My grandfather took the opportunity of my first trip out of the house to give me a quick driving tour of Aviemore. Scotland felt a little like being in Wonderland; everything looked pretty much the same, but was ever so slightly different. The people spoke English, but I had trouble understanding them because they had such thick accents and used weird words for regular things, like brollie for “umbrella” and bairn for “baby.” The cars not only drove on the wrong side of the road, the driver and the passenger seats were switched. And I discovered via an almost-accident that you had to pay money to unlock public restroom stalls, like a vending machine for pee.
When we arrived at Tesco, the town grocery store, I was surprised at how small it was. Six Scottish grocery stores could fit inside the Super Walmart near my old house.
My grandfather continued his tour guiding through the aisles, taking great delight in explaining every single item to me.
“Do you have Wheatabix in the US?” he asked, gesturing toward an unappetizing cereal that looked like dog food. I shook my head. “What about Frosties?” I smiled at the box of what we called Frosted Flakes, a welcome remembrance of home. I never thought I’d be so happy to see a cartoon tiger.
“Yep,” I confirmed.
“We’ll get some for you then,” he said, lifting a small box into our cart. “Gran doesn’t approve of the sugary cereals, but we’ll make an exception.” He winked at me, and my anger toward him dissipated a little. He was painfully nice. So nice, I got the feeling he’d give me the shirt off his back if I mistakenly admired it. Maybe it wasn’t his fault he was holding me at arm’s length. Maybe he didn’t know how to act after suddenly inheriting a teenage girl. In any case, I decided to cut him some slack. I had the feeling my grandmother was the one who controlled everything anyway.
I was debating how best to approach her when my grandfather handed me a sample of steaming meatloaf in a small, crinkled wrapper. Absentmindedly, I tossed it in my mouth.
“So you enjoy haggis, do you?” my grandfather asked. I shrugged. It was spicier than I’d expected. “I’m surprised. Most foreigners haven’t the stomach for it.” He grinned extra-wide, as if he’d made a joke. I stared blankly, but something told me to stop chewing. He continued, “Because it is stomach, you see? Sheep stomach.”
I spat the offending meat into my hand and tried not to gag while my grandfather chuckled.
Desperate to get the filmy taste out of my mouth, I left my grandfather in the meat section and headed for the bakery counter. This country might not know how to make regular food taste good, but surely they could still do dessert.
A girl my age was working behind the counter. She had shockingly red hair, was delightfully curvy, and had the roundest, happiest face I’d ever seen. She smiled when I walked up. I nodded awkwardly and asked her how the cookies were.
“Sorry, you mean the biscuits?” she said, in the Scottish singsongy way.
“No, the cookies.” I pressed on the glass in front of the chocolate circles. I couldn’t wait to taste them.
She smiled again. Her top lip was a perfect bow and gave her the unusual ability to smile with the corner of her lips turned downward. I’d seen an actress with the same smile in a movie once, but when I tried it at home in a mirror, I looked like I was frowning. Or demented. I loved the upside-down smile; it made your whole face light up.
“You’re from America, aren’t ya?” she asked.
“How’d you guess?” I asked, my ears slightly pained by my own boring, non-musical voice.
“The accent kind of gave you away,” she answered. “Are you enjoying your stay at the Hamiltons’? It’s a beautiful house, isn’t—”
“How do you know where I’m staying?” I interrupted.
“It’s a small town, Aviemore. Everyone’s heard about the Hamilton girl from America living with her gran and granddad.”
So much for starting over in Scotland, I thought grimly.
“What else do you know about me?” I asked, trying not to sound too accusatory.
“I know your mum just died, and that any day now your gran’s going to force you to come out of that attic room and actually go to school,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows at the news of my grandmother’s academic intentions for me. It was already spring, so I’d assumed I wouldn’t have to finish out the school year . . . especially in Scotland. And I sincerely doubted she could force me to do anything.
“But that’s it. Honest,” she continued, still smiling. “I don’t even know your first name.”
“Maren,” I stuttered. “It’s Maren.”
“Nice to meet you, Maren. I’m Joanne, but everyone calls me Jo. Oh, and I do know another thing about you,” she said, handing me a cookie wrapped in a square of tissue paper. “You’re going to love our biscuits.”
I thanked her, and walked away, munching on the dry, chocolate chip-filled “biscuit.” In the interest of actually finding friends in Scotland, I decided not to tell her that her cookies tasted like crap.
CHAPTER 3
On the drive back, I mentally perfected the first question I was going to ask my grandmother about our family. I was going for the kill: a direct accusation. I wanted to shake some emotion, and some information, out of her.
As we were putting away the groceries, I attacked.
“So,” I said casually, “what exactly did you guys hate about my mom?” I stared at them, ready to catalog any sign of discomfort.
“Don’t be silly,” my grandmother said, scooping coffee grounds into the machine. “Your mother was a lovely woman.”
“But you didn’t want her to marry my dad,” I challenged. “You objected to the whole thing.”
My grandfather practically climbed into the refrigerator, so I had no chance of seeing his face, but my grandmother continued, nonchalant.
“Oh, rubbish.” She sang, tapping the plastic spoon to free the last of the grounds. “Your father was a grown man. He did as he pleased since he was a teenager. We were happy if he was happy. We were happy he found love, happy he had you, and now, of course, we’re happy to have you here.”
I got flustered. She was making it seem like there was never a problem, like she and my grandfather had always been part of my life. I knew I hadn’t imagined it, but now that I tried to think of the specifics, of anything my mom had said about my grandparents, I drew a blank.
“Maren,” my grandmother continued, “an airmail package arrived while you were out. I left it in your room. I believe it must be a box of your mother’s belongings.”