What Scotland Taught Me

by Molly Ringle

  “It’s just, I’m glad I helped Amber through the nineteenth, but aside from that, I find myself wishing I hadn’t come. And I’ve never felt that way about spending time with you guys, ever.”

  Tears rose in my eyes. “Shan...I’m sorry...”

  “It’s all right, but fix it. Okay? I don’t want to feel like this ever again.”

  I swallowed, seeking the right words.

  She picked up her bag. “My flight’s leaving soon. We’ll talk later, all right?” Out she went.

  * * *

  I spent the morning drinking tea and soup, slumped at a table in the kitchen, staring out the window at the castle with my blanket around me. Shannon’s words tormented me, gentle though they’d been compared with Laurence’s or Amber’s or even Tony’s.

  Shortly before lunchtime, Amber texted me. She included Laurence and Shannon on the cc list.

  I’m moving out of the hostel and in w/ a coworker of mine named Nina. Plan to stay through March at least. Here’s the address and number.

  I went down to Room 17, but her bed was already empty and smoothed out, her backpack and duffel bag gone.

  Jeez. I’d been left alone in the hostel I never particularly wanted to live in, and was unable to leave due to illness. Brilliant.

  At lunchtime, over another bowl of canned chicken soup, I turned on my cell phone and typed out an email.

  Dear Laurence,

  I know you don’t want to speak to me right now. But can you please let me know you’re okay? I have this terrible cold, and it’s likely you caught it too, and I hate thinking of you out there by yourself. I’m just worried. Please, one word?

  Again, I’m really, really sorry.

  LOVE,

  Eva

  I pressed “send” before I could lose my nerve.

  I passed the rest of the afternoon in the hostel TV room, watching a subtitled movie from the Netherlands. Embarrassment plagued me the whole time at putting “love” in all caps. The other residents who came in took one listen to my phlegm-rich sniffles, and chose seats on the opposite side of the room.

  Laurence hadn’t responded by nightfall.

  I called Shannon in Canterbury. Male voices conversed behind her when she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Shannon. It’s me.”

  “Hey,” she greeted. “Hang on. Let me get into a different room.” A thump of a door shutting, then: “There. With Tony here, I wanted to get somewhere else before talking to you.”

  “Right. How is he?”

  “Positively weird, Eve. He’s the strangest mix. Happy and holy one minute, then bummed out and sulky the next. I feel bad for him.”

  “I understand. I’m really sorry. And listen, about what you said this morning--”

  “No, please don’t,” she begged. “I know you’ll sort it out. I wasn’t fair.”

  “You were fair. You were right. And now you’re dealing with Tony on top of it all, which kind of makes you a saint.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you. You’ve got more on your plate now, and I don’t want to add to it.”

  “Uh...why? What’s on my plate?”

  “I guess he told his mom the basics,” she said, “and then his mom talked to my mom, and it sounds like they’re all pretty ticked at you. His mom seems to think this priest idea is your fault.”

  “My fault? As if. And, what, she isn’t proud of him becoming a priest?” I held the phone away for a second to sneeze and blow my nose.

  “You know how she is,” Shannon said when I brought it back to my ear. “One of those Catholics who hate half the things about the Catholic church, including celibacy.”

  “I’m not wishing celibacy on him. This wasn’t my plan.”

  “Eve, I know. I’m not accusing you. I’m just warning you, in case you talk to your folks. They’ve probably heard by now, too.”

  I muttered a curse under my breath. “Another call I’ll have to make.”

  “Also...” She sighed. “My folks got irritated that I defended you, and now it’s just one more thing they’re miffed at me about.”

  “One more? Oh. What with Thomas.”

  “Yeah.” A few seconds of silence passed before she went on. “Hey, it’ll get better. Laurence will come back. Really. He’s just proud, you know?”

  “I don’t know. I may have gone too far. He won’t answer even one word to me.”

  “Come down and see us. You can kill some time that way.”

  “What, with Tony there?”

  “He’s leaving the day after tomorrow. You could come then.”

