I scoop up the package Shannon gave to me, protecting it from the trickle of black liquid. The guy mops it up with his college scarf, still looking nervous, then backs away to his friends. They all glance over, and I give them a wave. I must stand out like a saint in hell here, not looking like a philosopher or a guy who’s about to find a cure for cancer. I look more like the kind of guy who handles security outside a nightclub.
Ignoring the attention, I open the package, and tug out the book she chose for me. There’s some heft to it, a weighty hardback you could easily use as a murder weapon.Huh. I really need to change my mindset.
The cover shows a spectacular landscape, all mountain peaks and pine trees and fast-running rivers. The sky is a dazzling blue, and eagles are soaring on the wind currents. It looks so real I almost feel like I’m there. I smile as I read the title –Hiking in the Highlands: A Journey in Pictures. We always loved hiking. The three of us would take off for the weekend, heading on out to the state parks and hitting the trails. Trekking through woodland and cooling down in waterfalls, surrounded by nature. It was one of the only ways I could switch off from the job, and Shannon loved it, from when she was tiny and toddling along through the trees.
Even after Sandy died, we carried on hiking. In the early days our walks were sad and silent, following the same paths, missing her so much we were both numb. But eventually we started striking out, finding new places. We’d drive as far as the Ozarks or up to the woods of Wisconsin, camping out and laughing together under the stars of the big skies. Not so much since I hurt my back and walking more than a few miles turns me into a big crying baby – but one day, maybe. Hopefully my physical therapist is right, and with time and effort, I’ll get back to normal.
For now, maybe I can just enjoy this – a Journey in Pictures is better than no journey at all. I flick through the pages, admiring the spectacular scenery. I especially love the panels about seabirds, because I am sneakily a bit of a bird nerd. Since my own hikes have been reduced, I’ve found a lot of enjoyment in watching wildlife nearer to home. I have feeders set up in our yard, and learned a lot about the birds you can see in Chicago. It might be a city, but it has impressive green spaces and lakefronts, home to wrens and cardinals and all kinds of gulls. There are even city-dwelling peregrine falcons who use the skyscrapers as cliffs. And… yeah. More of a bird nerd than I thought.
Right in the middle pages of the book, tucked into a photo-spread of walks around Loch Lomond, I come across an envelope. Like the falcons in Chicago, it’s both out of place and perfectly at home, a pale green paper that blends in with the forested background.
At first I assume it’s from Shannon. I smile as I pick it up, noticing that someone has written the words ‘bonne chance!’ on the back. It’s not her handwriting, and she doesn’t tend to talk to me in French. Which I think it is. I do a quick google, and find out that yeah, it means ‘good luck’. It’s also not addressed to Dad, it’s addressed to ‘the right person, at the right time’.
All of this leads me to deduce that maybe it’s not from Shannon after all. Call me Sherlock Holmes – I might not wear the uniform any more, but those instincts are still there.
I frown, then decide to open the envelope. It’s a card, and when I tug it out, I see it shows a scene just as stunning as the ones in the book. A cliff face, soaring from a wild sea up into a clear blue sky, almost completely covered in puffins. I grin at the sight of them – a man who is tired of puffins is tired of life. I love their crazy orange beaks and their weird round heads, theway they look like they were made up of leftover scraps of other birds. I’ve never seen one in real life.
I open the card up, and find a handwritten section. I’d been half expecting it to be blank, or some kind of sales gimmick, but this looks far more personal.
Hello my friend! Yes, I mean you! You, sitting there, holding this card, wondering what on earth it’s all about. Maybe you’re confused, or maybe you’re still smiling at the puffins, or maybe you’re intrigued enough to read on. If you are, and you decide this invitation isn’t right for you, then please leave the card where you found it.
If you’re still with me, then I say again: hello my friend! It’s easy to feel alone in this world, to forget that there is still kindness out there, that there is still potential. Sometimes we’re in so much pain that we can’t ever imagine feeling normal again. Sometimes, we’re so lonely we can’t ever imagine reaching out again. Sometimes, we feel so trapped in our suffering that it’s impossible to see an escape. Is that you? If it is, then take heart – like these pretty puffins, you could find a new nest. A new place to roost, up here with us in Scotland.
