To Where You Are

by K. A. Hobbs

She smiles and opens the cabinet. Nestled into a blue velvet box is a pair of silver cufflinks with a G on them. They’re elegant and understated, much like George himself.

  “They’re limited edition, actually, and made by a local jeweller. He makes the most exquisite pieces.”

  “What’s the initial for?”

  “George. His name is George O’Pry.”

  I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” the girl asks.

  “My friend is also called George.”

  She laughs then, too. “Well then these are perfect.”

  Twenty minutes later, I walk back out into the snow with three beautifully wrapped parcels after adding an electric blue and black striped scarf to the pile.

  By the time I make my way to Molly’s, the snow is so heavy my feet are frozen. I walk up her path and ring the doorbell to the tune of Deck the Halls and wait for her to open the door.

  Any time now, Molly. It’s not like I’m an ice cube on your step or anything.

  It takes an age for her to answer, and for a while, I think she isn’t home. Or she’s just not answering. And then finally, a pair of cautious grey eyes peer around the timidly opened door, flashing around almost fearfully until they close in on me, standing frozen on her doorstep. “Imogen? Shit, come in. You must be freezing.”

  “I’ve felt warmer snowmen. I thought you were out. Were you hoping I’d go away? Or did my song choice make you think it was carol singers? Do you even get carol singers anymore?”

  Reaching an arm through the door, she grabs my wrist and pulls me inside, wafting her hands over the snow covering my coat and hair. “Sorry, I was…” She gestures upstairs with a sheepish look.

  “Busy making yourself look irresistible for me it seems,” I tease, glancing down at her pyjama clad body. “Molly, if you’re going to stay in bed all day, can you at least wear festive pyjamas? These ones aren’t Christmassy and they have holes in.”

  “Hey,” she says with a wounded look. “Don’t hate. These have been with me a long time. We’ve been through a lot together.”

  “I’m not disputing that.” I wrinkle my nose. “But it’s time you wore something fluffy and covered in snowmen or penguins… or maybe reindeer. Not these. I don’t even know what they are.”

  She looks down at the greying pyjama bottoms, her face scrunching up as though she’s trying to remember what they were before they became rejects from the jumble sale. “They’re kittens. Obviously. See…” She points to a strange looking black mark just above her knee. “There’s a paw. And here’s a tail. It’s obvious what they are. You’re just jealous because you don’t have loyal jimmers like me.”

  “Jimmers? Who on earth calls them jimmers?” I snort, kicking off my boots.

  “You’re in Cornwall now, Immy. You need to learn the lingo if you’re going to stick around.” She smirks at me before dragging me through from the warm hallway into the even warmer kitchen. “Drink?”

  “Hot chocolate, and make it with all milk this time, you heathen. None of this tiny bit of milk and the rest hot water rubbish that you try to pass off as hot chocolate all the time. Don’t think I can’t tell the difference.”

  She rolls her eyes as she turns for the fridge and peers inside. “Uh… Slight problem.”

  I know what the problem is.

  The same problem as the last three times I’ve been here.

  “Again? Milk is a basic staple, Moll. You have to have milk and bread and cheese and eggs. Do you have wine?”

  She cringes as she swings the fridge door open wide enough for me to see inside. “Do you happen to like mouldy carrots?”

  I glare at her. “You’re disgusting. How long have those been in there?”

  She shrugs. “A while.”

  And then it dawns on me. “They aren’t the ones I bought when I got you groceries?”

  She tries to look innocent, but I’m not fooled in the slightest. “We could build a snowman. Every snowman needs a nose, right? We can call him Mouldemort.”

  “Mol…” I burst out laughing, covering my face at her horrible joke. “So, not only do we need to get you food and milk, we need to get you new jokes.”

  “Rude,” she states with mock seriousness. “Did I criticise when you told that god-awful one about the horse walking into a bar the other day? No. I didn’t. Because friends don’t criticise each other’s jokes.”

  “I don’t remember that one,” I lie. That was a good joke. “Do you want to hear another one while you get dressed so we can go shopping for food?”

