t w e n t y - o n e
*
There's no more snow overnight. After two days of confinement, I wake up on Monday morning to see that the roads have been cleared and while I might need to shovel snow off my car to get out of the driveway, there's a way out. It feels like a burden has been lifted – the sky agrees, the faintest hint of blue peeping through the sheet of white where the cloud cover is weak – and I know that today will be the day.
It makes me feel a bit sick. Anxious and hopeful and sick and excited, all mixed into one bubbling broth of emotion that propels me to put on my dressing gown and shuffle downstairs, yawning all the way. Casper and I went to bed early last night, but I ended up having a long bath and reading until after two in the morning, and I'm more of a ten-hours-a-night person than seven.
I've got used to Casper always being awake before me, to the point that I expect to see him either trying to make a fire or tucked up on the sofa, or fixing something to eat in the kitchen. Today's no different: I spy him sitting at the kitchen table when I make it downstairs, but it takes a moment for me to realise he's not eating breakfast. He's on the phone, his forehead resting in his palm.
He doesn't look happy, and I feel like a voyeur being there, so I head back upstairs and add a smidge of concern to my cesspit of feelings. I like that one the least, I decide, the way it pairs up with anxiety to create an endless stream of questions and worries and hypotheticals. Busying myself in the bathroom, I end up having a shower and blow-drying my hair for something to do and a way to keep warm, and more than half an hour passes before I end up downstairs again.
I don't have a dressing gown on this time – I've made the effort to get properly dressed, in anticipation of getting out of the house, wearing a red woollen dress and a pair of black fur-lined leggings with a thick cardigan to match. Fluffy red socks will poke out of the top of my boots and keep my toes warm, and I haven't bothered with make-up but I have found a festive red hairband to keep my hair off my face. It's the most effort I've made in a while, ostensibly to give Casper time to finish his phone call, but a small voice at the back of my mind says yeah, right, that's the only reason.
He has finished his phone call when I get downstairs, but he's still sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. My concern multiplies, breeding into some toxic beast that fills me with things I don't want to think – that he knows I like him, that he wants to leave, that I've fucked this up.
"Hey," I say quietly, edging into the kitchen. He snaps his head up, his expression shifting through a few cycles, transforming from despair to confusion to ... relief?
"Morning. Hey. You look really nice," he says, looking me up and down until his eyes land on mine and he gives me a tired smile.
"Thanks," I mumble awkwardly as I pull out a chair even more awkwardly, too aware that his eyes are on me. "Are you okay? I heard you on the phone and you look a bit upset. Has something happened?"
He pushes both hands through his hair and drops one to his mug, a couple of inches of dark coffee inside. "Yeah, kind of. Well, yes."
My stomach clenches into a tight knot, an uncomfortable tension that rises up my throat to my gritted teeth. "What's up?"
"My brother-in-law was in an accident," he says, and when I gasp, he keeps talking. "He'll be okay, but he's in hospital and my sister's shaken; she's flown up with her kids to see our parents, and I, uh, I'm sorry I didn't ask you first but I told her to come here. I hope that's all right."
"Of course it's all right," I say, my brain scrambling to process everything he's saying. "Is she okay? Is her husband all right?"
"He'll be fine, I think. Nothing too major. She said she went into panic mode and had to come up to be with family, so she booked a flight, but I wanted to see her and the kids before she goes to our parents so, yeah." He drinks his coffee, his hand shaking, and scrunches up his nose. It must be as cold as it looks. "But I can meet her in town if you'd rather, if you don't want her coming here."
"She's more than welcome here," I say, reaching out to touch his hand. His skin is warm, even warmer when he turns his hand over beneath mine so our palms touch. I try not to faint right then and there. "I can pick her up from the airport, if she needs? Does she have a way to get here?"
"They already landed; she got a taxi while I was still on the phone."
I pull a face. "A taxi from the airport? That'll cost an arm and a leg."
"I'm not sure she really cares about that right now," he says, and then with a slight laugh, he adds, "And she doesn't need to worry about money." He takes his hand back, pressing them together as though he's praying, touching his fingers to his lips. "Sorry to spring this on you."
"There's nothing to apologise for, Cas. Your sister's in need, and you know my stance on people in need."
He chuckles to himself. "Careful with that policy, else you'll end up with half the town living in your house."
*
Forty minutes later, I hear the tell-tale sound of a car slowing down outside my house and then the engine cutting out before doors open and shut with a thunk. I open the front door for the first time since Friday evening and Casper and I are greeted with a blast of frozen air, the temperature too low for more snow to fall. Casper darts out past me to help his sister, though she only has one hastily-packed bag, so he takes the baby from her instead.
