In Wonderland: A Combination Of Fact & Fiction

The store is stocked with produce and butterscotch candies and smells of lavender and peppermints. Arnold, it turns out, has been dead since 1953, but he is the second owner. Before him, it was Haufer’s Apothecary & General Store with a soda fountain. It also ran a bar in the back, depending on when it was legal (or not). Arnold’s kids run the store now with their own families. One of them has been telling me the history of the store for the last few minutes, while they pepper me with questions. Her name is Lizzy. Her mother is one of Arnold’s grandchildren. She reminds me of a seal, with her watery brown eyes, which are much too large for her face, but they are beautiful to look at and impossible not to watch. The rest of her body is long and slim, with pale blonde hair and freckles along the bridge of her nose.

“They say we came from Iceland,” she continues, “I think we’re a bunch of feisty Vikings. Do you like peppermints?”

I nod as she puts a few of them into my newly purchased grocery sack.

“Our cousins own a candy shop in Saint Peters Bay. They make the butterscotch too,” Lizzy adds, pointing to the small tin I’ve just bought.

“Thanks, I’ll check them out.”

“How long are you in town?”

“Three months,” I reply as I collect my things.

Lizzy nods and writes her number on the back of a card, inviting me to call her to grab a drink with her friends. I tuck it away happily and promise to do so, my dance card filling up quickly in one day. I pop a butterscotch into my mouth and let it sit on my tongue, spending the rest of the short drive back to the house listening to the local news on the radio until I spot a man walking to his mailbox. He watches me while his daughter waves. Her hair is a mess of curls blowing in the breeze and she is carrying sticks in one hand. I smile and wave back. The man does not, in fact, he frowns at my car. I hear the girl laugh as I drive past, and watch him from the rearview mirror as he ruffles her hair and smiles at her, listening to what she is telling him. Clearly Kayak Guy and his daughter. Maybe he doesn’t like convertibles and women who drive them. How amusing, I think, as I let the hard candy disappear on my tongue, thinking of Alice’s laugh, and cart my wares into the house to settle in for the day.

It’s not until after dinner that I wander back to the beach to build a fire and watch the stars that I see the message on the beach. “Who are you?” Surrounded by sticks and shells, the question is signed by “Alice. Sometimes.” I grab a stick and leave her my answer, surrounding it with seaweed. “Caroline. On Thursdays.” I scoop a few handfuls of sand together, cupping them and pushing my hands together to build her a castle. The sand is cool and sticks to my fingers until I dip them into the waves. Somewhere down the beach, I can hear voices laughing and feel comforted that I am not entirely alone. I post a picture of the stars and the beach, on my Facebook profile, and start to assemble a s’more. The voices are closer now, but I don’t see anyone. Still far away enough to enjoy the beach to myself. My phone chirps and I see a message from Henry. “Not in Chicago anymore?” I glance at the time – a bit early for him.

The voices have grown legs and arms, and I can see four people walking and laughing, still a distance away but no longer ghosts.

I reply to Henry’s text with a picture of my feet in front of the fire.

“Definitely not in Chicago. Much further north.”

“What a shame you’re not south. Where are you?”

Not in a bed with you, I tell myself, and take a bite of the s’more, reminding myself to behave.

“Canada. Very, very far away. Have a good night, Henry.”

“Have a good night, Caroline. Don’t become a citizen. Chicago will miss you.”

Chicago should have done something about that, then. Chicago should put down his beer. I pocket the phone and focus on the sticky mess in my hands, letting the marshmallow stay on my lips before washing it down with wine. Don’t let him slide back into your mind, I scold myself. And definitely not when you are alone with your thoughts on a beach, with a fire and the stars and for fuck’s sake, stop reminiscing. He’s just bored and horny. I picture him sitting at a bar, unimpressed by his options, texting me between jokes with James and Derrick, too early in the night to score. I poke at the fire with a stick before washing my hands off in the ocean again.

“Asshole,” I say to myself and nudge my toes into the sand. “Asshole, asshole, asshole,” continuing to dig with my foot until it’s firmly buried.

“That’s right, he is,” one of the voices calls out to me. I laugh and turn to see four women walking into view. “And who is the ass,” asks a second voice, a face now accompanying it.

“Just an old ghost who likes to haunt me sometimes,” I reply.

“Fuck ’em,” another replies, and I notice the joint passing from one to the other as they pause in front of my fire.

“Yes, well, that’s the problem. I did that,” I smile, freeing my foot from its trap and rinsing it off.

The first woman takes a drag then grins at me.

“Well done, love,” and she offers me the joint. “Worth it or not worth it?” Her hair is thick and pulled back into a loose bun. She looks a bit like Katherine Hepburn, lean and comfortable in her skin.

“Worth it until it’s not,” I grin, “and then it’s not.”

“Effie,” she says, offering her name and a handshake.

“Oh no, you don’t,” one of the other women says with a smile, “You do it proper now.”

Effie rolls her eyes at her but smiles, clearing her throat for effect.

“Euphemia Rose Gregory, here to save you from your dark thoughts about Mr. Fuck ‘Em,” and she bows with a flourish.

“That’s better,” her friend says. Effie pokes her in the ribs, eliciting a sharp bark and a quick laugh.

