Are we going to put a tree up at the acreage? Do Sid and the boys give each other presents? I haven’t prepared anything, but I would like to. Does James know any ofthe old songs they used to sing? Already, I can picture us sitting around with the guitar, eating cranberry sauce or… whatever it is they do at Christmas. I’m making this fantasy up as I go, but that’s half the appeal of a holiday, isn’t it? Making up your own traditions? I push the door to the Emergency department open, strangely comforted.
Pat the Desk Lady is seated at her desk, eating a bagel, and waves enthusiastically when she spots me. “Well, if it’s not my friend the Wildling!”
Still not my favourite word. I grit my teeth and smile.
“Mr. Charles came by for your sister’s medicine last week. She’s not due for more, is she?” Pat asks, setting her lunch aside.
“Um, no. I’m not here about her.” I glance around the waiting room in what I hope is a conspiratorial manner. I grip the envelope Amy passed me, detailing the pasteurization equipment the Reinventor’s Guild drew up for Astolia all those years ago.
“You aren’t here for Emergency care, are you? Pregnancy doesn’t fall under that, by the way. Just routine—”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Oh.” She deflates.
“I wanted to ask you a question, since you seem to knoweveryone, Miss…” Too late, I realize I never learned her last name.
“Moore. Pat Moore. Everyone calls me Pat, though. And like you said, I do mean everyone!” She chuckles delightedly, and I think we’re back on track.
“There was a man who came here the other day,” I say, thumbing the pages. “It was over a month ago, but maybe you remember? He said he came from this place called Astolia—”
“Oh, yes! Well, I can’t give out patient details of course, but—”
“You don’t have to, Pat. I know him. I never thought I would see him again, until he was there that day.”
She straightens, clearly surprised. “But you’re a Wildling. How d’you know Gord?”
I slide the envelope from Amy across to her. “In Astolia, he made us call him the Grand Astrologue. And my family did everything we could to escape him.”
“But why would you—”
“If you have time, I think I might be able to explain.”
It’s an emergency department. There are other things she should be doing. But as her eyes dart between me and the packet, I know I’ve won her curiosity. At the very least, she seems to be entertaining the idea that I might be crazy. And from her point of view, crazy isinteresting.
“Of course, hon.” She motions for me to grab one of the waiting room chairs and take a seat by her. “What is it you want to tell me?”
THERE IS ONEmore person I have to tell the truth to before we put our whole case in front of Council. Tom Sullivan. Immigration officer and asshole extraordinaire.
Of everyone I’ve trusted with this secret, he is the one who has the most power to make my life hell. Amy promised me that disclosing abuse was not required when I applied for sanctuary, and Pat assured me of the same thing. If he’s a prick about this, I can contest any demerits he tries to assign. But with a demerit on my papers already, the thought tickles in the back of my brain: who would the judiciary believe?
“Maybe you should knock me up first,” I say to Sid three days before Christmas, as we’re hanging evergreen branches around the acreage. A letter has arrived from the hospital and with it, we think we have what we need to convince Tom. But there’s still so much at stake, it’s hard to rest easy. “Then I would have a clean record.”
“Don’t youdare.” April calls from the bottom of the ladder, while Sid throws me a skeptical look. “If you do something that stupid—”
“I don’t think these are the right circumstances to—” Sid starts.
“Holy shit, guys! I’m kidding!” I drop a branch on Sid’s head, then slide down the ladder.
“Are you, though?” comes a distant voice.
“Not helping, James!” Sid and I shout back in unison. All we get is a cackle from the other side of the farmhouse, where James is setting up a tree for us to decorate with painted pine cones and seashells. He’s put the Lady Liberty crown on top, because of all his silly hats, that one looks the most like a star.
The next day, Sid and I head into town. The hospital was one thing, but I decide I would rather have him with me to face Tom. Complaining about him is one of the great, unifying creeds of our marriage, so it only feels right walking into City Hall together and heading toward the immigration department for our appointment.
It’s awful how open the area around Tom’s office is. I wonder if this is really what Sid wants—to pore over papers in a renovated grocery store. It’s not a glamorous place, and I try to let that give me courage. The people in charge of this island aren’t lounging in luxury like Bradley Patterson. They’re overworked, ordinary people like Tom.
He fetches a couple of chairs for each of us and then extends his hand to shake, though neither of us take it. Sid, because I’ve got a vice grip on his right hand, and me, because I have not forgiven Tom for anything.
