by Aria Ford
After breakfast, Reese announced she had to go to town. “I need to go to the post-office…I think Mom sent something from Miami.”
“A parcel from Granny?” Josh asked, eyes shining.
“Hurray!” Cayley cried. I smiled.
“My mom spoils them,” Reese observed with a grin.
“Well, it’s only had positive effects,” I smiled at the kids. Cayley beamed at me.
“I’d better head off and shower,” Brett commented, pushing back his chair.
“Brett Carlyle. Must you beat me to it?” Reese pouted.
“Okay, okay. I’ll check my mail. You go first.”
“Thank you.”
They both laughed.
Brett headed upstairs and Carson excused himself at once. I pretended not to wish he’d stay longer. I turned to the kids.
“So,” I said. “Who wants to make decorations?”
“Me!” they shouted. I smiled.
“Okay, then. We’ll go through to the sitting room. It’s warmer in there.”
“Hurray!”
“Can we make polar bears?”
I frowned. “If you like?”
“I can draw a polar bear!” Josh announced grandly.
Listening to their chatter, I let myself sink into the quiet joy of morning.
“Amelia?”
“Mm?” I asked. I was sitting at the table in the dining-room, plaiting paper chains for the ceiling. Cayley was with me, covered in glitter, holding the other end, smooth brow furrowed with concentration. Josh had abandoned us for the attic and his cars once more.
“You’re making the gravy, right?” Brett asked me. He had evidently been cutting up onions and came from the kitchen redolent of cooking. He had a cautionary frown as if making the gravy were some intricate part of football strategy. I laughed.
“That’s right,” I said warmly. Cayley smiled up at me.
“Can I help? Are you cooking now?”
I smiled at her. “Don’t see why not!”
“Good. I want to be the best chef when I grow up. Then I’ll win all the competitions. Isn’t that nice?”
I laughed. Brett guffawed. “She’s as bad as I am,” he said. “Which reminds me. It’s my turn to make the fire. I’ve got to beat Carson!”
I laughed. Carson was good at making fires. He had lit one in me that evening too, I thought distractedly, and it was still burning fiercely, melting me from the inside. No matter how many distractions were on hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
“Is there anything else you need for the gravy, Mel?” Brett’s voice interrupted me.
I bit my lip, thinking. “You have strawberry jam?”
“Yes,” he called, voice echoing from the cupboard. “It’s going into the gravy? You sure about that, right?”
I laughed. “Sure I am! It’s my secret weapon.”
“As long as it isn’t a weapon of mass devastation,” he said. The instant the words were out of his mouth we looked at each other, both feeling awkward. I cast a guilty eye around, checking Carson wasn’t in immediate range of hearing. Making jokes about the Iraq War, however indirect the reference, wasn’t something either of us meant to do where he might hear it.
“He’s in the attic with Reese and Josh, probably.”
“Whew.”
Brett smiled and patted my hand. “I think he’s okay, Mel,” he said gently. “In fact, he’s looking good. I didn’t think he’d ever lose that stressed expression; but from yesterday he seems to have changed. Literally overnight, he looks relaxed. It must be Christmas, or something.”
I felt a glow spread through my chest. I hoped I was right, and that it was because of me that he looked happier now. I certainly felt happier.
“It could be,” I said, warmly. “I feel happier too.”
“I know. I noticed,” Brett smiled. “You look great, sis. It’s so nice to see you so happy.”
I smiled and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, ruffling his hair fondly. “Thanks, bro.”
I squeezed his hand and he stroked my hair like he used to when we were kids. Then he cleared his throat, looking away.
“I should go and wrap gifts,” he said. “It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“Hell,” I said, shaking my head with amazement. “It really is. So should I.”
“I hope you haven’t spoiled me, sister,” he said, giving me an affectionate shove.
“I think I regrettably haven’t,” I said, biting my lip.
“Perfect,” Brett grinned. “Having you here’s gift enough, you know.”
“Aw,” I said, feeling my throat tight with feeling. I really didn’t know Brett cared so much. I blinked against my tears. “Thanks, bro.”
“Not at all. Now I’d better get busy. Where’s the wrapping paper.”
“It’s in the attic, Brett,” Reese called patiently from the study by the front door. “Where you put it.”
He sighed. “Thanks, sweetie.” he grinned at me. “Wives: catering for short-term memory-loss on seven continents.”
“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 wince
d.
“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 shirt 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 hav
e 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.
