by H P Tune
Laughing, Mia shook her head. “You know, people really believe that there are kangaroos running around in cities in Australia, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Oh well. Good for a laugh, I suppose.”
“Are you heading back soon?”
“To Australia?” Martin asked and Mia nodded. “No, maybe late next year if there’s some time. I would like to get my boy over there, but he hasn’t had much of a chance to travel yet. Maybe I’ll talk about it with him this Christmas.”
“Great idea.” Mia smiled. She knew that Martin had single-handedly raised his children after his wife’s death from cancer. She also knew that despite his reluctance to use Skype, he phoned them religiously twice a week and memorised every birthday and anniversary. He spoke about them proudly when given the opportunity. He was certainly nothing like her own father.
She wondered briefly what her family would be doing this Christmas. But she knew there would be no cards or gifts in the mail, no phone calls. Not now.
* * *
The bedside clock flashed bright red digits when Mia rolled over and opened one eye. 07:55. Mia shuddered. She had last glanced at the clock at five in the morning, having lain awake mostly all night. Her head pounded with a horrific headache. She felt as if she had consumed two bottles of champagne, but she hadn’t touched a drop. She wasn’t game to, no matter how much she wanted to numb herself.
Her phone next to her on the bed flashed suddenly and she reached blindly for it. She had four new messages.
The first three were generic, mass-sent “Merry Christmas” texts from people she hadn’t spoken to in years. They were like New Year messages, sent on the eve of midnight, alcohol fuelled, as if it was the perfect time to touch base with friends and enemies. The most recent was from Juliet, and Mia released a sigh of relief. She hadn’t heard from her since she had sent the e-mail.
I’m reluctant to wish you a Merry Christmas, but I wanted to check in on you. How are you doing?
Mia closed her eyes in a prolonged blink; her chest ached.
Merry Christmas, Juliet. How are you? I’m okay, thanks.
The reply was quick, and if Mia were to guess, Juliet was curled up in bed just as she was. And words couldn’t describe how much she wished to have Juliet’s company, someone gentle and smiling here with her, to get her through the day.
Snug in bed! Are you really okay? I know today is tough without family, and I wanted to say that I’m thinking of you.
Shrugging at the vacant room, Mia deliberated for a few moments. She stared at the screen and lingered with her thumb over the letters.
Not really, but it’s just a day. Thank you, though.
You should be here. We could have started with a champagne breakfast, followed by a beer lunch, and then a cocktail finish.
A single chuckle rushed air through Mia’s nose, and her shoulders briefly moved with the exhalation.
That would have been better.
A few minutes passed before Juliet responded.
Is there anything that you need? Anything I can do?
No, not at all. I’m just wallowing in my own misery. I’ll try not to share.
Mia swallowed heavily, waiting for a response.
Oh honey, you share as much as you like.
Mia burrowed further into her pillow, tugging the duvet as high as she could, just one hand poking out the top as she held her phone. She squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to spend the entire day in tears. Some of it, yes, but not all of it.
Maybe I’ll come see you for a few days soon. Would that be okay?
Yes! Of course. Book some flights today, maybe that’ll help. Hey, we could go to Paris when you’re here.
Was Juliet’s enthusiasm real, or was she just being her usual nurturing self, trying to coax Mia out of her sadness?
Only if it snows, right?
Ha ha. I’ll make an exception. Take care today, and call me anytime, k?
Not crying was easier said than done.
Thanks, J. Can I call you that? :-) You have a good day.
I won’t complain today; you’re having a rough day already. :-) Talk soon.
When Mia made her way out of the bedroom, wet hair tied back in a twisted bun and a designer V-neck sweater over the shirt Juliet had given her, she found a row of gifts awaiting her on the coffee table. She cast her eyes over them briefly, fingering the tags before heading into the kitchen and making herself a cup of strong coffee. Her instinct was not to bother with breakfast—she wasn’t in the least bit motivated—but ended up spooning herself a bowl of cut-up fruit from the fridge and tossing a handful of toasted granola over the top. She flopped herself down onto the sofa, flicking the television on and changing channels until she fixed upon the world news, anything to avoid a carol, a Christmas tree, or an oversized Santa.
She reached first to the delivered item, obvious by its clear cellophane, company sticker, and small card poking out at the top. There was a large box beneath the extensive gathering of cellophane. She withdrew the card, and a sad smile caught the side of her lips; it was a gift from Juliet.
Dear Mia,
Just a little collection to indulge in and cheer up your day—maybe this one won’t be so bad. I hope this aids the relaxation. These are a few of my favourite things and hopefully yours too.
Happy ‘look after yourself’ Day,
Juliet
PS. I’m not sure there’s a person in Durness that doesn’t know the Revira family; you were super easy to track down. Oh, and we have that accommodation by the sea whenever we like.
