2022-12-17 - A Christmas Guest

It's early morning, less than a week before Christmas. Downstairs, there's the low susurrus of morning activity: the clink of a plate, the gurgle of a coffee pot (can you hear that from upstairs? Perhaps not. But there's the sense of it, even so: someone's up and about).

It's not Una, though: she's normally an early riser, but she's not home today. It's no longer an unheard of thing, either, but no matter.

It’s Jules who ventures into the kitchen first. She’s dressed for a brisk morning run, with a sweatshirt thrown over her leggings (alas, no fancy moisture-wicking lightweight fabrics here) and running shoes in her hands. “You’re up early,” she says through her yawn, assuming it’s the other housemate, not—

“Oh! Tui?”

Jules is wide-awake now, even before the frosty air hits her face outdoors. She sits down at the kitchen table, though the task of putting on her shoes is now on hold. “Good morning.” Like this is a normal occurrence. “When did you get here? Long enough to get coffee going I see—have you texted Mikaere? Is it the same Door as last time?” A glance towards the basement staircase, just to check. And then Jules pauses and remembers to smile. Enough questions. “Also, hi! This is a nice surprise.”

Tui's at the counter, poking through the cupboards entirely as if she owns the place, when Jules enters. She turns, and her expression turns from thoughtful to ever so faintly smug. It's not the most dignified thing, really, to be found in someone else's kitchen in one's dressing gown (and a summer-weight one at that), but if she's fazed by it, there's no sign of it in her expression.

"I wondered if this might be your home," she says. "Given the last time that Door appeared. I assume it's the same one. Hello, Jules. I hope you don't mind my making myself at home— it didn't seem likely that this was an entirely unfamiliar house."

She sets down some mugs on the counter. It seems likely that, whatever the answer, it's too late: Tui is quite comfortable, thank you very much.

"Of course not," Jules is quick to say. "Make yourself comfortable." Which Tui is clearly doing. Still, best to endorse the matter.

"Are you warm enough?" she asks next, eying what Tui's wearing. Eyeing Tui. "It's an old drafty house, and we have the back door in here, so the kitchen's not always the warmest place unless you have the oven on. We can turn the oven on--there's probably some kind of delicious frozen thing in the freezer, and I seriously doubt Una would mind." Jules gets up to go poking around, to make herself useful and her hands busy, like she does when she's slightly nervous. Infrequent text exchanges with Tui aside, the woman is formidable, and Jules was not prepared for this.

Tui's side-long glance in Jules' direction is the kind that sees plenty, not that her expression is anything less than inscrutable. "I wouldn't say no to some socks," she admits, easily, her tone so light it may be intended to be reassuring: even women like Tui get cold feet (of the physical variety, at least). "Or something delicious. I've heard tales of your housemate's kitchen prowess. Coffee?"

Such a kind uninvited guest, lifting the pot to gesture towards the mugs she's pulled down with her other hand.

“Please.” Jules locates a raft of frozen cinnamon buns that Una has stashed away for just such occasions as this (okay, maybe not quite like this) and pulls them out with a note of triumph. “Aha. I think this is heat at 350. If you want to get that going, I’ll go grab you socks.”

And let Della know.

And text Mikaere.

(TXT to Mikaere) Jules : Surprise! Your mom’s in my kitchen.

For once, Tui looks a little mystified, standing there with the coffee pot in hand and staring at Jules (and the cinnamon buns, and the oven) ... and then she laughs. "350, of course. Not celsius. I think I can manage that much— don't listen to my son when he says otherwise."

Don't mind her: she's going to pour coffee, heat cinnamon buns, and continue to make herself at home.

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : Wait, what?

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : You're joking, right?

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : Right?!

“I don’t think it even has controls in Celsius,” Jules calls behind her, right before she hastens up the stairs. She might be a minute.

Because she’s locating socks. Right.

(TXT to Mikaere) Jules : Merry Christmas?

(TXT to Mikaere) Jules : I am emphatically not joking. I’m getting her some socks.

Jules does, in fact, return with socks. Her phone is in her other hand at this point; there’s no point in acting as if she wouldn’t immediately alert Tui’s son.

“Here you go. I texted Mikaere to let him know you were here,” she adds, probably unnecessarily, as she holds out the socks. She’s picked a nice warm fuzzy green pair. Almost as good as slippers. “I figured you probably didn’t have your phone with you.”

