By Alissa MacMillan
The first postcard Matthew and Juliana received from their daughter Lara came from the north of Spain. The ferry trip had been calm, she said, and she’d met some nice passengers. How was Pico?
“She asks about the cat before she asks about us,” Matthew grumbled from his chair, his wife swiping the postcard from his fingers.
“Well, she mailed this to us, not Pico.” She placed it carefully on the mantle.
“And if she’s doing this whole trip by foot, why did she take the ferry anyway. What, did she walk the decks?”
“It’s a walking journey,” his wife protested. “On land, she will only walk.”
“She should be home working. Who walks around the world?” Matthew returned to his book, a history of France.
A few more cards arrived over the months, Juliana lining them up and moving some to the fridge, especially the stunning image of the red shutters on the white houses in Basque country. The latest was a print of an old-fashioned advertisement for sandals, still with inquiries about the cat.
“We should get Pico a ball of yarn for Christmas,” Juliana said.
“We don’t exchange gifts, we haven’t for years.” Matthew adjusted himself in his chair, folding up the newspaper.
“That wasn’t the cat’s idea. Anyway, Pico hasn’t been nearly as active since Lara left. I hadn’t realised how much time she spent with her.”
Seven months ago, Lara set out with only an overstuffed backpack and a new pair of running shoes. Her father had joked as she packed, about Forest Gump and the Camino de Santiago, but Lara had insisted it was neither a trip through history and Hollywood nor was it religious. She couldn’t explain exactly what it was for, but it was what she was going to do. They walked her to the end of the road, her father laughing lightly about how she should run home to use the toilet one last time. Within a few weeks of her absence, Matthew’s jokes subsided, Juliana insisting she would be okay.
“The world is in bits,” he declared late one morning a couple of months later, the sun streaming through the window. “This is no time to be travelling. We need to go pick her up.” It was one of the few moments he’d risen quickly from his chair, throwing his book down behind him.
The longer Lara was away, the less he’d been walking. She hadn’t been proud of it, but Juliana had started tricking him into getting out with claims of a forgotten grocery or some other slim excuse for an errand.
Matthew wanted there to be a point. He wanted Lara to have given them a reason. They always made so much sense to each other but not this. She claimed it wasn’t really to see the world, it wasn’t to see the sites or check off the various places she’d been. It wasn’t even to meet people, although she wouldn’t mind if she happened to. It was only to walk. And to notice more. She wrote them of blisters. And she wrote of soups and breads and fresh vegetables. And she wrote of blue skies and red skies and night skies and of berries on trees and birds. She often wrote of birds. On one recent postcard, she’d written: “I saw three herons in a row, waiting where the tide was low.” Matthew had stared at this line for a moment then put the postcard on the fridge.
“Well, we know she’s by the sea then,” Juliana had commented quietly.
Lara had never been away for the holidays. Even into her 28th year, she’d always made her way back to the house for a few days, usually by Christmas Eve, sleeping on the pull-out couch because her old room had been taken over by boxes and Matthew’s books. Having taken an early enough retirement, he spent much of his time reading, mostly histories, too much Juliana thought, but she loved to read herself so didn’t complain. In their 38 years together, they’d hardly travelled, apart from the odd wedding across the island. Matthew worried that had been their mistake: if they’d only travelled more, maybe Lara would never have left.
“I know it’s just us, but I’ll make the Christmas dinner again, okay? Even with the leftovers, it’s nice,” Juliana said, maybe a twinge of sadness in her voice. “Just a tradition.” Pico, her brown speckled coat looking glossy, had climbed on to Matthew’s lap while Juliana was talking. Matthew scratched behind her ears as if this were something they often did.
“Sure, if you’d like.”
In her last postcard, Lara had suggested they join her. She suggested they start walking at home and come meet her in the spring when the weather lightened up a bit.
“Who would take care of Pico?” Juliana wondered. “It sounds nice, though, doesn’t it Matt?”
He didn’t respond. Where would we be going, he wondered to himself. And then he thought, where are we going anyway.
And Juliana cooked for at least three on Christmas Eve. She made two pies, always going overboard, and a few too many dishes incorporating sweet potatoes, Matthew thought gratefully. The kitchen danced with scents and colours, Juliana rushing about, asking Matthew to help but doing it all herself. He and Lara were usually useless together.
When there was a knock he said he’d get it, he could finally contribute to the evening. He padded over and swung open their creaky door. On the ground sat a bag, in it, two pairs of walking shoes. He picked them up and examined them, laughing quietly to himself and looking around. Stuffed under the shoes was what looked like a small dog’s leash.
“It’s for Pico,” Lara said, emerging from the side of the house, her cheeks red, thinner than she’d been, her backpack not quite as stuffed as when she’d left.
Matthew’s eyes welled up as he took his daughter in his arms and squeezed her tight.
“I haven’t been walking enough,” he said.
Juliana came running to the door when she heard the sounds of laughter.
