To Where You Are

by K. A. Hobbs

  I sigh and feel my whole body deflate. “I messed it up.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Can we have tea and talk about it?”

  “Does that fix everything, George—tea and talk?” I growl, annoyed that he seems to think my monumental error in judgement can be fixed with a cup of Earl Grey and a bloody lemon cake. “Can you help my troubles with a strong cup of tea and soothing words? I hate to break it to you, but this kind of mistake cannot be fixed like that. I told you I wasn’t ready. I told you I couldn’t do it, but you damn well made me do it anyway. Now I’ve probably caused her more damage and she doesn’t need it. So no, we can’t bloody talk, and no I don’t want a cup of stupid tea,” I yell.

  I close my eyes to the tears threatening to fall and take a few deep breaths, my chest rising and falling fast.

  Too fast.

  I grow lightheaded and I’m sure I’m about five seconds away from passing out. George just stands there, eyes glued to mine, waiting for me to get my shit together. When he’s happy I have, he speaks.

  “Have you quite finished?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t for one second think you’re the only one to struggle at first. No one has a good first meeting, and we both knew that Molly was going to be difficult. The fact you got her to agree to another meeting is an amazing achievement. Please come and talk to me—calmly—and we can work out where we go from here.”

  “We don’t go anywhere from here. I have to try to sort this mess out.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s about me, too, all of this. We might not be visiting her together, but I’m your mentor. I’m here to guide and help you. If you’re struggling, it’s my responsibility to stop it.”

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” I tell him in a whisper. “I think I hurt her more.”

  He steps closer to me, and when I don’t move back, he wraps his arms around my shoulders and lets me break down all over his expensive shirt.

  We stand together in the hallway with God knows who listening, and I can’t find one little ounce of me to care. I’m hurting, too. The thought of giving Molly more to deal with physically hurts. We might have only known each other for a few short hours, but I’ve spent weeks getting to know her, all without her knowing.

  I want to help her. I want to make her see that there is life out there for her, that she just needs to open her eyes, take a leap and grasp it.

  And that I’ll be right there with her.

  When the tears dry and I feel a little more together, I pull back and look at his shirt, soaked through and ruined with my mascara all over it. George looks down and smiles.

  “It’s nothing, Imogen. I am going to insist you go have a bath and I’ll change. I’ll come to your room in an hour, unless you’d rather discuss today in my room?”

  “I’ll come to your room. It’s more… neutral than mine.”

  He nods and wipes away the tears still making their way down my face. “We can’t expect miracles, Imogen. It’s not our line of work.”

  “But I expected more than this.” I hiccup.

  “You’ll get there. I promise you.”

  I kick off my boots and throw my coat across the room while making my way into the bathroom and closing the door.

  I sit on the closed toilet seat lid and rest my head in my hands.

  How did I mess up so badly?

  I just wanted to make her smile, make her feel something that wasn’t pain, but I think I made it worse.

  It’s my biggest faul: I always say the wrong thing even though I mean well. Sometimes, I project how I’m feeling and what I think onto others, and it always, and I mean always, comes back to bite me on the arse.

  I need Olivia.

  She always knows what to say to make me feel better. She’d tell me that I have a heart of gold and that people know that, and they know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone. I do it because I care and sometimes, it comes out wrong.

  I miss her stroking my hair and telling me she loves me. I miss her smile and the way she always has the right words to say in every situation.

  I miss my sister. Plain and simple.

  I stand and walk over to the bath tub, peek into the deep, empty porcelain trap, and shudder.

  Then, I walk past it and turn on the walk-in shower, leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor.

  The longer I stay in the shower, the longer I have to think about what happened, and the more I think I can salvage things with Molly.

  Sure, I pushed too hard and she ran off, but I have a sneaking suspicion that anything I’d said would have had Molly running. She’s spent so long pushing everyone away, letting her grief consume her, that she’s forgotten how to let people in and how to be friends with someone.

  Imogen Thomas doesn’t let people push her away this easily. And she certainly doesn’t let one little bump in the road stop her from trying.

  I climb out of the shower, wrap a towel around my head and go into my room to get dressed. I don’t bother to make an effort, throwing on a pair of yoga pants and a baggy oversized jumper with a pair of big fluffy socks.

  When I knock on George’s door a few minutes later, I hear music coming from within the room. He opens it a few seconds later, and the first thing I notice is that he’s changed his soiled shirt. I’m pretty sure I blush, but he doesn’t mention it.

  “Come on in.”

  I step in and relax almost immediately. George’s quarters are so very him: masculine, old fashioned yet with a modern twist.

  The front wall is floor to ceiling glass with two big leather sofas and one perfectly lived-in armchair where he always sits. Everything is focused around the massive fireplace with a coffee table in the middle.

  I’ve felt at home here since the first time he invited me inside. I walk around the first sofa and take a seat so I enjoy the view of the manicured gardens that the massive windows boast.

  “Would you like a tea? Or maybe something a little stronger?”

