness raced through me, and knew I would not be sleeping anymore this morning.
I climbed down from the bunk, slipped on shoes and a sweater, and padded downstairs to the kitchen. A sleepy South African girl microwaved a cup of instant coffee. She didn’t even glance at me as I slipped onto the windowsill and turned on my phone.
It was 6:30 a.m. in Edinburgh, therefore 10:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve in Oregon. Mom and Dad would probably be asleep; they weren’t huge on staying up late on the twenty-fourth. Technically we were Catholic, but only the casual type who went to Mass when it was convenient.
But the Pavelich family, now there was a holy-rosary brood. They’d still be up and raring to go for midnight Mass. I selected their number and pressed the call button.
Tony’s little sister Amy answered. Someone was gaily thundering “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” on the piano behind her, and half a dozen Pavelich voices accompanied it in raucous song. Amy went and got Tony for me.
“Eva!” he shouted over the noise. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I woke up early. Sounds like you guys are still up.”
“Yep. About to leave for Mass, actually. “
“Right. Figured.”
“You should call me tomorrow, though. Or later today, for you. Hey, guess what? It was snowing earlier. Might snow tomorrow, too. White Christmas!”
“Damn. And I’m going to miss it.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll probably only be slush. You know how December is. Oh, you know what else? I’ve been talking to Father Jim and Deacon Aldritch, and I’m considering going into the seminary.”
“To become a priest?”
He laughed. “No need for that. I could be a deacon or something. They can get married, at least. I don’t know; probably just a wild notion. I imagine I’ll get over it. But the peace of mind, the sense of purpose--it would be great. I could use that, you know?”
I turned my face to the window to hide my expression of bewilderment, though no one was watching. “I guess, yeah. Interesting.”
“Anyway, have an awesome Christmas! I have to get going. Oh, and tell Amber I’m praying for her.”
“All right.”
“Is she okay?”
“More or less.”
“Thanks, Moss-Butt! Okay, Amy, I’m coming. Tell Dad to grab the matches. Sorry, I--what? For the candles, stupid. Okay, I’m really going now. Bye!”
“Bye,” I said, but the line was a clatter of noise as Tony hung up the receiver. Snowdrift-thick silence followed.
I turned off my phone and set it on my lap, feeling its warmth through my pajama pants.
I decided to shelve the notion of Tony becoming Deacon Anthony, and me becoming the vicar’s wife, or whatever exactly I’d be in that event. He always got over-zealous at Christmas and Easter. The ceremonial altar hangings and extra candles worked him into a holy fever. Nothing to fret about right now, even assuming I had a future with him.
I leaned my temple on the cold windowpane, looking at the shape of Edinburgh Castle and thinking about snow in Oregon. I had seen some snowfall already in Scotland, not to mention endless frost and sleet, and trust me, the novelty wore off real quick. But the rare white wintry day in Wild Rose...snow piling up on the fallen maple leaves, our dog tiptoeing knee-deep down the steps from the deck, the kids sledding on Lincoln Hill, my mother frowning through the window at the squirrel-feeder to make sure the critters could still get to their seeds...
Yes, that was a beautiful thing. That was a thing I wanted right now.
I lowered my gaze to the street, viewing what I had instead. Cold black rock, everything made of ancient stone, ghastly murder staining so many sidewalks that it became tedious to hear about, and a half-million citizens who didn’t notice or care about any of it. This could never be home, not per
manently, not even if Gil and I decided we loved each other madly; not even if shacking up with him meant hobnobbing with Britain’s most popular bands. How could knocking back pints in a Scottish pub with shaggy-haired musicians compare to hot chocolate in a warm Oregon farmhouse with snow sweeping the mountains?
On several nights a year, it would compare quite well, actually. But not on Christmas morning.
I looked away from the window. The sky was dark and would still be dark for hours. Might as well make some hot chocolate and read the brochures for UC Berkeley and Lewis and Clark, which had just arrived via courier from my folks.
In Room 17 I quietly put away my phone and fetched the brochures. Returning to the silent kitchen, I heated my milk, stirred in the chocolate, and took the mug and college packets to a table. I spread out the glossy pages with a tranquility of soul and steadiness of hands that had not been mine for months.