  I rested my face on my knees. The warm phone made my ear sweat. “I can’t. When I’m over this cold I’ll have to do a lot of work to make up hours. And I want to be here, in case Laurence comes back.”

  “Neither of those are perfect reasons, and you know it.” She used her cajoling voice, which usually nudged my stubbornness aside a few degrees.

  Today was no exception. “I’ll think about it. But right now I need to bribe someone to go out and buy me cough drops.”

  “Poor baby. Hey, is Gil still in town?”

  “Uh, probably. Why?”

  “He could do it.”

  An honest-to-God laugh bubbled out of me, complete with a wet cough. “Oh, Shannon. You do lift the spirits.”

  “Come on, he owes you one. You saw him through a hard time, let him go when he realized about his one true boss’-daughter love.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He could sing you Scottish lullabies. Tuck you in under a plaid blanket.”

  “Goodbye, Shannon.”

  Chapter Fifty: Sisters In Gloom

  No word from Laurence before I went to bed that night. My worry and exhaustion wiped out the last of the warmth generated from talking to Shannon.

  When my teeming nasal cavities awoke me early the next morning, I slogged out of bed to call in sick to work again.

  The housekeeper clicked her tongue in severe Scottish annoyance at me. “That’s two of you out today, then. Tish called in sick as well. I’m not sure what I’m to do.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Half my consonants came out blunted by congestion. I’b reedy sorry.

  “It’s none of you take care of yourselves, that’s what it is.”

  “I’ll try to come in tomorrow. I promise.”

  “That leaves me today with a banquet to take care of on my own hands with just one girl here.”

  Irritation welled up inside me, pushing through my illness like a crocus sprouting in spring. My tongue, poised to apologize yet again, aligned itself in a new direction. “Actually,” I said, “I won’t come in tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have much time left in my stay anyway. I think I’ll just quit now.”

  “You can’t just quit! Not if you want any pay for this last week.”

  “I’ll have to forfeit it, then.”

  “You’re quitting? Are you quite serious?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Mrs. McDonald. But I really need to go sleep now.”

  “This is far too abrupt. This is irresponsible of ye--”

  “Thank you for letting me work there.” I meant it, and spoke the words sincerely. “I learned a lot.”

  “Eva!”

  “Goodbye. And sorry.” I watched my hand hang up the phone, amazed, as if a second personality had taken over my body.

  I also felt strangely better, and when I went back to bed I fell asleep and stayed unconscious half the day.

  Upon awakening, and using up fifteen tissues blowing my nose, I switched on my phone and logged on to my email server. My heart knocked hard inside me.

  Nothing from Laurence.

  I wilted.

  After a quick web search, I found the email for his father at work.

  Dear Mr. Hawthorn,

  Hi, it’s Eva. I was just wondering if Laurence has written you in the last couple days. I want to make sure he’s okay, since he went off traveling alone and might have
caught my cold just beforehand.

  Also, he may or may not have told you, but we sort of had an argument, so he might not be speaking to me. Still, I want to make sure he’s okay. No hard feelings on my side, I promise.

  Hope you’re having a good day in Wild Rose. Tell everyone I miss them.

  Eva

  There. Pathetic, but possibly my only hope. Laurence at least wouldn’t let his dad worry. He’d probably have called or emailed home with his whereabouts. If I got lucky, Mr. Hawthorn might even tell me which wee Highland village Laurence was staying in.

  That evening, as my nose started to drain but my lungs developed a chunky cough, I checked my email for the zillionth time. The name Jim Hawthorn shone out at me in boldface. I shot my thumb onto it, fumbling and missing in my first two clicks, and finally opened the email.

  Hi Eva,

  Good to hear from you. Things are fine here, though I miss you kids.

  I’ve heard from Laurence today. He says I’m to tell you, “Not yet.” I don’t know what that means, but he says you will.

  Hang in there. He gets over his grudges eventually, and I’m sure he will for you, whatever it’s about.

  Take care,

  Jim

  Talk about piling humiliation on top of depression. I sent Mr. Hawthorn a short mumble of gratitude, and logged off.