The sight of him with a baby in his arms does something funny to my insides, going all jelly-like when he coos at the gorgeous little girl with a thick crop of jet black hair. His nephew, the three-year-old, charges at the front door and stops dead when he sees me, almost going arse over tit on the ice.
"Wait, Omar!" Jemima calls. Her accent is less pronounced that Casper's – he is undeniably Scottish, the same thick accent that everyone from Saint Wendelin shares, but Jemima has adopted a more English slant to her voice in her time down south.
I don't get a good look at her until the taxi pulls away and she trots over to her son, and once she's grabbed hold of his hand, she stands straight and gives me the exact same smile as Casper. It's eerie how similar it is, the same slightly crooked lips and dark eyes a thousand shades of brown, the same enviably thick eyebrows. She's wearing the most beautiful hijab, the same rich red as my dress with shimmery detailing, and I almost laugh when I realise she's wearing a Christmas jumper beneath her flowing cardigan.
"Come in, come in," I say, stepping back and holding the door open. Omar rushes in as though it's his own home, yelling about how cold it is. Jemima follows, and Casper brings up the rear with the baby in his arm, pulling an empty pram along behind him.
"Hi, Beth," Jemima says. "Sorry to be such an imposition. It's really nice to meet you, though, at last! I wondered when this day would come, though I wish it was under different circumstances." She lets out a tired laugh and follows me to the kitchen.
"It's nice to meet you too," I say, overthinking what she just said. "Casper's only been living here for a week though."
"He's been talking about you for years," Jemima says, some sixth sense telling her to grab Omar before he makes a run for it. He has a sweet, cheeky little face, but my attention is torn from him when I hear what Jemima just said.
Years? Really? The nervous tremor in my gut is more butterflies now than anxiety and I can't help a giddy smile break out, one that I desperately tamp down when I remember why Jemima's here.
"I'm so sorry to hear about your husband," I say, the words rushing out too fast. "Will he be okay?"
She nods and pulls Omar back to her side. Casper comes into the kitchen, bouncing the baby. Faiza, I suddenly remember, the name coming back to me out of nowhere.
"He'll be all right, but he totalled our car and he's a bit banged up so they wanted to keep him in for a couple of days, and I didn't know what else to do so I got on the first flight to Inverness and ... well, here we are." She turns to her brother and lets go of Omar to pull Casper into a tight hug, squashing Faiza between them. "It's so good to see you! It's been forever."
"If only you hadn't tossed off down to London," he says, patting her back with his free arm. When they part, she takes the baby from him, kissing her chubby little one-year-old cheeks.
Jemima shrugs and says, "Gotta follow the money." Then she glances at me and, in a stage whisper, she says, "That's what I call my husband."
I chuckle, and I do what I do best – I stick the kettle on and pull out three mugs, adding instant coffee to two and holding out the third to Jemima. "What's your poison?"
"Tea, please, if you have it?"
"Beth has more teas than I've heard of," Casper says, and Jemima's eyes light up. "No need to make do with builder's here."
I show her the cupboard overflowing with boxes of tea and a clutch of loose teabags and she's like a kid in a candy store, browsing through my stash of chai and green and mint and Lapsang Souchong, Lady Grey and ginger and hibiscus and more.
"I'd love a chamomile," she says at last. "Thanks, Beth. Just what the doctor ordered." She takes her steaming mug with a grateful smile and closes her eyes to breathe in deeply, filling her nose with the gentle scent of chamomile tea. The surface ripples when, under her breath, she says, "I fucking hate planes."
Casper gasps and covers Faiza's ears with his hands. Omar's clueless, sitting on the floor with a juice bottle he's found in his mum's bag. "Careful! She's due her first words at any moment. Do you really want it to be that one."
Jemima snorts. "Not gonna lie, Cas, that would be hilarious. Though I don't think Nadim would be very impressed." She puts her mug down and lifts Faiza up in front of her. "Your first words going to be mama, isn't it, baby? Say mama for me!"
Faiza says nothing. She gurgles. Casper laughs.
"No way. Her first word will be Christmas is a capitalist invention and Santa is its figurehead."
"That's ten words," I say, swatting his elbow, "and last time I checked, you asked for and enjoyed a Christmas film last night."
Jemima gasps so loud that Omar looks up, shock on his little face. "What?" she cries out. "You got him to watch a Christmas film?"
"I'm pretty persistent," I say. "It was one of the rules for him moving in – gotta give up the grinch, a bit. Christmas is my favourite time of year and as happy as I am to have him here, I can't give up my traditions."