Rechecking the sticker, Mia was surprised to see that it had been made by the same place where she had stopped to buy Juliet’s book, the one that had wanted a signed copy. She figured Juliet had quickly worked some magic, and this added to the confusion Mia felt about her. Her e-mails seemed caring but detached, and her text messages were almost to the point of worrying about Mia, yet she seldom mentioned herself. Mia had no idea what Juliet was doing for the day or even if she celebrated Christmas. Did she hate the holidays as much as Mia? She had no idea at all. Yet, she was someone who obviously made a range of phone calls from a separate continent, just to have a gift delivered to Mia, whom she seemed to care about, but not really connect with. It was odd…or complex. Juliet was complex.
The gift box had a range of items in it, a small number of handmade chocolates, including some white chocolate-covered coffee beans and dark truffles. There was an early edition Kahlil Gibran book—Sand and Foam, not The Prophet, his most well-known volume. Also in the box were a few bath products—a milk soak and body scrub to go with the two half carafes of French champagne. The final item was a beautifully handcrafted leather notebook, a deep red colour that had two long leather ties to secure it shut. A pen was clipped on the top, and embossed on the cover were two eagles, wingspans wide.
And now Mia was crying.
Sniffling, she opened the other two gifts, a pair of earrings from Martin, which probably cost a third of the Christmas bonus Mia had transferred into his account as a surprise. She had done a similar thing for Janet as well, although the flights home had been the focus. Janet had bought Mia a voucher for a full-day treatment at a day spa in Edinburgh. They seemed to have really taken a shine to her: she couldn’t remember a time when any of the staff, in her childhood home or later on, had ever bought them gifts, except the nanny that had raised her and Daniela. She had always given them the doll or toy they wanted when their parents didn’t get it right.
It should have made her feel better, but it didn’t.
* * *
Barely able to move with the number of layers she had on, Mia worked at saddling her horse. It took longer than it should have, her fingers numbing quickly without gloves on as the snow fell softly outside the barn. Before mounting, she double-checked her coat pocket, two folded-up pieces of A5 notepaper still securely inside. She settled into the saddle, and after tugging gloves onto her hands, she took the reins and tapped her
heels to the horse, walking it out into the elements.
Mia had spent most of the day wallowing, agitated as she restlessly moved from the lounge room to her bedroom, pacing through the kitchen or distractedly looking out the window. She couldn’t concentrate to sit in front of a movie, and when she tried to read a book, she kept having to reread paragraphs and flick back a few pages, unable to absorb the words. Usually the quietness didn’t bother her, and having the place to herself was enjoyable. But she was feeling uneasy and locked in.
Riding across a postcard-perfect paddock, her back rounded, she slumped slightly forward, her chin frequently falling to her chest. She kept casting her eyes to the dimly gray sky and sobbing, before dropping her head back down. Her shoulders trembled. The horse walked at a slow, calm pace, as if cautious, protective of its fractured rider.
Slipping down to the undisturbed snow after just over an hour of riding, Mia’s knees and shins were wet as she crawled forward. Snow melted with her body’s heat and soaked into her jeans. She was shivering intensely, though she wasn’t really feeling the cold.
Momentarily, she was tear free, edging down a small embankment until her fingertips could reach the freezing flow of a freshwater stream. If she followed the current for sixty or seventy miles, she would hit a beautiful loch, surrounded by small log cabins and old wooden jetties. Fumbling, she sat back on her feet, legs folding under her as she unzipped the pocket of her jacket.
She withdrew the two pages of lined paper, filled with her own cursive writing. The pages had been torn out of the notebook that Juliet had given her. Mia had spent thirty minutes earlier this morning penning a tearful goodbye. It had been in the back of her mind ever since her therapist had suggested letter writing as a way to deal with the grief. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to actually do it. The words had run around her head at will, coalescing into different phrases and thoughts, but she hadn’t put any of it onto paper. Until now. And that was the idea behind what she was doing. Well, that was what her therapist had insisted was a key task in her journey, her recovery.
It had all sounded like a load of bullshit to Mia, yet she had gone back to the idea time and again, in hope of some sudden epiphany. But epiphanies weren’t something that happened in real life, and when she had relented and reluctantly committed herself to writing a goodbye, she had found that she couldn’t do it.
She had thought it would be easy, fluid, and simple, a sarcastic and purposeless task. It wasn’t.
It was downright difficult—impossible and unpleasant, actually. It hurt. It made her entire body ache until she felt like she might disappear under the pressure.
Her hand trembled. The words seemed superficial and hollow, completely inadequate for what she was trying to describe. She wanted to represent the depth and complexity, and everything she thought of seemed clichéd or insincere.
And now that she had written it, she couldn’t let it go.
So she grasped the thin pages to her chest, and they wrinkled under her tight hold. The lightly falling snow caught the edges of the paper, and it wilted. A few words on the first line began to run.
She had to do it before they disappeared.
* * *
Juliet poured her first glass of wine, a room temperature Merlot that was still a little too chilled for her liking. The microwave was heating some frozen mini-pizzas, and leaning back in front of it, she fished her phone out of her back pocket. Tossing it around in her fingertips for a moment, she briefly debated whether or not to text Mia. Juliet hadn’t heard from her since that morning, and it concerned her. It was instinctual rather than anything specific—a little niggle in the back of her mind despite her attempts to distract herself.
Hey! How are you coping with the day?