  I paced the corridor, coughing, tasting the tang of busy viruses and antibodies in my throat. Couldn’t find Laurence. Didn’t want to whine to Shannon again. Needed to give Amber more time. Could hardly phone up Gil with my woes. Did I truly have no one left to talk to?

  I returned to Room 17 and dialed my home number. This was a duty call, not comfort, but at least it would be something to cross off my to-do list. Mom and Dad might have heard about my breakup with Tony by now. I needed to give them the true edition, more or less, before rumors caught their hooks too deep into my own family.

  “Hello?” said my little sister.

  “Gina. Hey. You home by yourself?”

  “Oh, hi! Yeah. Mom and Dad are letting me do that this year.”

  “Cool. Congrats.” Oh, well. Guess I’d have to talk to her instead of them. “So, how are things with you?”

  “Um, they’re okay. Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  Huge seventh-grader sigh of melodrama. “You heard I was going with Bryce?”

  “Bryce?” My mind conjured up the image of a mischievous, freckled kid who lived down our street. “Oh, yeah. Dad mentioned you had a boyfriend, but he didn’t say who. Bryce Collier?”

  “Yeah. Well, he dumped me last week. For Madison.”

  I remembered Madison better, Gina’s popular brunette nemesis, all pink leggings and glitter eye shadow. “That little wench. Ugh. You’re better off, if he wants her.”

  “But I feel so stupid. Like everyone’s snickering at me in the halls.”

  “Aw, even if they are, they’ll have something new to snicker about next week. That’s how seventh grade is. High school too, actually.”

  “Yeah,” she intoned, gloomily. “I heard you broke up with Tony. Did you really?”

  “We mutually broke up. He’s...” I inserted an incredulous laugh. “He’s going to become a priest, evidently.”

  “I heard about that!” Now she was interested. “They can’t get married, or even have girlfriends. Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. He really likes the church. But I probably would have broken up with him anyway, because I kind of have a new boyfriend.” I took a deep breath. “It’s Laurence.”

  “Oh, my God! You and Laurence?” I was pretty sure I heard her jumping up and down on the kitchen floor. “Dude! That’s so cool!”

  Laurence flirted with Gina when he visited. Gina therefore loved him, and constantly wanted to throw me and him together. My chest ached with both fondness and infection as I remembered how her behavior used to annoy me.

  “You were right all along,” I told her. “He’s a pretty great guy.”

  “Duh. God. You were so dense.”

  “Thing is, he’s mad at me right now.” I bowed my head, flexing my sock-covered toes against a bare spot in the carpet. “He stormed off, because I was stupid and said I wasn’t sure about leaving Tony for him--even though I was--and I don’t know if he’ll take me back.”

  “That sucks.” Nice thing about pre-teens. They didn’t probe for bunches of explanatory details. They just took what you gave them and replied with a heartfelt answer.

  “You’re shaping up into a cool girl, Gina. When did that happen?”

  “Maybe when you stopped being dense and annoying.”

  “At least you’re still a brat. That’s reassuring.”

  “Don’t mope around for Laurence. Go do something awesome. Then when he comes back he’ll see how, like, independent you are. So he’ll want you.”

  I blinked in silence. Her suggestion was oddly wise. “Gina, have you been reading Seventeen again?”

  “Mom got me a subscription,” she said proudly.

  “You and Seventeen have a point.” I looked up at the drearily familiar fluorescent lights. “Huh.”

  Chapter Fifty-One: Outta Here

  It was positively absurd that I hadn’t taken more trips out of Edinburgh in all this time, I thought, stuffing clothes into my travel bag. Back in autumn, the four of us had done day trips to tourist spots like Rosslyn Chapel or Thirlestane Castle, but we’d hardly gone anywhere else.

  “We’ll find time before we go home,” we kept saying. Then romantic angst and bad weather and scary ghosts got in the way.