  She groans, grabbing two glasses and filling them with water since that’s all she apparently has. “If I must.”

  “Take that upstairs. We’re going out,” I tell her, pushing her in the direction of the stairs. “Ready for some comedy gold?”

  “You are so bossy. Do you practice on weekends?” she grumbles as she reluctantly allows me to steer her up to her bedroom.

  “I have no need to practise. It comes naturally. Okay, soooooo, what did Barack say to Michelle when he got down on one knee?”

  She looks at me for a moment, a sort of weary amusement in her eyes. “Is this gonna be dirty?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re asking me that, Little Miss ‘I had a fumble in the back of the cinema surrounded by children and their parents’?”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” she says with a cheeky grin as she spins on her heel and makes for her wardrobe. “I am a perfect angel. Speaking of which… wanna hear another one?”

  “Can I please finish my joke?” I growl.

  “If you must,” she grumbles. “But mine is better.”

  “Once again, what did Barack say to Michelle when he got down on one knee?”

  “One hopes it had something to do with nuptials but this is you so who knows?”

  “I’m ignoring that. He said, “I don’t wanna be Obama-selllllllllf!” I sing it in my best voice and then flop onto the bed, laughing hysterically at my own joke.

  “Okay,” she mumbles with a groan. “If we’re going to go out in public, no more jokes. That’s genuinely the worst one I’ve ever heard.”

  “Okay, let’s try another. Why did the snowman have a smiley face?” I grin.

  “Please let this one be less terrible. Go on. Why?”

  “Because he heard the snow blower was coming.” I wait for her response, all the while wiggling my eyebrows suggestively.

  She snorts, her disdainful face melting into a smile. “Okay, that one wasn’t bad. I’ll give you that. Is that what you and George get up to?” she asks, elongating the vowel sounds and grinning. She’s been like a dog with a bone since the moment I first mentioned his name, refusing to let him drop.

  I wish.

  “No, it is not.” I move the subject away from Gorgeous George and back onto safer ground. “This one is perfect for you. What’s invisible and smells like carrots?”

  “You sure you don’t want to quit while you’re ahead?” She winks.

  “Quiet. Rabbit farts.” I snort, covering my mouth at the sound. “I have more. I have more!” I laugh somewhat hysterically.

  I can’t remember laughing so much in a long time.

  “Rabbit farts,” she repeats, eyebrows raised in reluctant amusement. “That’s the best you can do?” She groans as she turns and pokes her head back into the wardrobe. “Okay, so maybe it’s laundry day. Or, like, I dunno… the tenth anniversary of when laundry day should have been.”

  I get up and poke my head into her wardrobe. It’s disgraceful in there honestly. There is nothing worthy of outdoor wear at all.

  “What on earth do you wear to work? And if you tell me it’s these monstrosities, I will have to drag you to the shop for some clothes before they close for Christmas.”

  “I have clothes,” she mutters grumpily. “It’s the Christmas holidays. The Christmas holidays were made for jimmers and cocoa. Nobody wears clothes at this time of year. It’s the rule.”

  “Firstly, stop calling them jim
mers, you freak. Secondly…” I gesture at myself. “I’m wearing clothes, and when I left, George was wearing clothes also. And thirdly, no one calls it cocoa, you old lady. It’s hot chocolate.”

  “Okay, firstly, you’re wearing clothes in December and have the audacity to call me a freak? Secondly, if George was wearing clothes when you left then you are seriously not doing your job properly. And thirdly, if I want to be a crazy cat lady and call hot chocolate cocoa, I will. I have resigned myself to a life of cats and weird friends.” She nods, slamming the door closed on her disaster of a wardrobe and moving towards a chest of drawers with purpose. Humming to herself, she rifles through one of the drawers before pulling out the tattiest pair of leggings I’ve ever seen, hugging them to her chest like they’re old friends, and then following them up with an ugly purple sweater I’m certain is at least four sizes too big. She sniffs it for a moment, inhaling deeply before turning to me and smiling. “See? I have clothes.”