(TXT to Mikaere) Jules : So you should probably get your ass over here at some point

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : ummmmm. Okay. Okay. Yes. I'll be there as soon as I can be.

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : This really should not surprise me.

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : But... it still does. Holy shit.

Tui's smile, so very bland, is suggestive of the fact that she's in no way surprised by Jules' immediate reaction: of course she's texted Tui's son.

"Thank you," she says, gravely, accepting the socks with dignity. In the meantime, she's poured coffee and put the cinnamon rolls in the oven; she's got her mug in one hand, and has been glancing idly out the window to the backyard. Now, of course, she sets the coffee down again so that she can sit at the table and pull the socks on, one and then the other. "And what does my son say?"

Jules goes about getting her own mug of coffee, adding a splash of milk from the fridge. She puts her phone face-down on the table when she moves to sit across from Tui; it’s buzzed a couple times since she’s come back and she’s given it a glance, but not sent any messages back.

“He said he’d come over as soon as he can,” Jules reports. She sips her coffee; the sparkle in her eyes gives it away before her mouth curves faintly. “Also, ‘holy shit,’ which is milder than I would’ve expected.”

Oh that sparkle; Tui seems to enjoy that sparkle, demonstrating one of her own. "Given him a moment or two," says the man's mother, mildly. "When he realises that now you're alone with me, and I have every opportunity to exert my influence and manipulate situations to suit my pleasure. That's when he'll start to panic, I'm sure. Are you well, Jules? I understand you have an opportunity to transfer to a university in Seattle."

Now Jules grins fully, all too amused by Tui’s assessment of the situation. “But of course, you’d have to realize that he’s warned me of that before, so does that cancel it out if I’m on my guard? How do you compensate for knowing that I know?” The Poisoner’s Dilemma.

Jules looks comfortable, now that she’s gotten over the initial shock of Tui’s unexpected appearance. “Anyway, yeah, I’m doing good. And yeah, I do. I mean, I haven’t gotten in yet. Letters don’t get sent out for a couple months, I think. And I haven’t decided if I’ll transfer, if I do get in. Still lots of ifs.”

"That assumes anyone can manage to avoid being caught in my obvious web of manipulation," answers Tui, so easily, with a twitch of her mouth that is both very like her son's, and vastly amused. "Or possibly that my son simply assumes that everyone is as susceptible as he is."

She reclaims her coffee mug now, leaning in slightly as she continues, "It would be for the autumn semester? It's good to have options. Decisions may be difficult, but I'd always rather have choices than not. And, of course, sometimes life throws its own things into the mix: sometimes decisions are made for you."

“So that’s why he’s so terrified of you,” Jules decides with good humor. “Because he knows it’s just a matter of time until your devious plans come to fruition. The best he can do is try to lay low—out of sight, out of mind.” On the other side of the world.

She adopts a less jocular tone for the other matter, looking thoughtful. “Yeah. I could conceivably take classes in the summer if I wanted to, too. There’s still so many unknowns. It’s both a long time from now, and not.”

"I play the long game," answers Tui, breezily. "Thirty-odd years, to get to this point. Do you think I'm winning?"

The other thread of conversation draws a more thoughtful nod of consideration. "Time always passes more quickly than we anticipate it will. What draws you to the University of Washington, specifically?"

Jules laughs at that, bright and unafraid. “Yes,” she says. “I think you are.”

The kitchen’s beginning to smell of cinnamon, enough so that Jules casts a speculative look at the oven before she answers the other question. “They have a really solid center for indigenous life and culture—those are the people who were encouraging me to apply, and it sounds like they’d help me out with a job on the side. I’d still want to focus on biology and ecological systems, and I’d be able to go further than I can at the community college. Get more specialized experience. And I could still focus on the local environment and the issues it’s facing.” Some of this response is practiced. She’s been writing college essays, after all.

There's just the hint of a broadening smile from Tui at that confirmation: of course she's winning. Of course she is.

The rest, though, has her leaning forward with interest, both hands wrapped around her mug. "I can see the draw," she allows, though something in her tone and expression adds a 'but' even if she's not quite verbalising it. "It's an excellent opportunity for you. I don't entirely understand your system here, in terms of community college versus a more traditional university, but I imagine you're right— you'll need that degree, to do what you want."

