Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Will I grow some wings?” He looks at me, almost hopeful.
“One day, you will grow some wings too. We all will. But we don’t know when.”
“I want my wings the same time as Daddy.” He sets the picture back on the counter, and I hear Dec inhale lightly. And there’s a tragedy that I won’t even try to unravel for him. We don’t get the blessing of never leaving anyone behind or not being left behind. They’re the cruellest parts of leaving life and surviving it.
“Daddy will probably get his wings before you because he’s older than you.”
“He’s not older than me,” Albi says, pointing to the picture, so confused.
And this is why explaining death to a child is impossible. Keep them innocent. “You’re right.” I force a smile. “What do I know?” I look at Dec and shake my head, kicking myself. “I’m sorry,” I mouth.
“Camryn?”
“What?”
“Shut up.” He comes to me, slips and arm around my shoulder, and takes Albi’s hand as he pushes his mouth to my cheek. “Are you okay?”
I reach for my nose and pinch the bridge, wondering how I would have worded it all if I’d had time to think about it. And I still don’t know. “I really made a mess of that.”
We head out of my apartment, and Dec throws an annoyed look my way. “You didn’t make a mess of it. Answer my question.”
“I’m okay,” I say, my pounding, anxious heart calming as I smile up at Dec meekly. “Kind of.”
“Never lie to me about how you feel.” He dips and pushes his lips into my hair as we run into Mr. Percival in the hallway.
“Oh, and who have we here, then?” he crones.
“I’m Albi and I’m going ice skating with Daddy and Camryn, and I’m gonna use a penguin because I’m little.”
Mr. Percival looks like he could topple over, the bombardment of information bending him backward. “Jeez, kid, chill, I only asked your name.”
“Huh?”
Dec chuckles, collecting Albi. “Afternoon, Mr. Percival, how’s the turkey?”
“Dead.”
“What’s that?” Albi asks, zooming past the old man and entering his apartment through his wide-open door. “Oh, wow, cool!” He drops to his knees and swipes up a gnome on a motorbike.
“Careful with that, kid,” Mr. Percival says, following him on his walking frame. “The rims are delicate.”
Dec snorts, and I cough on nothing, both of us watching as Mr. Percival takes the gnome from Albi and shows him the wheels. “I painted them gold, see?”
“Oh my gosh.” Albi registers the hundreds of gnomes in Mr. Percival’s apartment, on every surface. “A policeman!”
“Yes, and a fireman, and a doctor and a farmer and a—”
“He has a lot of gnomes,” Dec pipes in, dipping to scoop Albi up. He gets shrugged off.
“You have a Father Christmas! And his reindeers.” Albi bombs across the lounge and drops to his knees again, scooping up the fattest gnome of all. “Daddy, look.”
“I can see, fella. Are we going ice skating?”
“Now, that one I got in Lapland,” Mr. Percival says, joining Albi and perching on the arm of the chair.
“You’ve been to Lapland?” Albi asks, his mouth forming an O in astonishment.
“Yeah, I’ve been, kid. In 1987. A long, long time ago. What year was you born, kid?”
Albi looks at Dec. “2021,” Dec says.
“Twenty-one,” Albi murmurs, shifting onto his butt and crossing his legs in front of Mr. Percival, as if he’s in class in front of his teacher.
“So you’re four.”
“I’m four and a half.”
“And have you been good this year?”
“So good.” He’s gazing up at the old man in complete awe.
I look at Dec. He shrugs. “Want a drink?” I ask.
“Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere fast.”
“Mind if I get a drink, Mr. Percival?”
“Oh my, how rude of me.” He dips. “You wait there, kid, I’ll bring back a feast and some eggnog.”
“What’s eggnog?”
“Magic, kid. Don’t move.”
“I won’t.”
“This way.” Mr. Percival passes us and leads us into the kitchen.
“What the fuck?” Dec stops on the threshold and gazes around at the chaos. “Are you having a party?”
Food is laid out on every surface, some with ice packs under, some covered with tinfoil, some in Tupperware pots. It’s a buffet on steroids. “It’s Christmas,” Mr. Percival says. “One must be prepared for guests, since you never know when they might show up.” He picks up a knife and points it at Dec, making him lean back. “Case in point.” He slices one of his scrummy cakes, and I’m first to help myself, humming my happiness. “Sherry?”
“Please,” I mumble.
“Sure,” Dec breathes.
Then once the old man’s seen to our needs, he loads a tray of goodies and rests it on his frame, going back to Albi. “Make yourself at home, kids.”
And we do, dropping to the couch and listening while Mr. Percival enchants Albi with tales about gnomes, Christmas, world travels, and the war.