I had nobody, no one loved me best, and I could not rely on anyone but myself. So be it.
I turned to the kitchen window, lifted my mug of hot chocolate to the castle, and saluted Scotland for teaching me this about life.
Chapter Thirty-Four: Snogmanay
I confess I didn’t seal the tomb door on my affection for Gil until the next time we spoke, in a phone call four days after Christmas.
“Strangest thing,” he mused. “I gave the bracelets to Shelly, and she kissed me and said, ‘That’s to say thanks, and because it’s Christmas.’ And then yesterday she asked me did I ever consider dating someone older. Or someone I worked with.”
“Told you,” I said dryly.
“Aye, so you did. Honest, I never thought it! But we’re to go out, see a film tonight.”
“Have a good time.”
And the little twerp giggled and answered, in a deplorable American imitation, “Have a nice day.”
Slam! went that door. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why I ever thought cheating would be fun, romantic, or sexy. I was an idiot, and was lucky it all ended before Tony found out.
“Tony says he’s praying for you,” I remembered to tell Amber on New Year’s Eve.
She smiled. “Your boyfriend’s not so bad after all.”
“He’s a regular saint. In fact, he might be a signed, sealed, certified man of God.”
She looked at me with her brows drawn together. “Did you guys have a fight?”
“Oh, no. I’m just agreeing with you.”
In truth, I was not angry with Tony. He was too sincere and too enraptured to enrage a decent person. He merely served as yet another reminder of my insignificance.
I suppose a proper girlfriend would have emailed him a diatribe to the effect of, Yo, dude, you are so not allowed to drag me into a life of servitude for the Roman Catholic Church. But, honestly, I was too tired. I didn’t want to break up with him, nor did I have the energy to fight over his religion. So, with the (now rather familiar) feeling that I was letting a throw of dice decide my future, I folded my hands and awaited the outcome.
He emailed once to ask if I had applied to Marylhurst, his school of choice. I banked my courage for a full day (and submitted my online application to Lewis and Clark College) before answering, No, the list of subjects didn’t seem to be my thing, but I’m hoping to get into Lewis and Clark, or at least OSU, and still be within a short drive of you. A lot closer than I am now, anyway.
He responded, Cool. You’ll do fine wherever you end up, Gangrenous Wonder. And yay for the idea of you not being across a continent and an ocean!
How did any creature so optimistic thrive in this harsh world?
I did submit an application to UC Berkeley too, though I neither expected to get in, nor expected Laurence to accept even though he had already gotten in. And don’t ask me why I bothered applying to any school on Laurence’s list anyway. A twisted competitive urge, probably, along with that nagging feeling that I actually sort of enjoyed his company lately.
But mostly I felt numb.
I knew, beneath my frozen surface, that I longed for my college plans to crystallize; I hated these months of waiting for the response letters. I knew I detested the likelihood that Shannon, Laurence, Amber, Tony, Gil, and I would reside in six separate cities, states, or countries by this time next year, and I knew myself powerless to change it. And I knew I grieved for my mess of a love life, and had no idea what to do about that one.
But having finished my applications, I sat back with tired relief and focused on Amber’s troubles. I consoled myself by looking at her and thinking, See, I’m not doing so bad. At least I didn’t get a scheduled appointment from the Great Beyond.
She appreciated me deeply these days. I listened very well. She could talk and talk, and I would always come along and listen, whether she was lying on the floor of Room 17 with wild hair and a face full of woe, or sitting on frosty benches at night.
Laurence and I tacitly agreed to take turns watching over her. He had nights and my daytime work hours, and I had the remainder of the time so he could get some sleep.
The one night we knew we wouldn’t sleep much was the last night of the year. Edinburgh hosted one of the world’s largest New Year’s Eve celebrations, only they called it “Hogmanay” instead of New Year’s. During December’s final days, the hostel and all the city’s other accommodations filled up with exuberant travelers. Concerts, shows, and ceilidhs (Scottish dance parties) packed the parks and meeting halls all week.