Jules hears it too. Her eyebrows twitch up, just a bit, as she looks at Tui from across the table. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ about to follow up,” she says, good-natured. Not defensive. “Which—well, I’ve got my own. But I’d like to hear yours.”

She sits back, as relaxed as she can be when discussing her future with this particular woman. It’s not awkward unless she makes it awkward.

Tui takes her time with her answer, focusing instead on sipping at her coffee, setting the mug back on the table, then crossing her arms in front of her. It could look like a defensive gesture, but it doesn't, somehow— maybe it's just that her expression is so very thoughtful.

"There's always a but," she agrees, finally. "One of them might be that it focuses your attention too soon; I tend to encourage my students to broaden their horizons, especially early on. There's time to specialise later."

“Do you think that’s still the case for someone who isn’t eighteen and just out of high school?” Jules pushes back. She’s debating for the fun of it, and for what the practice can illuminate. The challenge engages her, brings light to her eyes. “Arguably, I don’t have time to specialize later. And I have different kinds of experience that would help inform that specialization. I worked at the fishery for a good ten years, and then there’s all the experience here of another kind—living history. Except I can’t exactly write about that, can I?” she remarks with a quick grin. “Meeting ancestors and directly hearing their experiences.”

Tui's mouth twitches. She's clearly enjoying the debate as much as Jules is— though it's certainly that last remark, and the grin that accompanies it, that draws her smile. "It's a difficult thing to reference," she acknowledges, mirth audible in the low, rich tone of her voice.

"As for the rest... arguably, given you already have the specialisation on track, now is the time to broaden your horizons, to add new elements to your practice; things that might inform your further path, even if they're not directly related. See how similar-but-different indigenous communities are managing the same issues, for instance."

Jules determinedly isn’t smiling, but oh, how the corners of her mouth threaten to turn upwards. “Like the Māori,” she says, not quite straight-faced. “For example.”

It's not really subtle, is it? Another woman might pretend, now, but Tui merely shrugs her shoulders and acknowledges, "It's an option."

Now Jules lets herself smile. “It is an option,” she repeats, with a slight emphasis on the verb. “Or it could be, given the right set of circumstances.” None of which she names. Instead, she takes a deep breath and straightens. “The cinnamon rolls should be done.”

Tui's smile, by way of return, is knowing. "Of course," she agrees. "And there are always options. Circumstances, inevitably, put some further to the front than others. But it's always good to know that the options are there. Cinnamon rolls, then, yes— and then you'd better catch me up on everything else that is going on in your infamous town."

It’s the smile, perhaps, that compels Jules to open up further as she gets up to check the cinnamon rolls and then pull them out of the oven. “Living here, with everything that’s going on, it’s hard to know if leaving is the right thing to do. The way I’ve been raised, it’s not just that we believe we’re caretakers for the land. It’s deeper than that. We’re connected to it. I was taught that the Creator gave it to us, and all the others we co-exist with—the salmon people, all the peoples of the sea and sky and forest. We’ve been here for 13,000 years. It’s staggering, when you start to think about it. So if you leave, if you rip yourself away from this place and your responsibilities towards it, you aren’t you anymore.”

It’s easiest to say all this while her hands are busy, bringing down plates and refilling mugs while she waits for the rolls to cool enough for icing. Tasks done, Jules turns and leans against the counter. The conflict is written on her expression. “So it’s one thing to talk about going to school for the express purpose of coming back and putting that knowledge and skills to work. And another when you start to realize all the other things going on that most people don’t know about. Did Mikaere tell you that we were given things from my housemate’s settler ancestor to rehome? And in working on that, we’ve…I don’t know if awoken is the right word, but caught the attention of this spirit of destruction. Who seems to be pointing towards major events like earthquakes and volcano eruptions. And I don’t think we can think about this as purely geological. We know that it’s our poor choices that have this kind of impact, and the science is only starting to catch on to it with things like climate change. So if it’s our fault, it’s also our responsibility to tend to.”

Jules pauses there, having said more at once to Tui than she likely ever has. She watches for the older woman’s reaction, not yet turning to ice and bring the rolls to the table.