  Shannon said Canterbury was lovely. A proper charming English city, all churches and cobblestones and gardens. A tad warmer, too, with a bit more winter sunshine than Scotland. And why stop at Canterbury? All of Great Britain was within reach of a train journey. I’d chosen trains as my transportation mode, having purchased online a rail pass good for a full month. It had cost more than I liked to spend all at once, but the website assured me that the pass came at a special discount for non-UK residents under 25 years of age, and was ideal for those who wanted to keep their itinerary flexible.

  Thus, with my confirmation code for the rail pass in my pocket, and my possessions in tow, I lurched down to the front desk and told the latest Australian employee, “I’m outta here.”

  From my seat on the train, in a quiet car with only a scattering of other passengers, I gazed through the window at Edinburgh Castle until it slid out of view.

  I sent Laurence another email, though I knew he wouldn’t answer it.

  Dear Laurence,

  I’m leaving Edinburgh, heading south to visit Shannon and Thomas. It’ll take a couple days, so I’ll probably stay in York on the way. I will come back before March, with every hope of seeing you.

  Have pleasant travels.

  Love,

  Eva

  No all caps or pathetic pleas this time. Courteous and to the point. Or so I hoped.

  I also sent virtually the same email to Amber. She might at least answer, but it wouldn’t change my plans.

  Fear and sorrow crept over me as my train sped south, through sheep fields and rolling hills, past glimpses of stormy seashores and square church towers. Not only was I traveling alone, obliged to negotiate stations, luggage, and hotels all by myself before meeting Shannon in London tomorrow, but I was pulling farther and farther away from Laurence. I felt like the spool on top of Shannon’s sewing machine, rattling and spinning too fast for comfort as its thread got yanked away, leaving it more naked every second.

  At twilight I tottered off the train at York, my cough returning in force, along with my weariness. Outside the train station I stood a moment and looked around. This city resembled Edinburgh with its medieval walls and spiked towers, but tended more toward golden-brown and less toward black.

  “Need a ride somewhere, love?” asked a cabbie, leaning out of his shiny black car.

  Ah, an English accent. No Scottish burrs anymore. With a mix
of sadness and interest, I approached the cab. “I’m looking for the White Crown Hotel.”

  My cabbie took me to the hotel where I had made an Internet reservation last night. They found me in the books and checked me in.

  I walked alone with my bags up the shabby carpeted stairs and along the second-floor corridor to my room. Strange to be staying in a hotel instead of working in one. Also strange to see no plaid anywhere. Apparently Northern England’s busy upholstery pattern of choice involved paisley and overblown roses.

  Of course, I thought, thumping my bags down on my single queen bed. War of the Roses. York was one of the players; either a white rose or a red, I forgot which. I could ask Thomas tomorrow. No one around to ask tonight, besides strangers.

  The loneliness crashed upon me like a downpour. I drew in a deep breath, smelling the generic hotel smell of vacuum cleaners and furniture polish. The green and gold rose-patterned bedspread shimmered as tears filled my eyes.

  Alone in a bed, when I should have Laurence. Alone in a room, when I should have friends. Alone in a city, when I should have at least someone who knew my name.

  I moved to the curtains, pulled them open, and gazed out at unfamiliar church spires illuminated against the dark blue evening sky. Wiping the tears off my eyelashes, I looked toward what ought to be north, half a turn from where the sun had set, and with a sniffle blew a kiss to an unknown address in the Scottish Highlands.

  * * *

  Pigeons cooed and scattered as I stepped down onto the platform in King’s Cross Station. The whistles, rumbles, and voices of the huge hub echoed in the vaulted ceiling. I smelled trains, coffee, and sweet fried foods. Turning, dazed by the hubbub of London, stiff from the hours of sitting in the train, I spotted someone wildly waving to me.

  Shannon, in her familiar gray coat, detached herself from beside Thomas and ran to meet me. I set down my bags in time to catch her as she launched into my arms. She held me longer and closer than she ever used to. At that moment I knew myself forgiven, at least by her. It was a start.

  “I don’t suppose you actually feel like seeing the coolest, most expensive shopping district in Great Britain,” she said, “and then having dinner at a cheap curry house, but that’s what we can offer.”