  I wouldn’t exactly class them as clothes.

  “At this point I don’t care what you wear. Just get your butt dressed so we can get some food. In case you didn’t know, it’s Christmas Eve and you have no food.”

  I sit down and wait for her to get dressed. “All I’m going to say is, that jumper better cover all the goods.” I hold my arms across my front, drawing a line across the tops of my thighs indicating the suitable length for the purple jumper to be. “Because no one needs to see the cracks.”

  She huffs, hugging the jumper tighter. “I do not have cracks. This jumper is special. Don’t hate on my favourite.”

  “Everyone has cracks, Moll.” I laugh. “Get dressed or I’ll tell you another joke.”

  “Oh Christ,” she says on a chuckle. “I’ll be two minutes. If you wanted make up and hair brushed, you needed to call ahead. I’ll wear a hat.” She moves towards her en suite bathroom with a slight dance in her step that makes me smile.

  “What did the shoes say to the pants?” I call, trying to hide my amusement.

  “I can’t hear you,” she calls back through the door, but I can hear the laughter in her voice. She secretly loves this.

  I stand and move closer to the closed bathroom door. “S’UP, BRITCHES?” I yell, making sure she can hear me.

  I hear a light thud against the door followed by pained laughter. “They’re getting worse, Immy. Don’t give up the day job.”

  Can’t even if I wanted to.

  Which I don’t.

  I make myself at home on a comfy looking bit of carpet just outside the door and lean my back against the wall. Molly seems reasonably bright today—for her anyway. She was still in her pyjamas when I arrived, and she still doesn’t have food in, but she’s managing to laugh at my God-awful jokes and she’s currently getting dressed. Admittedly, the clothes are shocking and shouldn’t be worn outside of the house, but I’m taking it as a win.

  I take a look around the bedroom. It’s dingy thanks to the closed curtains, and it’s starting to smell a little musty. Jumping to my feet, I pull open the curtains, open the window and go about stripping the bed. If Christmas for her is about not wearing clothes and spending time in bed, the very least she can do is put clean sheets on. I’m so busy thinking about what tomorrow will bring I don’t hear her come out of the bathroom, and I don’t hear her come towards me until the sheets are viciously ripped out of my hands and a very upset, very angry looking Molly is glaring at me with steam coming out of her ears.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she practically screams, scrabbling her hands around the sheets and holding them close to her chest, her breaths panting in panic. She turns her back on me and starts to split the covers, her shoulders vibrating with what I can only assume is rage. She’s part way through trying to put the sheet back in place, not making much headway due to the shaking in her hands, when I intervene.

  “Molly, can you please stop for a second? Let me explain.” I close my fingers over hers and tug, but those stubborn little hands are going nowhere, especially away from these sheets.

  She wrenches free of my grip, her eyes blazing with a fire I’ve not seen before when she rounds on me in anger. “Don’t touch me. You had no right. None! I’d like you to leave now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me. What’s so offensive about changing your sheets?”

  I don’t tell her I know exactly why she doesn’t want me to change them, and I definitely don’t let on that I have something to make this whole process a lot easier. I stand my ground and wait for her rage to fizzle to tears like I know it will.

  “I just don’t like people touching my stuff,” she lies blatantly, staring down at the sheets with a painfully sad expression on her face. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go out today.”

  Really, Molly? We’re doing this now, are we?

  “We’re going out. Because in case you’ve forgotten, you invited me round for Christmas lunch tomorrow and I’m not eating those bloody carrots,” I half yell, my temper getting the better of me.

  I regret it immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, finally releasing her death grip on the sheet and dropping to her knees by the bed. Her face burrows into the cotton as she inhales deeply.

  I feel horrible, so I drop down beside her, and even though I’m sure she won’t want me to, I wrap one arm around her shaking shoulders and squeeze. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s not my place to touch anything in your house, or make you do anything that will upset you. I just… I wanted you to have clean sheets for Christmas.”

