Home Free by Marni Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

was early, 7:30 or so. The shoulders of my cloak were covered in snow. I was excited, breathless. My father in his bathrobe took his time answering the knock. Merry Christmas! I said,with a conscience as smooth and clean as a skating rink. His face registered surprise, anger, worry, relief, surprise, anger, like symbols rolling by in a slot machine. Either I hadn’t written in weeks (a possibility) or else they hadn’t received my letters. The worst part is I can’t remember which it was. In any case, they weren’t expecting me. They had accepted the fact that I wouldn’t be home for Christmas. Now I was on their front step, in a goat-smelling cloak.
    My mother appeared at the door, brought me into the house, and went about normalizing things. It was Christmas day, after all. I sat down to proudly show my mother pictures of my travels, photos of the inglês , in his Indian shirt looking, I now realized as I saw him through their eyes, like a cross between a pig farmer and a dope dealer. She studied the pictures without saying a word and then went to the table, already set for 11—the whole family, minus me.
    My mother added a place setting and turned my attention to the turkey on the counter, trussed and ready for the oven. Did I think five hours would be enough? We gazed at the bound bird and I tasted her dressing. No one said a thing about the fact that I had disappeared off the face of the earth or that my mother had been worried for weeks.
    I couldn’t see what I had done wrong. My carelessness eluded me. I was only miffed that my prodigal-daughter surprise didn’t go over the way I had hoped.
    But Christmas is nothing if not a set of small rituals, and these eventually salvaged the day. My mother made it clear that I was welcome, although now that I had crossed the border into her country, I would do well to put my alarming photographs away and observe the local customs instead.
    I picked up a small knife and began to peel potatoes. Meanwhile, my father passed through the kitchen, cracking his knuckles in vexation and relief,working hard to forgive me.
    When I reach the top of the hill above Alportel, the white house is still there, but it’s been turned into three lavish rental units. An English couple in their sixties is staying in one; when they see me peering through the slats of the gate, they graciously invite me in. The man has a long white beard, like a hobbit, and the woman is tiny, tanned to a walnut colour, and wearing a bikini. I tour the house,where the huge blackened hearth in the kitchen is the same as I remember. So is the feel of the undulating, rosy tiles underfoot. The courtyard where the lemon and almond trees used to grow is now occupied by a swimming pool. The ledge at the back of the wall has been removed.
    They are friendly and offer me a cocktail, but I say I don’t want to drive the mountain roads after dark.
    On my way back, I swirl into the parking lot of the Alte hotel and ding another car with my mirror. There’s no damage, just a scratch on mine I will have to pay for. I log onto the computer one last time and find a brief email from Casey. He’s taking a break in Puebla, he writes, and plans to meet up with two friends from Montreal who are biking their way down the Mexican coast. He’ll ride with them a while, then gradually make his way back north. His hard travels seem to be behind him for now.
    I buy a can of silver spray paint in town, a challenge to my Portuguese vocabulary. It covers the scratch on the mirror perfectly. Then I splurge on a phone call home to ask Brian to meet my flight. The sound of his voice steadies me. This is not a custom of ours, to pick each other up at the airport. We are very independent in our habits. In some ways, even after all these years we’re still learning how to be a couple.

His Version
    A MONTH OR TWO after I got back to Toronto, Casey flew home from Las Vegas with his bike in a box. His