After half a bottle of wine and numerous pizzas consumed, when Juliet still hadn’t received a message back to that deceptively simple text, she gave a shrug at the television and then gave herself an internal talking to about becoming too close. She was not just attracted to Mia. She wanted more than just fleeting desire. Juliet hadn’t felt that way about someone for a long time, and it wasn’t comfortable.
She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t willing to put it all on the line. The outcome had never been particularly traumatic, but it never had been particularly worth it either, and it had always eventually made her feel like the walls were closing in.
She had her writing and her travel. She could work her way around the world again, meet people, and have casual unattached flings. She wasn’t made for relationships, and she had long ago made her peace that a life alone, filled with adventures and experiences, was her purpose.
Until she found herself continually checking her phone. Until she was worrying herself through three more glasses of wine, and Mia still hadn’t replied.
Almost a full bottle, and not a single word from Mia.
Not even an “all good” or “fine” response, no response at all. Juliet found herself desperate for her phone to beep, just that little message jingle that would tell her that Mia was fine and she could go about moving on.
Moving on from what, she wasn’t sure, but she assumed sobriety would bring some clarity. She was certain that her perceived connection with Mia was exactly that—a perceived one. Her self-delusion was just a symptom of being alone without a safety net. She wasn’t specifically attracted to Mia. She was attracted to the illusion of someone stable and supportive in her life—the kind of person that could rescue her in an airport. But that’s all it was, an illusion of some happy-ever-after story.
Juliet had apparently, despite her better judgement, subconsciously created Mia into the person that she had always assured herself that she would one day settle down for. Her travel and independence, as strong and fulfilling as it was, wasn’t something she had planned for forever.
She would one day meet the woman that was worth making sacrifices for and who would make sacrifices for her. The reciprocity was important; this person would be her partner and her equal.
But that wasn’t Mia; equal they were not.
Juliet took another long drink from her glass, the liquid sliding down her throat now with barely a warm burn.
If only Mia would respond so Juliet could go about forgetting her.
* * *
Flicking the small blue lighter she had brought with her, Mia tried to blink through her tears. The snow was starting to turn into a sleety rain, and cold droplets of water sneaked against her neck and into her scarf.
Trying again to quickly turn the thumbwheel, a small flame jutted up before fading; it flickered at the page before the dampness extinguished it. Her hand was stinging, and each digit felt oversized and weak. She had written the letter, and now she couldn’t burn it.
How cruel was this world?
Using the paper as a shield for one final attempt, Mia forced her thumb down hard, teeth gritting as a sharp pain ran through the palm of her hand. The flame appeared and held, catching the long edge of the letter and burning quickly. Mia breathed a sigh of relief and stumbled to her feet.
She tried to keep the smouldering object close until she was forced to hold just the corner as the red line became closer and the paper disintegrated. It was almost done. Holding it out in front of her, arm outstretched, she watched tiny pieces of ash drift and then disappear. They were too tiny, and the afternoon was too dark and wet to keep track of them.
She wasn’t meant to anyway.
And then it was gone. Her words, her goodbye, everything she felt was now a part of the landscape. Some of the scraps drifted into the stream and were carried away, while others flew into the rocky edge or landed atop snowflakes on blades of grass.
Her apology, the desperate request for forgiveness from somewhere it would never and could never come.
An endless flow of repentance.
She couldn’t bring herself to do what she had been instructed to do, though—to forgive herself.
Mia wasn’t sure how she negotiated the path b
ack to the stables, though she suspected her horse had protectively carried her home. He stood unmoving next to her when she slumped onto a bale of hay, phone loosely held in her hand. She stared at the screen through tears, repeatedly talking herself in and out of using it. She was filled with trepidation at the thought of baring her wounds again. Yet she was immobilised at the alternatives. Selecting the most recent number on the phone’s log, Mia closed her eyes and pressed the green call button.
Three rings and a muffled voice answered. “Mia?”
CHAPTER 6
“Mia, is that you?” Juliet quickly tore the phone from her ear and checked the caller identification; it was definitely Mia’s number.
“I’m sorry.” Mia’s voice was a muffled murmur through the phone.
Rolling onto her back and scooting up the bed, Juliet leant back against the wall, knees up in front of her. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call.”
“Hey, it’s fine. Honestly, what is it? What’s going on?”
Juliet’s pace was a little faster than she would have liked, her pitch higher too. She took a slow breath and rubbed her eyes. Panicking would not help Mia.
“I fucking hate this day,” Mia said. “I can’t keep doing this all the time. It’s making me crazy.”
“Okay,” Juliet said softly.
“I fucking hate it. I hate this day, Juliet. I really hate it.”
“You want to talk me through it?” This earned Juliet a shuddering cry over the line. “Or we can go with distraction if you like.”
“I’m sorry I called.” Juliet could hear the strain in her voice, the effort to articulate words through her breathlessness. “I just needed to hear someone. There’s no one else here, and I…”
Juliet held the phone, waiting with patient silence.
“I’m not always like this.” Mia’s voice was a whisper.
“Hey, don’t worry. We’re all sometimes like this.”
Mia hiccupped a laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, seriously.” Juliet could imagine her blotchy skin and the tears coursing down her face.