  She shifts slightly under my arm, and for a moment I think she’s going to pull away again. And then, miracle of miracles, she twists and throws herself into my waiting arms. I’m shocked to see that her eyes are still dry, even though I’ve never seen her cry. She holds so much inside, refusing to deal with anything that causes her pain. She doesn’t realise that her wounds won’t heal unless she admits that they’re even there.

  “Talk to me. I know you’re hurting, but I’m a good listener and I’m quite good at advice. Give me a go. Let me in.” I whisper the last few words.

  Her head shakes from side to side against my chest and she burrows closer. When she speaks, her voice is so low it’s almost inaudible. “Not today. Please. Not now. Can we just… be. Just until after Christmas?”

  I take a deep breath, disappointment flooding through my veins. I honestly thought she was going to let me in. I hoped she was about to voice the agony she carries around with her.

  But it can’t be rushed. I know that all too well. “Sure. Can I help you make the bed at least? I have something I think you’ll like to make it easier.”

  She pulls away slowly, scrubbing at her dry cheeks with her hands before dragging her fingers through her knotted hair. “Can we just go out? Get it over and done with?”

  “We need to make the bed first, and this will help.”

  I reach into my pocket to pull out a small bottle of Bleu de Chanel, and hold it out to her, mentally preparing myself for another all out episode.

  She stares at it wordlessly for a moment that drags out for what feels like forever. Her eyes remain dry but they seem to mist over as she reaches out and plucks the small bottle from my outstretched hand. Her brow knitted, she lifts it to her face after removing the lid and takes a long sniff. “Oh, God,” she whispers. “How did you…? No. Never mind. I don’t even need to know. I just… thank you. Thank you.”

  I sit there watching her, wondering if I should give the little speech I prepared for this very moment—how I happened to notice the lingering scent in her room the other day and noticed the bottle was just about empty. How I figured her sadness came from losing the person who once wore it.

  I don’t, though. I know when enough is enough and I’m in no rush to make her talk.

  “You’re welcome.” I smile. “Shall we go get the food now, before all the sprouts sell out and we have to knock over an old lady for the las
t parsnip?”

  She nods slowly, but her eyes never leave the bottle in her hand as she pushes to her feet. The look of wonder she keeps giving the aftershave almost does me in. How can something so small mean so much to somebody? She offers me a small smile as she drops the bottle into the pocket of her jumper, as though she’s afraid to be parted from it. Then she bounces on her toes like an athlete preparing for a race and drags in a deep breath, ready to face the outside world. “Okay, but if you make me eat sprouts, we’re seriously going to fall out.”

  I laugh and follow her down the stairs. “What? They’re like my favourite.”

  “They were Ben’s, too. Weirdos,” she says without thinking, a small, wistful smile curling her lips.

  I don’t let on I’ve heard her slip. “All the best people love them. My sister loves them, too,” I tell her, sharing a little something about me with her even if she doesn’t realise it.

  Her brow crunches as we move down her hallway side by side. “I forgot that you have a sister. Why are you spending Christmas with me when you have family?”

  “She’s… going away for Christmas this year,” I lie.

  “That sounds nice,” she admits with a sigh. “Maybe next year.”

  I’m not entirely sure if she means maybe next year we’ll spend it together or that I’ll be somewhere exotic, but I don’t say anything.

  Her fist closes around the door handle and she breathes deeply again, as though she’s mentally preparing herself, then she takes the plunge and bursts through the door before she can change her mind.

  I ought to be used to Imogen forcing me kicking and screaming into the real world by now. Since she came barrelling into my life like a cyclone of happiness, she’s constantly challenged me to face up to life as it is now—to this new version of normal that I hate with everything I am.

  I don’t want to do everyday things like shopping and watching movies without him because that means admitting that that’s how things are now, that things will never go back to how they were. Each morning when I wake up, I have this beautiful, blissful moment when I roll over in the bed we used to share, which still smells like him, and expect him to be there. Part of me is terrified that if I allow the rest of the world in again, that will stop—that somehow my subconscious will catch on to the fact that he’s gone and I won’t have those moments any more.