  “When you say stronger…”

  He walks over to a big, dark wood chest and pulls a little handle. Nestled inside is a huge selection of alcohol. He steps aside and holds his arm out, letting me see inside.

  “Is that Baileys?” I grin at the girly drink.

  “It is. Would you like one?”

  “I would. I just find it amusing that you, someone so masculine and regal, has such a girly drink.”

  He laughs and reaches for the bottle and a glass. “I don’t drink it myself, but once upon a time, Tonya used to frequent my quarters and she was rather fond of it. I always have a bottle now just in case.”

  I think my eyes go wide at his blatant insinuation of intimacy between himself and Tonya, another senior, because he frowns at me and sits down in his armchair.

  “Not like that. I was once her mentor, too. We’re good friends. That’s all.”

  I shrug my shoulders, trying to pretend his words don’t please me. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, George. You can be friends—or anything else—with anyone you like.”

  He nods and pours me a generous measure over ice before sitting back to do what he always does: wait for me to talk.

  “I had a shower and thought things over. I’m not going to give up on Molly. I am not a quitter. The fact I’m here after what happened to me proves that. I’m destined to help, and I’m going to. I just need to work out the best way to do it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. The worst thing to do now would be to stop. Matching with our charge is not done by chance. We’re paired with those the Elders are convinced we can help. It’s a very complex procedure and it very rarely fails. Nothing that has happened so far indicates this won’t work, Imogen, but all these things take time, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  I take a sip of my drink and curl up on his sofa, happier just being in his company. “I do. And I understand it takes time. I just don’t want to hurt her. She’s hurting enough.”

  He sits forward a
little and meets my eyes. “There’s a good hurt, and a bad one. Pushing someone so they can heal is the good kind, and that’s what you did. No one wants to pull the plaster off the wound that’s causing them so much pain for fear of what they’ll find underneath, but without doing so, we allow it to fester. And nothing good has ever come from a festering wound. As much as it hurts, we need to acknowledge our pain and allow ourselves to heal from the inside, because anything less is just patching over and it makes everything so much worse.”

  I look at him.

  I really look at him and I can’t help but wonder what George has been through. What brought him here? How long has he been here, and would he say he’s found peace?

  But there’s a time and place to ask questions, and this is neither.

  I wake up later and I’m snuggled on the comfiest sofa with the world’s softest blanket draped over me. A fire crackles close to me and the softest piano music fills the dark room.

  I blink a couple of times and realise I’m still in George’s room and he must have music on. I sit up and my mouth drops open.

  George doesn’t have music on.

  George is the music.

  Sitting with only the light of the moon illuminating him, George is playing the piano, his head bowed while his fingers fly over the keys. I freeze when I hear his voice.

  He’s singing.

  Softly and with astounding beauty, he’s singing a well-loved Christmas carol. I pull the covers closer to me as his celestial rendition of Silent Night has a shiver running down my spine.

  I had no idea George could play, and I had even less idea that he could sing. Of course, I’ve seen the grand piano in his room, but I just assumed a house this old would naturally have one.

  I’m captured by his beauty and his voice, and I can’t tear my eyes away from him. Never before has George looked as otherworldly as he does right now. I surprise myself when I feel tears falling onto my cheeks. Clearly, today has had quite an effect on me.

  He eventually turns his head.

  He doesn’t stop playing, but he does speak. “I hope you slept well, Imogen.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” I yawn, stretching and pretending I haven’t been watching him.

  “A good couple of hours. You were exhausted. Do you feel better?” He continues to play, softly, beautifully while we talk.

  “I feel better, yes.” I stand and fold his blanket neatly on the sofa. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  He stops and rests his hands in his lap. “There’s no need. I just… Sometimes the urge to play becomes overwhelming. Lots of things inspire, but none quite as much as you seem to lately.”

  His words shock and delight me in almost equal measure. “Thank you. You play beautifully.”

  He stands and moves closer to me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I am. Tomorrow, I’ll find a way to see Molly, and we’ll start again. It’s only a few weeks until Christmas and the thought of her being alone… I won’t allow that to happen. So I have to try to make a tiny crack in her armour, and I’m determined to do it.”

  He gifts me his beautiful, perfect smile and nods. “That’s the Imogen I know. You can do it. I have complete faith in you. You know where I am, any time. My door is always open for you.”

  I nod and lean up on tiptoes, crooking my finger to get him to lower his head a little. When he’s at a more reasonable height, I press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I turn around and leave George alone while I head to my room to plan how I’m going to get Molly to listen to me.

  Nativity season has always been my favourite time of year at work. Seeing the children so excited about Christmas while they gad about in their costumes, covered in tinsel and glitter, has always made my heart sing. I love the music, the sound of the children’s voices, even the god-awful screeching of Away In A Manger repeated over and over until your ears bleed. I love it all. Or I did.

  This year, it all seems to pass me by in a blur. If you asked me, I probably couldn’t even tell you who is playing Mary and Joseph this year. The Christmas tree, lovingly decorated by the year six class the same as every year, just seems somehow lacking.

