From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Three

Mom will have kittens if I track dirt onto the hardwood flooring in the foyer, so while the juicy scent of pot roast drifts in from the kitchen, I toe off my Chucks, letting the white rubber heels thud a double staccato beat as they fall to the welcome mat. I guess I'm loud enough Mom hears me, because she calls out that she has a surprise for me, but to go get washed up for dinner first.

"And would you mind getting Gracie up from her nap? I've got to get these rolls in now, or they won't be ready in time."

I grin at this not-so-subtle ploy to keep me away from the food prep—the one time mom tried to teach me to cook was disastrous--and yell back, "sure!" before sock-footing it down the hall to the downstairs bathroom, where I wet a cloth in cold water and pat it against my face, hoping to wipe away the evidence of anger from my cheeks before my mother sees me and asks questions.

After I'm cooler—literally, and figuratively—I backtrack to Gracie's room. My little sister erupts in giggles when I lumber in, sniffing the air in my best impression of her favorite kiddie show character. I kneel at the edge of her toddler bed, asking, "What smells like . . . sunflowers?"

Her laughter sharpens to all out shrieks as I swing her onto my hip, snuffling at her neck, and exclaim, "Why, it's you!" She practically lunges out of my arms, wriggling and flailing so hard from ticklishness she's turned herself upside down, but she's clamped her little legs around my waist in a death grip, so I just tighten her in my arms. We bob and bounce our way into the kitchen . . .

. . . and there's a boy there, setting the table while my mother stands at the island, tossing salad greens. The boy has uber-blond hair, with gray eyes, and a cocky smile. The same smile I'd imagined slapping off that very face not thirty minutes ago.

The swinging door whips open at that moment, and my father strides in, sliding his briefcase onto the counter, and bends to Mom's upraised cheek for a kiss. He doesn't seem surprised by Park Boy's presence.

"Timothy, I'm so glad you're home," my mother gushes, beaming first at Dad, then at me. "Joss, this,"—she indicates Park Boy with a wave of a wooden spatula,--"is Sebastien."

Sebastien has straightened up from putting out flatware. He nods his head to me, his eyes twinkling, then turns to my father, offering his hand. Dad notices Sebastien's ever-present gloves. "Feel free to hook those on the coat rack by the door, Sebastien," he says.

"Thank you sir, but I think I'll keep them for a wee bit. Your American cold is different somehow than the cold on Skye. It really gets into the skin, doesn't it?"

Dad nods. "Proximity to the ocean. The damp can be an acquired taste. Anyway, it's nice to meet you. Elsbeth and your mother were thick as thieves to hear Elisabeth's little sister, Caty, tell it. I think she was a tad jealous of her big sister spending so much time with someone else."

Mom gives him a wry smile, swats him with a dish towel she had over her shoulder. "I believe you're confusing Caty with yourself, dearling," she admonishes. "He used to sulk every Wednesday, when Mel and I indulged in Girls' Night In. Don't let him fool you into believing he doesn't remember. Joss honey, put Gracie in her booster and greet Sebastien properly. Give the boy a hug, already."

"I'm sorry," I sputter on auto-pilot. "Are we hugging perfect strangers, now?"

"Stranger," my mother asks, looking confused. "Did you not hear me say Sebastien was your surprise. He's come all the way from Scotland to visit you."

Sebastien, I think. Wait, Sebastien-Sebastien? As in my Sebastien? Head whirling to superimpose Park Boy over my impression of Sebastien, international sounding board, I set Gracie in her seat like Mom says. I feel like a robot, or like the Tin Man, before Dorothy had gotten hold of the oil can, like I don't have working joints. I shuffle over to the boy I'm supposed to be thrilled to see, and wrap my hands just enough around him to reach his back for a super-fast pat-pat, and then drop them and step away just as woodenly.