up to you, is it? I’m a stranger, after all, and I really appreciate you bringing the food. Sardines for dinner don’t sound really festive, you know?”
“I bought them yesterday,” Amy said. “I waited, though, you know, in case Mum changed her mind.” She looked up at Colleen, her eyes bright. “She should have.”
“I’m okay,” said Colleen. “You have a great Christmas.”
Amy left. Colleen closed the door behind her and stood staring at it. Oddly, she didn’t feel like crying. She was even a bit relieved. It would have been worse, being in a house where she was merely tolerated, where she felt she was intruding. She carried the bag to the kitchen. The chicken was in an oven-ready bag. The six mince pies were precooked. She ate one. It was sweet and flaky. She ate another.
Colleen had a sudden urge to call home, but she didn’t have a telephone—couldn’t afford one—and the idea of slogging out into the snow to find a pay phone was more than she could face. She wentback to bed and stayed there for as long as she could, dozing, dreaming about nothing at all, and then got up and went to the kitchen where she nibbled at the chicken. She wandered past the bathroom into the living room and surveyed the room: the cot with a couple of pillows on it that served as a sort of couch in the far corner, the worn-through carpet, the little table with a few of her things on top—a picture of Pixie the dog, a candle in a blue and white holder, a notebook in which she scribbled poetry, a little sweetgrass basket—the rickety desk with the equally rickety chair, and this chair, a comfortable old stuffed thing full of burn marks from the previous owner. Most of the furniture, except for this chair and the carpet, which had come with the apartment, she’d salvaged from things people left out by the side of the road for garbage pickup.
She picked up a cheap paperback, some crime thing about a serial killer in Philadelphia, which she’d bought at the drugstore, and tried to read it, but her mind wandered. She heard Amy’s voice repeating over and over, I’m really sorry, but my mother’s decided Christmas this year should just be for family . She put the book down and strummed her guitar, sang every song she knew—Joni Mitchell, Jim Croce, Bob Dylan—and at some point she started to cry.
She cried hard, and stuffed the end of her sleeves in her mouth so the old couple downstairs, who had made it perfectly clear they didn’t approve of her, didn’t hear her sobbing. The tears were hot with anger and resentment and a terrible feeling of injustice. She cried so hard she was afraid she’d drown in self-pity.
But she didn’t. Instead, something else happened. Round about four o’clock, when the sun was setting and the snow on the streets turned blue, she moved her chair from beside the unlit little fireplace, and sat at the bay window watching the Christmas world go by. Kids with new sleds heading back from the slope by the agricultural college up the road; cars full of families on their way, no doubt, to Grandma’s house for the annual turkey; a couple hand in hand, wearing matching green-and-red toques. Then, as though everyone who had somewhere to go had arrived at their destination and not a creature was stirring, the world seemed to settle, to take a deep breath and sigh it out again. The wind stilled, the snow gleamed with silver in the lengthening light, and the first star appeared in a cloudless sky. For a moment it felt as though she were outside her body, watching a girl in a white bathrobe sitting on a spring-sprung old chair by a frosted window. Then suddenly she was back inside her skin, but in that moment peace had washed over her. She felt as though she needed no one and nothing. It didn’t matter that her parents had declined her request for a ticket home for the holidays when she’d called them collect from the pay phone in the diner two weeks earlier (“You’ve made your own mess, young
“I bought them yesterday,” Amy said. “I waited, though, you know, in case Mum changed her mind.” She looked up at Colleen, her eyes bright. “She should have.”
“I’m okay,” said Colleen. “You have a great Christmas.”
Amy left. Colleen closed the door behind her and stood staring at it. Oddly, she didn’t feel like crying. She was even a bit relieved. It would have been worse, being in a house where she was merely tolerated, where she felt she was intruding. She carried the bag to the kitchen. The chicken was in an oven-ready bag. The six mince pies were precooked. She ate one. It was sweet and flaky. She ate another.
Colleen had a sudden urge to call home, but she didn’t have a telephone—couldn’t afford one—and the idea of slogging out into the snow to find a pay phone was more than she could face. She wentback to bed and stayed there for as long as she could, dozing, dreaming about nothing at all, and then got up and went to the kitchen where she nibbled at the chicken. She wandered past the bathroom into the living room and surveyed the room: the cot with a couple of pillows on it that served as a sort of couch in the far corner, the worn-through carpet, the little table with a few of her things on top—a picture of Pixie the dog, a candle in a blue and white holder, a notebook in which she scribbled poetry, a little sweetgrass basket—the rickety desk with the equally rickety chair, and this chair, a comfortable old stuffed thing full of burn marks from the previous owner. Most of the furniture, except for this chair and the carpet, which had come with the apartment, she’d salvaged from things people left out by the side of the road for garbage pickup.
She picked up a cheap paperback, some crime thing about a serial killer in Philadelphia, which she’d bought at the drugstore, and tried to read it, but her mind wandered. She heard Amy’s voice repeating over and over, I’m really sorry, but my mother’s decided Christmas this year should just be for family . She put the book down and strummed her guitar, sang every song she knew—Joni Mitchell, Jim Croce, Bob Dylan—and at some point she started to cry.
She cried hard, and stuffed the end of her sleeves in her mouth so the old couple downstairs, who had made it perfectly clear they didn’t approve of her, didn’t hear her sobbing. The tears were hot with anger and resentment and a terrible feeling of injustice. She cried so hard she was afraid she’d drown in self-pity.
But she didn’t. Instead, something else happened. Round about four o’clock, when the sun was setting and the snow on the streets turned blue, she moved her chair from beside the unlit little fireplace, and sat at the bay window watching the Christmas world go by. Kids with new sleds heading back from the slope by the agricultural college up the road; cars full of families on their way, no doubt, to Grandma’s house for the annual turkey; a couple hand in hand, wearing matching green-and-red toques. Then, as though everyone who had somewhere to go had arrived at their destination and not a creature was stirring, the world seemed to settle, to take a deep breath and sigh it out again. The wind stilled, the snow gleamed with silver in the lengthening light, and the first star appeared in a cloudless sky. For a moment it felt as though she were outside her body, watching a girl in a white bathrobe sitting on a spring-sprung old chair by a frosted window. Then suddenly she was back inside her skin, but in that moment peace had washed over her. She felt as though she needed no one and nothing. It didn’t matter that her parents had declined her request for a ticket home for the holidays when she’d called them collect from the pay phone in the diner two weeks earlier (“You’ve made your own mess, young
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