  My fingers move in time to the music as my temporary replacement on the piano fumbles her way through Little Donkey for the fifteenth time today. They itch to play, but I can’t bring myself to sit down and let them. Each time I sit at the stool in my living room and so much as touch the piano lid, I can feel Ben sidling up behind me the way he always managed to do when I was playing, no matter how busy he claimed to be. At this point, I’m clock watching just as much as the children, waiting for ten past three to arrive so I can clear them from my classroom, drape it with as much tinsel and fairy lights as I can stomach, and then head home. Mine is the last classroom to be decorated, as the other staff have been so keen to point out, and while I might not be interested in the festive season this year, the children definitely are, and it isn’t fair to them for their classroom to be the only one tinsel free.

  So, I watch that clock ticking down until it’s finally time to release the children to their families, and find myself locked away in my classroom with a big box of sparkle that I can’t bring myself to open. I stare at it endlessly as the minutes tick by on the irritatingly loudly, waiting for some sort of divine inspiration.

  Two years ago, I had Ben—my little Christmas elf—come in and help me turn the entire room into a winter wonderland, complete with Santa’s workshop and a magical, snowy forest in the library area.

  Last year, I was still walking around in a haze, and the sympathy of the other staff hadn’t yet waned into the slightly testy imptience to have everything back to normal that remains now.

  This year… I have no inspiration.

  Pushing the box along my desk and sending a pile of papers for marking scattering over the floor, I turn my back on the mess and head outside the front gates for some fresh air, which I hope will somehow inspire me to decorating greatness. I hold on to the metal prongs of the gate and rest my forehead against them, enjoying the coolness against my skin, and breathe deeply, pushing back the memories and dragging myself into the here and now.

  “Molly?” A voice I half recognise calls my name from behind me, and I turn faces over in my head, trying to match it to the right person before I decide whether or not to turn around.

  “Molly, can you turn around so I can say this to your face and not your arse, please?”

  I smile in spite of myself, still not quite sure who it is but definitely liking their bluntness. Releasing the gates, I turn to see the woman from the Christmas markets—Imogen. She’s wrapped up tightly against the cold, her scarf almost completely obscuring her face, but there’s no doubt it’s her. I’d recognise those playful eyes anywhere.

  “Are you following me?” I ask, not exactly accusing, but curious how she came to be here.

  “No, I am not following you. I was passing. There’s an amazing bakery down the street. They do the best sausage rolls. And if I were following you, I would not follow you here. No offence, but schools always make me feel uneasy.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I reply drily. “They are full of children after all.”

  “Oh, the children don’t bother me. It’s more to do with all the rules.” She grins.

  “Rules make you uneasy?” I quirk an eyebrow at her, leaning back against the bars behind me, holding them tightly in my grip, a little on edge with the memory of our last encounter running through my mind.

  “Don’t they you? I mean, I break out into a rash every time someone tells me not to do something. It’s the strain of not doing it that does it. It’s like the more they say no, the more I desperately want to do it.”

  “Like the shiny red buttons they put on buses and then expect children not to press? I hear you. Although, I guess I’ve always found the structure of rules reassuring in a way. Still, I shouldn’t really be surprised you don’t like to follow orders. I m
ean, you do kind of seem to march to the beat of your own drum.”

  “It’s really like a whole band at this point but the principle is the same.”

  I smile in spite of myself and feel some of that claustrophobia from the classroom melting away. How does she do that? How does she put people at ease so quickly?

  “Hey, how do you feel about Christmas?” I question cautiously, biting my lip and twisting my toe on the ground.

  Her face drops for a second then the cheeky smile is back. “I love it. Who doesn’t? I mean, chocolate for breakfast, and tinsel and lights. Of course, in my younger years, trying to control me enough to only eat one day on my advent calendar at a time was almost impossible. Rules, see? I hate them. Why do you ask?”

  “Well…” I smile sheepishly at her, her word vomit lightening the load of the sadness I’m trying to escape from without her even realising it. “See, my classroom is a little, umm, well. I was going to decorate it, but…” I trail off, not really knowing how to explain that I’m apparently a grinch now and can’t even manage to hang some tinsel without losing my mind. Instead, I shrug helplessly and plead her with my eyes to understand.

  “You’re in need of a festive elf to spread some Christmas cheer?”

  “Something like that.” I bite my lip and bounce on my toes to keep warm. “There’s a hot chocolate from possibly the worst coffee machine in the world in it for you.”

  She walks towards me, kicking her heels together and laughing. “Molly, I was sold at Christmas.” She stops in front of me and goes very serious. “I just want to get this one thing out the way and then we can go paint Christmas over your classroom. I’m sorry for pushing the other day. I shouldn’t have. Can we forget the whole thing and move on?”

  Smiling, I move to link my arm through hers, dragging her in the direction of my classroom. “It’s already forgotten. Hell, help me Christmas up my classroom and you can have anything you like. You need a kidney? I probably only need one. It’s yours.”

  She throws her head back and laughs at me. “Kidneys are good thanks. But I could do with someone to watch movies in my pyjamas with. Wanna do that instead of undergoing excruciatingly painful surgery?”