The Royals Next Door

by Karina Halle

  I stand there for a few moments and then slowly lower myself on the bed.

  I don’t think I’m going to fall back asleep anytime soon.

  * * *

  Despite what Harrison said about seeing me later, I didn’t see him at all yesterday, nor today. It’s back to quiet in the house, which gives me time to start working on my lesson plans for the first week of school this fall (just because teachers get summers off doesn’t mean they don’t have work to do).

  It also gives me a lot of time to think about what happened on Friday night. It made me realize that I can’t let the fear of what other people think of me rule my life. I’ve never been that social, mainly because it’s been ingrained in me to stay home and look after my mother, but I wonder how much of that is really needed and how much of that is misplaced guilt.

  I decide to spring the question on my mom on Sunday night, when we’re sitting around on the deck, waiting for the sun to set, a sweet breeze coming off the water beyond the trees. She’s wrapped up in a crossword puzzle. I’m trying to read a book, but I’ve basically been repeating the same sentence over and over again.

  Finally I put the book down.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  “Mmm,” she says absently as her pencil hovers above the squares.

  “You know how I went out the other night.”

  “Mmhmmm.”

  “Were you okay with that?”

  She puts down her pencil and peers at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Did it bother you that I went out?”

  “No. Of course not.” She tilts her head, considering. “Okay. I have to say I was a little concerned that you went with Mr. Cole.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know your type.”

  “I’m not dating him.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking her head at me. “I see the way you look at him. I’ve seen that look many times before, Piper.”

  I cross my arms, feeling defensive. How am I looking at him? I can’t control what my face does. “I’m not . . . We’re not . . . We’re just friends.”

  “You want to be more than friends.”

  “Well, so what?” I say in a huff, throwing my arms out. “So what if I want to be more than friends? It hurts only me. I know we can’t be together for a million reasons, so obviously whatever feelings I have will remain buried, locked inside me forever.”

  “No need to be so dramatic,” she says, as if she’s not usually the queen of self-created drama. “I’m just pointing something out to you. You say your therapist does the same thing. You haven’t gone to her in a while, so maybe someone has to step up.”

  She’s right. I talk a big game about therapy, but I haven’t been in at least six months. I guess I kind of felt like I was done, but I’m starting to think that therapy doesn’t have an expiration date. You’re never cured. There is no cure. There’s just a way to cope. Only you know when you’re ready to move on, but you also have to know when you should go back.

  Maybe I should go back. Maybe everything I’m dealing with hasn’t resolved itself.

  I gnaw on my lip for a moment, pulling the plaid blanket I have wrapped around me tighter. “Maybe you’d like to go with me?” I ask quietly, bracing for the impact.

  “To therapy?” my mother questions. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. She’s pushed back against this so many times before that I know it’s pretty much futile to even ask, but I figure I might as well try.

  “Yeah. I think it would be good for both of us to go together, don’t you?”

  Now she’s blinking rapidly. Tears are forming at the corners of her eyes.

  Shit.

  “Why . . . I thought I was doing well,” she says. “I’ve been doing well, haven’t I? I’ve been good.”

  I reach out and put my hand on top of hers. “You’ve been so great.”

  “Then why would you say that? Why would you say that to me?”

  I’ve made a mistake. I wanted to talk to my mother about how perhaps I’m not as needed at home as I think I am, that maybe I ought to stop using her as a crutch, as an excuse to withdraw from society. But now I’ve mentioned therapy and she’s upset and on the defensive, just as she always is.

  “Forget it,” I tell her.

  A tear spills down her cheek. She will not forget it. She will dwell on this for days.

  “I’ve been trying so hard, Piper. I really have. With them moving next door, I feel like I have to be on my best behavior, and I’ve been so afraid of screwing up. I don’t want them to judge me. I want them to like me.”

  This breaks my heart. I squeeze her hand tighter until she pulls it away.

  “Mom, please. You’re doing fine. I promise they aren’t judging you and that they like you and you’re handling this change so well. I just thought that maybe if it’s time for me to go back, you’d come with me. Not so much for yourself but for me. I . . . it would be nice to have the support.”

  But she doesn’t believe me and won’t hear me, that much I know. Once she has something in her head, all the convincing in the world won’t change her mind.

  She gets up, crying now, and heads inside.

  I sit there, my heart sinking. I fucked up this time, I really did. This is how it’s always gone when I mention therapy. She’s so resistant to it that it’s like a reflex. The same goes for medication. She should go to the doctor a lot more than she does, and I have to be the one on top of her refills. She’ll happily run out of pills and won’t tell me for weeks. Sometimes I wonder if she’s so afraid of society judging her for her mental illness that the stigma contributes to her denial. Or I think that maybe my dad had something to do with it. I was young, but I remember many arguments between my parents, my dad often saying that my mother could change if she wanted to, and that there was no such thing as borderline personality disorder. Hell, he’s the type to believe that depression is just a case of the blues as well. I wonder how much he contributed to the way my mother is now, you know, aside from the fact that he left her high and dry for the very reasons he told her didn’t exist.

