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They go to leave, Fiona pausing at the door to say, “How do you take your tea? I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready.”
“Oh, I don’t drink tea.”
“What?” She looks at me as if I’m a little green alien who’s just landed.
“You know what—tea sounds nice. Just milk. Thanks.”
“White it is.” Fiona gives a nod of approval, and the door closes behind them.
I revel in the solitary moment of silence. “Time to get to work.”
The two girls have each already chosen a top bunk, leaving me a bottom, which is fine with me. The bed I assume is Fiona’s, a pale pink duvet cover tucked around its mattress—is closer to the door. I’ve always preferred easy access to a quick escape, so I take that one.
The girls have left out clean bedding for me to make up my bed. Crisp cream-colored linen sheets, a soft pale blue duvet cover, a thick feather duvet inside to keep me warm on the cold island nights.
Heaving up my suitcase, I pull it onto the top of the dresser Carol Ann parked it beside. I put my neatly folded underthings in the top two small drawers. Fill the others with my long sleeves, tees, thick sweaters, and fleece pullovers. The rest is jeans, comfy sweats, jammies, and rain gear.
Fiona brings a blue mug with warm tea, the color almost white with milk. I take a sip. It’s comforting. I’ll try it again the next time they make it, maybe with a little less milk.
Everything fits. I go to the large, shared bathroom. It’s clean and bright, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds in the high rectangular window hung over the shower. I find a white basket sitting on an oak shelf on the wall, neatly labeled with my name. I pile all my personal care items into the basket, my quilted pink zipper bag with my few makeup products, the mini bottle of shampoo, conditioner, soap, and toothpaste. I’ll need more. My toothbrush and hairbrush.
It already feels like home.
People are filtering in, getting settled. I join the girls for a mindless binge of American reality TV while enjoying cheese, crackers, and a glass of chilled white wine for our dinner. A handful of other girls join us, and I quickly learn all their names, answering their curious questions about what it’s like living in California.
Just before bed, Fiona pulls me in for a hug, whispering in my ear. “See? You’re fittin’ in just fine.”
In the morning, we tour the research center where I meet the rest of the 12 interns, a medley of young, good-natured men and women. Most are island natives, students at the small, local university with a few mixed in from Edinburgh or Glasgow, here for the summer. I’m the only international student. Everyone is kind and welcoming. They put me straight to work, analyzing data in front of a desktop that’s a thousand years old, the fan making a constant whirring sound as it works.
I meet the professor, a grumpy but knowledgeable man with fluffy gray hair and wire glasses who runs this place. He tries to copy my American accent, which the girls find very funny.
To top off our first day of work, we have a bonfire on the beach to welcome us outsiders to the island. We sip beers and snack on little cakes they’ve bought from the town bakery.
And as Fiona said, I seem to be fittin’ right in.
The rest of the week goes by in a blur. Friday night, we made good on the weekly island tradition of going into town to pick up fish and chips. The flaky white fish is steamy hot, buttery, and delicious. It’s haddock, not cod. Not only because cod isn’t readily available from the years of overfishing, but the Scots also prefer the freshness of the haddock which has to be served soon after it’s caught, versus the English who receive shipments of cod to sell over the next day or so.
We lick our salty fingers as we watch Men in Black in the big room with the other interns before calling it a night.
The others go to sleep. I can’t. Fiona says it’s “early days yet,” and assures me I’ll adjust, but I’m starting to feel like the vampire we first joked about. Since I’m wide awake, I may as well double-check my work at the center, detailing cod stocks from 2001-2006. It’s due to the professor on Monday.
Not wanting to wake anyone with my heavy bootsteps, I pull my tall, soft-soled black UGGs on over my socks and leggings. I layer the sweatshirt I wear with my knee-length black down coat, the one with the fake fur trim around the hood. I told Mom the brown-and-gray ring of fur was too much, but she insisted it would keep me warm.
Slipping out the door, I’m shocked by the quiet out here. I’ve not yet been outside at night alone. Waves lap at the shore, the only other sound my boots crunching over gravel. The night air is cold enough that I pull my hood up over my head.
As always, Mom was right. The soft fur tickles my cheeks. The coat is perfectly warm.
The Simmer Dim Fiona mentioned leaves an eerie light like a backdrop over the hills and sea.
The center is just a couple miles east of the lodge. I’ve easily fallen into the walking lifestyle, enjoying how the fresh air and exercise make me feel. Lit by the soft glow of several streetlights, the low, half dome-shaped building comes into view, one story with a curved roof similar to the lodge but, with the back wall facing the sea made entirely of glass. It’s such a beautiful place.
I stop where the gravel road leading to the research center turns off the paved road where I stand. I pause, taking it all in. “Lucky girl.” I still can’t believe I’m finally here.
Suddenly, the peace of the moment is broken.
A loud, rumbling engine pollutes the quiet night. Headlights pierce the dark sky, a vehicle hurtling in my direction.
Knowing I’m no longer alone, I wonder if I should hide. Seems over the top, but after what I’ve been through, I listen to my gut. Right now, it’s telling me that a young girl alone in the middle of the night should be wary—even if I am living in a postcard.