Effie is wearing jeans with an old T-shirt tucked into them, which elongates her. She is also wearing a blue velvet duster and thick black boots. My fingers curl into the palms of my free hand, and I want to brush the velvet. She waves to the first woman, who has wandered away to stare at the moon.

“Jessica, get back here. Come and meet . . . ” She waits for me to reply.

“Caroline,” I offer.

“Oh, it’s just one name, is it? Are you the new Queen then?”

“Norris. Caroline Evelyn Norris. And you should stop me from texting him back now, please.”

Effie laughs and introduces me to the rest of the women. Jessica, Emma, and Rebecca. “From Warriewood, Australia,” Jessica tells me as we pass the joint around the fire. Emma holds a bottle of wine that they’ve been sharing. I invite them to sit around the fire and offer the crackers and chocolate to Effie.

“Oh yes, please. S’mores and stories time, ladies,” as she pops a marshmallow on the stick.

I hear my phone chirp against my hip.

“Nope, oh no, you don’t. Leave Asshole-Asshole to his night,” Effie says and throws a marshmallow at me.

“Spill,” Jessica tells me, pointing at me with a short finger.

“Just a what-if guy who didn’t follow through,” I reply.

Emma nods. “A what-if guy or the what-if guy?”

“The,” I smile wryly, and she nods again. Her eyes look black in the night and must be brown like mine. “Those are the worst to forget,” Jessica says.

“Impossible to forget,” Emma’s smile turns sad momentarily. Rebecca rests her hand on her shoulder, and they relax in the quiet before Effie breaks the mood.

“Well, I say burn ’em at the stake, but perhaps that is a bit drastic,” Effie speaks between bites and tosses a few loose twigs into the fire.

“A slight singeing, though. That would be acceptable,” says Rebecca, speaking for the first time.

I move to pour more wine into my cup but abandon it to take a neat swig from the bottle. “Thatta gal,” Jessica says and passes it back to Effie.

“What are you doing here?” I ask them, and Effie snorts a loud laugh.

“Oh, same thing. Helping Emma get over a real slag. Absolute fuckwit, that man is, total . . . ” Rebecca cuts her off with a look. “Well, he is. Anyways. Came here for a gals’ trip to recover from Terry the Twat. Staying at my Aunt’s house while she visits her friend. Her friend,” Effie says, with an eye wiggle that makes me chuckle.

“What did he do?” I ask Emma.

“Lied. Stole. Cheated,” she replies, ticking off the three words on her fingers. “The trifecta. Luckily, I escaped without any STDs. So, there’s that. Thank you, dumb luck.”

“Absolute twat,” I mumble, and the group agrees.

“And yours,” Emma asks me.

“Oh,” I can hear the sigh buried inside. “We started and stopped our way through our twenties. Took turns running away, but he was the first to run and usually the one to do so. He’s a bit of a drunk lately, so I’m the one doing the running now.”

“The hooch and the cooch. Gets them all the time,” Jessica says, grinning at her joke.

Emma looks like she might be a bit green in the face. Rebecca flicks the joint into the fire and stands up.

“Well, we’re off to bed now. This where you’re staying,” she asks me, pointing at the house. I nod.

“Wonderful. Have dinner with us tomorrow,” Effie says. “We’re going to a lobster boil at Claire’s house. I expect that you’ve met her already?”

“I haven’t, but Helen’s told me about her. I just got here today.”

“Lovely,” Effie nods, wiping her hands on her jeans, ignoring the melted mess she left on them.

“Come at four. Bring a bottle of wine. I’ll let her know you’re joining us. She won’t mind. Probably would invite you herself.” We exchanged phone numbers as the others helped Emma stand up.

The women wave their goodbyes and head back into the dark, Rebecca and Jessica leaning into Emma, ushering her forward.

I wait until the fire dies down, watching the stars and listening to the waves for a long time, then head back into the house to undress.

Henry’s last text is a teasing reminder that I’m alone in bed. I ignore it, but my fingers wander south. “Don’t get too cold up there.”

“Quite warm just now.”

“Still by that fire?”

“Or under the covers.”

“Interesting. Researching flight options now.”

“Believe it when I see it. Good night, Henry. Safe home.”

“Lock up, Tease. Have fun.”

“I will, Mr. Fuck ‘Em.” My fingers hover over the send button before I decide to delete it. “Safe as houses,” I send instead.

“Good Love,” he tells me, followed quickly by “I meant ‘goodnight” LOL.”

“Put the phone away and ignore Asshole-Asshole. You. Us. 4pm. Lobstaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.”

Effie’s text saves me from further temptation, and I laugh.

I send her a picture of a lobster dancing and giggle under the sheets. Saved by crustaceans.

Later, the shade sits in the corner of my room, knees tucked into its chest. It watches me quietly, though it still lacks facial features. It seems to be waiting for me to say or do something.

“Fuck off already. I don’t need you here.”

Its head cocks to the left – the only acknowledgment of my words, before turning its head towards the window and listening to the waves. It does not turn its back towards me again but remains there until I return from the bathroom. Then, it is blessedly absent. My imagination is getting the best of me again, of course. Still, I roll onto my side, away from the corner of the room, and stay there until I drift to sleep.