  Liza, who has been lying on the deck, gets up and walks over to me, looking up at me with questioning eyes. She’s so sensitive to both our moods, which is one of the reasons why she’s such a great girl to have around. Even though she’s not an official emotional support animal, she acts like one anyway. Maybe her upbringing, being found as a stray, most likely escaped from an abusive home, makes her know just what it is that people in pain, emotional or physical, need.

  “Hey, girl,” I say to her, feeling choked up myself. I stroke the top of her head. “Go check on your grandma. She needs you.”

  Liza stares at me for a moment, but she knows what grandma means. She trots off into the house, presumably to go be by her side.

  As for me, I know the damage I’ve done and that going after my mother and trying to explain and apologize isn’t going to get me very far. It will only make things worse. The only thing I can do now is give her space and hope that she’ll come around soon.

  Tomorrow is Monday. It’s a great day to call my therapist and make an appointment for myself.

  * * *

  My therapist is getting more than she bargained for.

  I slept in a little this morning, feeling tired and melancholy, and eventually ended up making an appointment for next week (my therapist is in Victoria). My mother stayed in her room with the door closed, and I only opened it when I heard Liza scratching at the door to be let out.

  On our second walk of the day, I decide to check the mail. Our mailbox is farther up the road, but luckily the cul-de-sac is empty save for that SUV. I don’t want to stare too hard, but either James never sleeps or he’s not in the SUV at all and it’s just for show. Either way, it’s been keeping the media away.

  I grab the mail, which is just an envel
ope and the local newspaper, the ShoreLine, and then take it back to the house.

  Where I unfold the newspaper on the kitchen table.

  And stare at the front page.

  It’s a picture of Eddie and Monica, with Harrison in the background, taken in England at some time.

  The headline?

  “Royal Bodyguard Involved in Altercation at Local Pub.”

  Followed by the first line: If the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax are expected to be our new residents, how long can the peace last?

  The article itself is a very long, waxing piece of mumbo jumbo. I’ve already read it two times, and I’m currently sitting on the couch and trying to read it again, because it doesn’t make a lot of sense.

  I’m not named in the article for some reason or another, but I have been given the title of “local schoolteacher who is neighbors with the royals.” It starts off by saying there was an altercation at the pub over the service (a damn lie and they know it) and that Harrison Cole reacted in an aggressive manner toward the owner. The article goes on to talk about Joey himself and his family and their island legacy, before going into the negative impact the royals will have on the island. It says that the island so far has been peaceful, but when the royals become news, the media will come out in droves again.

  That part is most likely true. However, the article then veers into fearmongering, talking about how the royals might be bad for the island long-term; how the island doesn’t need negative publicity, since the royals’ appearance in Canada alone has brought out resentment from taxpayers; that we’re far too small and humble for the likes of celebrities like them, etc.

  Basically it’s just one long, big bashing, using Harrison’s incident as an excuse for it.

  I don’t recognize the name of the person who wrote it, but that doesn’t matter much anyway. They think a certain way, and I’m sure Barbara Mischky and others are apt to share the same complaints. I think it’s ridiculous that this hateful drivel was actually allowed to be printed, and on the front page, but sometimes I suspect the people at the newspaper might not be as unbiased as they claim.

  I’m still stewing over this when, surprise, there’s a knock at my door.

  This time I have no idea what to expect. Is it Monica, here to get mad at me for what happened at the pub (after all, the outing was my idea)? Is it Harrison . . . here to get mad at me for what happened at the pub? I mean, the possibilities are endless.

  I open the door.

  A tall and lean man in a suit, with a strong jaw, black hair, and dark eyes, is standing on my steps.

  PPO James.

  “Good afternoon,” he says in a Scottish brogue. “I hope I’m not bothering you. The duchess is wondering if you’d join her tonight on the dock.”

  “Am I being forced to walk the plank?” I ask.

  James smiles. He has a nice smile. Proof that not all bodyguards need to be as moody and broody as Harrison. “Not at all. She said she was due for a girls’ night and was hoping you would join her. I believe she’ll have drinks and food set up. You don’t have to bring anything.”

  “Why did she send you here?” Why didn’t she send Harrison? “She could have just texted.”

  “She would have come here herself, but she’s gone off island with Eddie. To the doctor.”

  “Oh my god, is something wrong?”

  Another quick smile. “Not at all. It’s routine.”

  Ah, for the baby. Of course.

  “Okay. Sure, I would love to have a girls’ night. Do you know what time?”

  “I’ll be back at seven p.m. to get you,” James says. Then he touches his forefinger against his forehead in a sort of salute and walks off down the driveway, the fallen leaves of the arbutus tree crunching beneath his boots.

  Interesting. He said that he’ll be back to get me tonight. Not Harrison. I figured the reason Harrison wasn’t here delivering the invitation was because he was off island with Eddie and Monica. But if that’s the case, then wouldn’t he come get me later, not James?

