by Aria Ford
“There aren’t people in Antarctica, daddy,” Cayley objected. I hadn’t known she’d followed us from the kitchen. I stroked her hair, grinning at Brett.
“She’s got you there, brother.”
Brett rolled his eyes, a long-suffering sigh on his lips. “Does everyone in this family have to outsmart me?”
We all laughed. I headed upstairs feeling my heart lighter than it had felt for years. I closed my door and locked it—a necessary precaution when wrapping gifts for two inquisitive youth—and opened my case.
As I took out the gifts, I felt a twist of guilt. I hadn’t brought anything for Carson. It was too late now to go out and buy something. What shops were open would be absolute mayhem at this time—and too short notice to order anything either. I sighed.
“I’m sure he’s brought nothing too.”
I didn’t even know whether or not Brett had told him I was staying here. I pushed the thought aside and reached for my wrapping paper and scissors, starting on the job for that afternoon.
It took me about an hour to get everything exactly as I wanted it, to write out the cards and pack it all into the right bags with different names on them. I felt a stab of excitement as I looked at the four shopping bags of gifts, lined up by my door, ready for distribution tomorrow. I had always loved Christmas. We would do what we always used to do when I was a kid. Wake up and have a long, leisurely breakfast, open our gifts and then all sit down for lunch, then spend the afternoon playing games or reading. It was a lovely holiday.
I spent another minute or so admiring the neatly-packaged gifts, then headed downstairs to the hallway. As I neared the kitchen, planning to make the early preparations for my special dish tomorrow, I heard voices in the kitchen. I tensed instinctively. One of them was Carson, one Reese. They sounded worried.
“It’s okay, Carson,” Reese was saying slowly. “It’s okay,”
“No,” Carson said, slurring. “No, it’s not…’snot okay.”
I closed my eyes, fearing the worst. When I walked in, I confirmed it. Carson was drunk. Badly drunk. He was leaning against the cupboard, swaying, eyes unfocused. When he saw me, he leered.
“Amelia!” he said loudly. “Come say hi.” He reached for me and swayed dangerously. I tensed as his arm crept round my shoulders, his mouth pressing on mine. My lips compressed tight and I pulled away from him, skin crawling.
“Aw, C’mon. Give’s a kiss…” he crooned. He swayed again and, teetering, crumpled forward onto his knees on the floor. He looked up at me, giggled and lay down.
“What’s…wrong with you?” he slurred, looking up at me. Then he closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply, clearly passing out.
I looked at Reese. My cheeks were hot and I wanted, badly, to cry. I looked at Carson where he lay, eyes closed, body contorted, on the floor. His chest heaved and I was frightened he was going to be sick. If he threw up while unconscious, he might inhale it and die. Reese winced.
“We can’t leave him there,” she said, briskly. “Roll him onto his side…that’s it. That way, if he throws up, he won’t drown. Put his arm up under his head. There we are…”
I could smell the stench of liquor on him, and his skin was cold as I pulled his arm under his head, elbow bent, as Reese instructed. I had never felt closer to my brother’s wife than I did at that moment. Classic, elegant executive she might be, but she was also practical and a first-aider. She was the first-aid officer for her workplace and, it seemed, that meant she knew exactly what to do in a situation like this, able to switch off and just do things in a ruthlessly and practical way I couldn’t.
“There. Now we’d best call Brett. We can’t leave him here where people can trip over him. Brett…honey…can you come down? We need help.”
I stood in the doorway behind her. I looked down at Carson where he lay, curled on the floor as we had left him, breath snuffling softly. “I can’t believe this,” I whispered. “I can’t handle this.”
Brett is right. He has changed, has Carson—the young Carson would never have done this.
As I looked down at his sleepy, prone form, I realized that I was being silly. Carson was facing challenges I would never be able to understand. He was a changed man. He was way too complex for me. Sharing his life was a full-time job, one for which I was wholly unequipped.