"13,000 years is almost beyond my comprehension," admits Tui, openly. "You'll know, of course, that my people aren't indigenous, for all that we often get included in that grouping."

That's not a full answer to everyone Jules has said, and it takes a few moments before she continues, doing so thoughtfully but not with any particular indication of particular cautiousness. "Mikaere did mention your artefacts— and the rest. I know it weighs on him, too... the responsibility, the sense of it and the action it results in, is important. Deep down, I imagine you know what you need to do."

She sounds less resigned and defeated than perhaps she could. "Of course, that doesn't mean forever."

Jules has a bit of a funny expression—not outright disagreement, not ruefulness, not wistfulness, but maybe a mix of all of it together. She doesn’t say anything right away, focusing on dishing out the cinnamon rolls instead. She sits down opposite Tui again and forks out her first bite, washing it down with coffee after.

“It’s something to talk to my grandmother about, when I go home for Christmas,” she says then. “That’s something I haven’t always done much of—consulting elders before making decisions. And it’s something I should probably do more of, especially if I’m going to take the other pieces of it seriously.”

Tui picks up her fork, but she's slow to dig in to her food, focused instead on considering Jules. "It's hard, isn't it?" she says, musingly. "Recognising these things. It's a pity your grandmother's not here: I think I'd quite enjoy meeting her."

Alas, what's the likelihood of Tui being here beyond the day? Slim.

“I could call her and see if she can come down,” Jules says before pausing to actually think it through.

From Tui: a pause. It might almost be possible to see the clockwork of her brain in motion, one cog turning after another.

Finally: “If she’s available.”

You did offer, Jules!

“I’ll give her a call,” says Jules, who isn’t backing out now. To be fair, she doesn’t seem to be having flashes of consternation.

“One minute—do you, uh. Want me to see if I can find something warmer for you?” Admittedly, what she owns isn’t likely to fit Tui, but— “I’ll tell Mikaere to go by the store on his way here.”

Which also means she’ll be yelling at him to get his butt in motion. He’s still not here.

For a moment, Tui looks mildly perplexed, but then? Then she glances back down at herself, as if abruptly reminded of her attire, and laughs. It's a warm, genuine laugh, in no way embarrassed.

"That might be an idea," she agrees, placidly, forking up another piece of her cinnamon roll. "I don't know for how long I will be here, but I'd rather not be stuck indoors for lack of suitable attire. I've heard so much about this town of yours. Where is my son, I wonder."

What's wrong with you, Mikaere, to not have made it here by now?

“Probably freaking out,” Jules says cheerfully, right before she heads out into the hall—and from there, the living room—for a bit of privacy as she makes her two phone calls.

Granted, she isn’t completely quiet, so Tui might well hear when she demands of Mikaere, “Where the hell are you?”

"Who's this?"

It's not Mikaere's voice.

"Hello?"

A pause.

“This is Jules,” she replies, dangerously calm. “May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

Jules is never this polite.

Tui's too busy eating her cinnamon roll to pay too much mind to Jules. Her son will be here soon enough: everything's fine.

Except:

"Jules? Who's— look, never mind, lady. Your friend must have dropped his phone or something. I just found it on the ground. I'm going to drop it off at the police station, okay? You can collect it there."

“Oh,” says Jules, relaxing. But only for a second. Other thoughts have taken hold. Namely, if one Door has opened—

“Wait, where do you find it? Can you hold on? I can drive over and come get it from you now.”

"Um, by the boardwalk?" The unknown woman seems more frustrated than annoyed, though she adds, "I need to get to work, though, so you'd better hurry."

“I’m coming right now,” Jules says hastily. “I’m sorry to make you late. I’ll be there as soon as I can, give me fifteen minutes.” She hangs up before the woman can protest (now she has to hang around!) and dashes back into the kitchen.

“Tui? Mikaere lost his phone. I’m gonna go get it, I’ll be back in like 30 minutes, make yourself at home!” There’s a faintly frantic edge to Jules’ voice as she runs out.

She even leaves the rest of her cinnamon roll behind.

It doesn't say much for Tui's motherly intuition (but perhaps more of the hour her body clock is reporting) that she barely blinks at Jules as she departs, frantic edge to her voice or no. "I'm not going anywhere," is faintly amused.

She is, after all, in her nightgown still.