  Unless Harrison is embarrassed to be around you. The way he acted, how drunk and vulnerable he was, the nightmare. He’s probably seen the newspaper. Maybe he realizes he needs to take a step back. Maybe whatever you had between you, that beginning of a friendship, maybe that’s officially over.

  I usually tell the negative side of my brain to shut up, but I don’t have a good counter to it this time. I think I’m right.

  * * *

  At ten to seven, I’m wearing skinny jeans, a white tank, and a long cardigan, since evenings can get cool, and waiting for James. My mother is in her room still, only coming out briefly to get some water and snacks before going back. She’s avoiding me, and as much as it hurts, I know I just have to let her have her space.

  At seven on the dot, there’s a knock at the door.

  James is outside and nods when he sees me. Seems all the bodyguards are equally as punctual.

  I walk with him to their house, glancing at him curiously. In some ways he seems the same as Harrison: big, broad-shouldered, a body that looks like it has no problems being lethal if it has to be. And even though James is quick to smile around me, there’s a sadness in his eyes. He looks like an old soul.

  “Where were you working before you came here?” I ask him.

  “I wasn’t,” he says, giving me a soft smile. “I was on sabbatical.”

  “Oh. Well then, is it good to be back to work?”

  He nods. “Yes. Especially here. It’s a lot easier to do the job when you’re on an island in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s the middle of nowhere.”

  “Compared to England, yes. But that’s not an insult. I love the peace and quiet here. Gives me time to think about my next moves.”

  “Are you going to stay with them the whole time they’re here?”

  “Probably. But I’m not sure where I’ll go after that.”

  “Why were you on a sabbatical?”

  Another quick smile; this one doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a long story. But we all need a break sometimes, don’t you think?”

  I couldn’t agree more. Being a teacher is perfect for that, even though I still have a lot of work to do during the summer to prepare for the upcoming school year.

  I decide not to pry any further, and we go around the side of the house, down a set of stairs that leads to the back hillside, and follow the sloping path down to the dock where the yacht is tied up.

  At the end of the dock are a couple of Adirondack chairs with throws over the back and a log-stump table in between them. It looks like a gorgeous spot to just sit and relax and watch the world go by.

  Except now I’m noticing that there are quite a few boats out there. Little speedboats and Zodiacs that are just sitting on the waves, not going anywhere. Odd. There’s a lot of traffic at Scott Point, with the ferries heading out of Long Harbour or out of Active Pass, sailboats, fishing boats, and whale watching tours heading in all directions between Salt Spring, Galiano, and Pender Islands. The difference here is, these boats aren’t moving.

  I’m just about to say something to James about it when a speedboat comes roaring out from around the corner, the same speedboat I saw when they all first moved in. The boat cuts right in front of the dock, between us and the waiting boats, and it’s only then that I realize that it’s Harrison behind the wheel.

  If he’s noticed me at all, he doesn’t show it. He handles the boat with grace as it zips past and does a quick turn, getting closer to the waiting boats this time.

  “What’s going on?” I ask James as we stand outside the yacht, the dock now moving underneath us as the waves from the speedboat crash against it.

  “The press,” James says with a sigh. “They’ve been awakened with that newspaper article.” He glances at me. “I assume you’ve seen it?”
>
  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Well, news travels fast, especially online. I have a feeling that these are our dear British tabloids that have finally shown up, late to the game and doubly frustrated that they can’t get close to the house.”

  Monica pokes her head up from inside the powerboat, looking tiny against its massive size. “Piper,” she says. “Come aboard.”

  She’s smiling as always and seems cheery, so that relaxes me somewhat. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like all of this is my fault, however.

  I get on board, while James walks to the end of the dock and sits down on one of the chairs. Harrison is still going around in the speedboat, though he’s slowed down now and the wake isn’t so bad.

  Monica waves me inside the boat, and I follow. The interior is slick but a little cold and austere, with zero personal touches. “Nice boat,” I tell her.

  “I’m not a fan,” she says, and then laughs when she sees my expression. “It’s okay, it’s not our boat. We chartered it for the time we’re here. It was the only one this big that was available for such a long time. Here, have a seat. Want some wine? I’ve at least got that. And please, don’t decline because I’m pregnant. I need to live vicariously through someone. I am missing wine like I’m missing a limb.”

  “Well, in that case, yes, please,” I tell her, sitting down on one of the plush chairs by an oak table. “You know, I’ve heard doctors say that it’s okay for pregnant women to have a glass of wine every now and then.”

  She pulls a bottle from the fridge and laughs. “That applies to most women, but I don’t fall in the ‘most women’ category. Word would get out somehow, and then my unhealthy habits would be splashed across every tabloid across the planet. When my child grows up, if there’s anything less than perfect about them, then you can guarantee a million fingers will be pointing my way, and at that one glass of wine.”

  “You’re right,” I tell her as she plucks a wineglass from the shelf and brings the bottle over, filling the glass with a generous amount of pinot blanc. “I never thought of that.”