As Reese, practical and unfazed, returned to the kitchen, followed by my brother who bent down and lifted his friend, straining and flushed, to carry him upstairs, I flattened myself against the wall, getting out of the way. I bit my lip and tried very hard not to cry.
I can’t do this, I told myself. I should turn away now. I should try and put all my feelings for Carson back in the box and forget him. He needs someone different to me.
Someone like Reese was what he needed: coolly practical, able to deal with his difficulties with an objective clarity. He needed something other than the love and softness I would give him.
As much as I loved Carson, I was wrong for him. I would make myself turn away. Even if it killed me, I would forget him. It was the best thing—the only kind thing—I could do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carson
I lay on my bed, feeling awful. It wasn’t just the drink.
As it happened, I wasn’t as messed up as I was acting. Yes, I had a few brandies. And then a few more. I was pretty finished, it was true. But when I was lying there passed out on the kitchen floor, I was actually awake. I heard Reese discussing how best to prevent me from drowning. I heard Amelia. I heard despair, disgust. Loathing.
That was what I wanted to do.
Whatever she might have thought, I did this purposefully. I knew I could sometimes overdo it with drink. When I first came back I was using it every night to go to sleep, to cope with the nightmares. Now that the nightmares were less frequent, my binging was less but I still got blind drunk sometimes. I had done this deliberately to show her the worst of me.
See if you can love this. Face me for what I am. Look at my brokenness.
If I could have written it in words, those would have been what I wrote. Instead, being who I am, I did it in actions. Now everything was as it ought to have been. Amelia hated me, Brett and Reese would keep their distance. I’d thrown myself out of their warm, caring circle and back into the dark where I belonged.
Good.
I rolled over, my mouth dry and my head aching. I really had overdone it a bit, I realized, as I stood up and swayed, blinking, catching onto the wall.
My teeth clenched, I stumbled through to the shower and stripped off, drenching myself with hot water. The warmth and damp revived me slowly and the sick ache in my head started to wear off. I knew from experience that Ibuprofen was the worst thing I could do to my liver right now, but I might just have to resort to it, to clear my head faster.
Hell, Grant. You do a job properly.
I dried myself and collapsed through the door and onto my bed. When I next woke, it was dark. Mercifully, my head had stopped aching. My belly gave an ambivalent lurch and I realized it must be dinnertime. I sat up. There was still a trace of headache pressing on my brain, but nothing like it had been.
I should go and get dinner, I thought. I would have to bear some funny looks and tensions from my hosts, but I would just have to take it as consequence of my actions.
I wanted to push Amelia away. I might as well alienate her family while I’m at it.
Losing Brett’s friendship would make me sad, but it was a consequence I was ready for, if it meant putting safe distance between myself and Amelia. I had let this go too far and it was time I pushed her away.
It’s for the best.
I slid out and felt around for my clothes, pleasantly surprised to discover I had folded them by my bag. A decade of military habits was hard to overcome and some things, evidently, just happened on autopilot.
I shook out my jeans, decided I could wear them for another day with no unpleasant results, and drew them on. I rummaged around for a clean sh
irt and found myself with my head on one side, listening for voices from downstairs. Strains of sound reached me through the window.
I realized I could hear voices outside in the cold air. I strained to hear them. One of them was her: Amelia.
“It’s okay, Josh, It’s okay. I’ll do it.”
“But…but auntie! Daddy will be so mad. He’s already moody and…oh, no!” I heard the kid start sobbing and my heart ached.
I might have done what I needed to do, but I’ve ruined these guys’ Christmas. I knew myself for a complete ass. I winced. With Brett and Reese concerned about me and so tense, worrying about Christmas dinner and the possibility of me passing out again, the kids would be feeling the pressure. Being kids, they thought it was their fault. Kids always do.
“What can I do?”