On the thirty-first, torches and fireworks set the night ablaze, and partiers streamed into the streets. Amber normally would have dashed out there into the mass of humans, dancing and whirling and kissing with the drunkest of them. Coworkers at our various places of employment had invited us to at least three different parties, and in addition we could have bought passes to join the mob outdoors. But, soberer in at least the emotional sense this year, Amber opted to stay upstairs with us and simply observe.
The three of us cranked up Laurence’s radiator, opened his window, and looked down upon the streets from our safe roost. Even from five floors up, the noise deafened me: hoots, whistles, live music, drumbeats, firecrackers, car horns, yelling louts. Torches and sparklers bobbed above the crowd. I smelled acrid pyrotechnic smoke, reminiscent of a balmy Fourth of July evening. The horde spilled out of Princes Street and onto Queensferry, beneath our hostel. All the way up to the castle, lights and flames sparkled and surged with the masses.
“It’s like medieval times,” said Laurence, “but with Gore-Tex.” He sipped his Irish Cream-spiked coffee, the treat we had brewed up for the evening.
Amber had already finished her coffee and poured the Irish Cream straight into her mug. She drank from it drowsily, gazing upon the revelers. “So happy. Like they’re going to live forever.”
I watched a young couple making out against a trash can near our building. “No one does. That’s what these parties are for, right?”
She squinted at the crowd. “I wonder how many of them are already dead. It’s hard to tell from up here.”
Nice.
I wondered if Gil and Shelly were out there tonight, kissing against a recycling bin somewhere. Depressed, I swigged my coffee.
The countdown to midnight began. The numbered chants grew louder in the final thirty seconds.
“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!”
The noise level reached a new decibel range. Fireworks exploded above the castle, splashing us with light in all colors of the spectrum. In the streets, everyone kissed everyone, pairs coupling and decoupling like amoebas.
Lucky them.
“Come here, you.” Amber slurred her words a bit.
I looked over in dread. Sure enough, she lifted her face for Laurence. He bent to her cheek, but she turned and planted a kiss on his mouth instead.
He dabbed his lips, chuckling. “You minx. Happy New Year.” Then he cocked an eyebrow at me. “Come on, you too, Eve.”
Dazed, I stayed where I was, sure he didn’t mean it. But when he kissed me, a s
oft flutter against my mouth, I did kiss back. Only polite, after all.
Actually, kind of warm, too. Pleasant. The flutter solidified into a definite press. My eyes closed and I drifted a bit.
The kiss broke. He leaned back and I snapped into the present. Odd. I was probably just tired.
I swallowed, and pressed my lips together as if smearing lip balm around. “Happy New Year,” I remembered to say.
His eyes scrutinized me as if reading an interesting science journal. “Happy New Year.”
“Here, wait,” said Amber. “I can do better. I got you sideways before.” She looped her arm around his neck and hauled him down for a proper snog.
I looked away, unwilling to watch a kiss forced on one friend by another.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Amber’s New Year’s Resolution
You’d think Amber would be groaning in bed with a hangover on the first day of the new year, but apparently all that free Scotch whisky at her pub had built up her tolerance. I shambled bleary-eyed into the kitchen the next morning at about ten A.M., and found her sitting in a beam of sunlight, already dressed, spine straight, hands curled around a coffee mug.
“Hey,” I greeted, uncertainly.
She jumped up, mouth curved in her old complacent smile. “Hi! Coffee? I made a whole pot. Figured people could use it this morning.”
“Um, sure. You seem...”
“Happy?”
“Yeah.”
She poured coffee into a blue mug with Italian writing on it, and held it out to me. “I realized I’m being a moron.”
I took the coffee and smelled it, hoping the steam would wake up my brain. “What do you mean?”
“I was given a date, right? February nineteenth. Something happens that day, and probably not something awesome.”
“Or maybe nothing happens.”
“Right. But let’s assume something does happen, something bad. If that’s the case, then why am I moping and cowering around? If I’m guaranteed to die or go crazy on that date--and not until that date...” she pointed at me to emphasize the last few syllables, “then I ought to be out doing everything I ever wanted to do.”