This isn’t a hoax or a scam, I promise – it’s an invitation. Come and visit us. Relax and rest. Let go of some of that pain that’s trapping you. Sleep soundly, live fully, and learn to love the world again. Maybe even help us out, here in our cosy bookshop at the Edge of the World! Stay for a day, stay for a week, stay forever – who knows? No need to call us, or book ahead – in fact that would be breaking the only rule we have. Take a deep breath, and follow your heart – just turn up. The address is on the back of this card. We’ll be waiting!
Huh. I glance around suspiciously, looking for the hidden cameras. This has got to be some kind of set-up, right? Some kind of con? I flip the card over, see a stamp on the back. The Edge of the World Bookshop, in Bonnie Bay. Sounds like the kind of place a fictional detective would live, a Jessica Fletcher kind of vibe.
Still half expecting Shannon to appear pointing and laughing, I check out Bonnie Bay on my phone. I frown as I scroll through the images, seeing a perfect little place on the far north coast of Scotland, complete with, yeah, its own bookstore overlooking the sea. The only online presence seems to be one webpage that gives its opening hours – no Facebook, no TikTok, no Instagram, all of which goes in the plus column in my opinion.
I stare from the phone to the card and back again, wondering exactly how someone is making money from this set-up. Or maybe it’s more sinister than that. Maybe they’re expecting that the only people who might actually fall for it will be the vulnerable, the emotionally unstable – because nobody in their actual right minds would ever be fooled, would they?
I slide the card back into the envelope, and slam the covers of the book together. I’m actually bordering on angry now. Mostly because, for just a few moments there, I almost fell for it myself. I almost let myself imagine a world where I was free of pain, where I could sleep. Where I could see the damn puffins.
It’s got to be a scam, but part of me still wanted to think it was true. Apparently these days I’m the vulnerable and the emotionally unstable – so pathetic and broken that I wanted to believe it.
I rest my head in my hands and sigh. It might be a scam, but those words hit a nerve. I am tired, and I am lonely, and even worse I’m scared. Big man that I am, I’m scared – of going back to a family home that no longer contains my family. Of being me,and not knowing who that is. I’m not a husband any more. I’m not a cop any more. I’m still a dad, but to a daughter who lives on the other side of the world. Without any of that, what the hell am I? Useless, that’s what.
Am I crying? Shit. There are definitely tears in my eyes. What the heck is happening to me? I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I jerk upright, back in the real world. I glare up at whoever has touched me, ready to rumble. I could really go for a fight right now. I’d like to hit someone, mainly myself for being a solo guest at a self-pity party.
I blink the annoying moisture from my eyes, and immediately see that it is Shannon. She’s standing there above me, looking like an angel with her long blonde hair, a gentle smile on her face. Her eyes meet mine, and she is tearful too. I stand, ignoring the twinge of pain that shoots up from my hip, and wrap her in a hug.
‘What are you doing here, sweetheart? Didn’t you have a thing?’
‘I did have a thing,’ she says, as we both settle down at the table, ‘but I decided I didn’t want to go to it. I… I decided that I can’t do this, Dad.’
‘You can’t do what?’ I ask. She sounds distressed, and her fingers are trembling on the table top.
‘This! All of it! I can’t leave Chicago. I can’t leave you!’
Her words hit me with all the force of a jackhammer to the head. This is what she’s dreamed of for years. What she’s worked so hard for. This is her greatest achievement, her home run, her life goal. To be here, in Oxford, studying the subject she loves. And now she wants to come home? That can’t be true. She’s been so happy since we arrived here, so pumped up, ready to start the next phase of her life. If she’s changed her mind on all of that, then there can only be one reason for it – me.
My darling girl, my precious baby, wants to give up on all of this because she’s worried about her dad. No. In fact, hell no. That can’t be allowed to happen. That can’t be the way this plays out – I’d never forgive myself. Sure, there’s maybe one per cent of me that would like to book her a flight right now and go back to normal, but the other ninety-nine is horrified.
Her tears are flowing now, streaming down her cheeks. I wipe them away with my thumbs, like I’ve done a thousand times before. Like I did when she was a kid, and skinned her knee coming off her bike. Like I did when her best friend Sukie told her she didn’t want to be pals any more. Like I did when that teenaged sack of shit Michael Monaghan didn’t turn up to take her to Prom.
Like I did when her mom died.
I wipe away the tears, and I kiss her forehead, and I smooth away the tendrils of hair that are sticking to her damp skin.