I desperately wanted to make reparation. All I could do, at this moment, was listen. Figure out what was making the poor guy so afraid. I tuned in, straining to hear the words over the distant sound of a car and the soft noise of someone washing pots downstairs in the kitchen.
“But…but auntie! He’ll be mad.” Josh.
“Nonsense,” Amelia said gently. “You go inside now. I’ll talk to Mr. Peterson. You don’t need to be there too.”
“Would you?”
“Of course, kid. It’s a window, not a whirlwind. You didn’t mean to break it.”
Oh. I guessed what had happened. Amelia had taken the kids out to play and Josh had got a bit enthusiastic, thrown a ball through the neighbor’s window. I sat up and went over to look outside.
“I…I know, auntie. B…but…” he started crying again. I looked down in time to see Amelia, dressed for snow, with a hat on her pale locks, bend and lift him up. The sight of her cuddling the small, sad boy broke my heart. She was a great person.
I glanced about the gathering dark. In the neighboring garden, I could see the source of the trauma. The shards of a broken window caught the streetlight’s orange glow, shattered and jagged like the mood of everyone in the house.
It’s all my fault.
Aching with remorse, I threw on some clothes and walked, carefully but as quickly as I could manage, to the back door. My wallet was in my jeans and I had an idea of how to sort this one out. I couldn’t make the kids happier; I couldn’t calm down Reese and Brett. I’d lost Amelia. But I could fix a window.
Feeling my calves cramp and my head swim as I jogged down the path to the gate, I headed slowly but unswervingly to the neighbor’s door.
A brief explanation was all that was needed. I passed the cash for the window over and headed, stumbling, back through the bitter cold and into the house. Upstairs, I collapsed again on the bed.
Somewhere in the house a child cried and was hushed. I could hear no other sounds. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift, wishing I was elsewhere. I had broken my own heart and ruined Christmas for a precious family. If someone had told me I was Satan Incarnate, I might have actually believed it of myself. I couldn’t believe I had done such unkind, thoughtless things.
“Pete?” I murmured, seeking guidance in the one place I still trusted.
You don’t listen, I could almost hear him say. I told you what to do.
“You said follow my instincts,” I sighed, remembering. “Well, I am.”
No. You’re following what you think is the right thing to do. That’s different. Do you have to think about instincts?
No, my mind argued. That’s the point of instincts—they come naturally.
So?
The word was a whisper, amused, on the edge of my mind. It was sufficiently like Pete for me to half-believe he’d said it. I groaned.
Of all the advice to give me right now, I wasn’t sure if it was the best or the worst. But if my friend had chosen to speak from the other side of time to give me a Christmas message, I was going to do my best to listen. Groaning, still fighting a residual pain in my head, I sat up and began to follow his advice. I opened my case and dug out the one thing I had been determined not to forget.
It’s Christmas tomorrow, I reminded myself. I should get things ready.
Fingers trembling, head pounding, I set about the work. I had a few hours to get things right, and I intended to do my best. It had been too long—far too long—since I had followed my heart. It was about time I started to remember how.
I hesitated before I wrapped the last of the presents I had brought. I really wasn’t sure how wise this was. Pete and his advice aside, I was playing with more than just my own feelings.
I made a decision. I would do what I had intended to do in the beginning. Instinct had told me to bring this gift with me and to give it. I would still do that. It had to be done. I would see it as a way of making things right.
I won’t let myself think about the future.
There were two futures in my mind as I fumbled with wrapping-paper and sticky-tape and packages. The one was the one I longed for. The one where Amelia and I were free to be together and everything was wonderful. I knew it wouldn’t be without difficulties, but I also knew that there were no difficulties that we couldn’t face, bravely and together.
The other future was the one that was most straightforward: The one built on my sure knowledge of me as a broken man. The one that told me I should leave here as soon as possible and never look back. Because I didn’t deserve something as wonderful as the love I shared with Amelia.
As I finished wrapping the last parcel, my labor of love, I had both these futures in my mind, like two paths ahead of me. Even when I was finished for the evening, and sliding under the covers into bed, I still had not decided which path I would take.
I listened to the voices on the landing in the hallway. Reese and Brett.
“Honey…you shouldn’t have.” Reese.
“I should have,” Brett growled. “I love you, my wife.”
“I love you too, Brett.”
I heard them kissing and I closed my eyes, feeling the pain of the reminder of my time with Amelia. I should not allow that to happen again. The closeness I felt for her was echoed in the closeness of these two—my hosts, that is—and that moved me. They had been married for a decade now, had two kids and a bank of memories. I could have had that with her, but I had chosen to push her away.
In my heart, I knew I had done the only good thing I could have: the only future that was really open to me was the one which did no harm to anyone. I wanted Amelia to forgive me for making such a fool of myself yesterday. I wanted her approval of me, her forgiveness. But I couldn’t ask more from her than that. I couldn’t expect that she would shackle herself to me, would put up with me and all I had become, my inner wars, my secret pain. I wouldn’t do that.
All I wanted for Christmas, I decided firmly as I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep, was a chance to make things right.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Amelia
I sat in my room, heart too sore for tears. Looking at my pale, scared face in the mirror, I took a deep breath.
I had just come back in from outside, cold and tired and miserable. The kids were tense. I had hoped to calm them down, but now things had gone wrong.
“Come on, Amelia,” I said under my breath. “You have to go and fix things.”
Poor Josh. We had been playing catch out in the yard—him, Cayley, and me. It was a freak accident that he had thrown the ball over my head. Instead of me being able to intercept it, the thing went through the window of the Peterson’s home.
I knew the Petersons a little from my last visit: they were nice people and would probably understand. Josh was a thoughtful child and would never have done it on purpose. Now he was terrified. His chief fear was that his daddy would find out what he had done.
His daddy is stressed at the moment because of Carson.
That was why I had promised to go myself and talk to Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. Josh was terrified. It was hard to imagine my brother Brett causing such fear in anyone. It wasn’t that the kids were scared of him. The
y just didn’t want to upset him more than he already was.
With that instinct for anger that kids tend to have, they were both aware of the tensions boiling in both their parents. So was I. Ever since Carson had passed out my brother and his wife had been tense. They were both extremely calm and capable dealing with the matter, but afterward the tension had set in. They tiptoed about the house quietly, as if to expect that Carson was going to break forth from his room and wreck things if he woke up. I sighed. Strangely, I felt impatient about it.
He’s drunk. He’s not some kind of monster.
I couldn’t be angry. In fact, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except I was so sad. I felt Carson had let himself down and that he had, somehow, let me down too. It wasn’t so much that I felt shame about how he had behaved, but because it highlighted to me how absolutely unsuited we were. I was starting to believe the fact that he was unsuited to me.
I sighed. Come on, Amelia. You’re wasting time. You should go and sort things out.
I ran a comb through my hair, fixed my makeup, and headed downstairs to face Mr. Peterson. As I trudged down the path, the sky already dark above me, I realized I wanted to cry. The previous day’s elation and today’s misery combined in a way that was overwhelming me. I couldn’t bear it anymore.
“Carson?” I moaned. Partly, I wanted to slap him, partly, I wished I could run up and embrace him, kiss him, make love as we had the day before and tell him how much he meant to me. He was infuriatingly wonderful and wonderfully infuriating.
I reached the neighbor’s door and, sniffing, knocked on it. “Mr. Peterson?”
Mrs. Peterson, a kindly old lady, answered. “Hello?” she said, frowning uncertainly.
“Uh…” I paused, licking my lips nervously. “I came from next door. I just wanted to apologize for the window. I’m so, so sorry.” I chuckled, self-consciously. “If there’s anything I can do to make it better, please tell me.”
Mrs. Peterson frowned. “But, dear, you’ve already fixed things.”