She nods sagely. "Right you are – put your foot down. Don't let my brother walk all over you." She sneaks a glance at him, but his attention has been stolen by Omar now, crouching down to talk to his nephew. "I hope you knew what you were letting yourself in for! He must really like you to tolerate so much festivity."
There goes my heart again. "We muddle along pretty well," I say. "We were snowed in for a couple of days; I think it was the cabin fever speaking when he suggested we watch Home Alone 2."
"Wow." She widens her eyes, bouncing slightly to keep Faiza quiet. "I meant to say, thank you for doing this for him. I know it's a mammoth task, rehoming Cas right before Christmas, but I really appreciate it."
"It's not a mammoth task at all." I smile down at Casper, my insides mush to see him playing with his nephew on the kitchen floor. They look like father and son, the same warm brown skin and curly black hair, and I'm fairly certain my ovaries are twitching. "He needed somewhere to stay; I have a spare room. He may not celebrate Christmas, but it's a really crappy time to get dumped."
"Mmm." Jemima sighs. "Honestly, I was never sure about Eric. I always thought he was a bit of a selfish prick."
"I can hear you, you know," Casper says, "and so can your children."
Jemima rolls her eyes, but then down at her feet, Omar says, "Eric's a prick."
She claps a hand over her mouth. I can't hold back a laugh, and Casper grins.
"You're not wrong, Omar. But that's a bad word."
"Mummy said it!"
"Mummy's very naughty." Casper glares at his sister. "You're a terrible influence, Jem." He stands up and takes Faiza off her, snuggling his niece. "I'm afraid we're going to have to confiscate your kids." Kissing Faiza's head, he coos and says, "Who's the snuggliest little snuggle monster?"
*
An hour later, while Casper and Jemima are catching up and the kids are watching Arthur Christmas, I'm in the kitchen making our next round of drinks – another two coffees and an Earl Grey for Jemima, this time – when I hear a smash. A moment later, Casper hurries into the kitchen.
"Hey, have you got a dustpan and brush?"
I point to it, tucked into a nook under the counter. "What's up? Did something break?"
"Omar got a bit overexcited about your tree and he got a bit handsy with the branches, and one of your ornaments broke. I'm so sorry," he says, pulling an apologetic grimace. "I'll replace it."
"It's okay," I say. "Is he all right? He didn't cut himself or anything?"
"No, no, he's fine. Jem grabbed him. But it's made a bit of a mess."
I carry the three mugs through to the sitting room and set them on the coffee table, and it's a good thing I'm not carrying them when I look up and survey the mess, because I'm pretty sure I would have just dropped scalding tea and coffee over Jemima and her children.
It's Robin's bauble shattered on the floor. My heart drops to my toes and threatens to leak out of my eyes, an electric shock of devastation thumping my back and throwing my balance off. I scan the tree in case I'm wrong, but there's no mistaking it. Noelle's ornament is hanging on its branch, an empty space next to it, and Robin's is in pieces on the ground. I cover my mouth to stop an anguished sob breaking out and I snatch the dustpan and brush from Casper, harder than I mean to.
When I crouch down to salvage the shards, my eyes well up and blinking hard does nothing to make the tears go away. Instead, they fall. My throat aches, thick and tight, as I realise that there's no rescuing it. The delicate glass has splintered into too many pieces, the little robin smashed to smithereens. I can feel Casper's eyes on me, Jemima's too, but I can't turn around and let them see me crying. As far as they know, it's just any old decoration and I'm an idiot for crying over it.
Omar pads over and touches my arm. "I'm sorry," he says. "Are you mad?"
"No! No, I'm not mad at all," I say, trying to smile at him as I brush the fragments into the dustpan.
"You're crying," he says, pouting the same way Casper pouts. "Are you sad?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine, I just cut my hand," I lie, "so you should stand back, I don't want you to get hurt. But don't worry, I'm not mad at you. It's only a bauble."
My voice cracks on the last word. It's not only a bauble. It's Robin's, I think. I don't have her or her sister, but I have these little rituals, these ornaments I put up every year, and to see hers broken feels like there's a crack in my mind, one that I don't know how to patch up.
Once I've gathered up every tiny piece, even the smallest slivers of glass, I turn on my heel and leave the room before Casper or Jemima can look too closely at my face, and I duck into the conservatory. There's an empty shoebox on the table that I pour the pieces into. I can't face tipping them into the bin.
And then, both hands covering my face, a sob wrenches itself from my chest. I have to let it out else it'll build and I'll feel worse and worse, and I'll lose the whole day to this sudden rush of grief that has hit me almost as hard as it does on the fifteenth.
I don't see or hear Casper until I feel a hand on my arm and I jump out of my skin, dropping my hands from my puffy eyes.
"Hey, Beth, are you all right?" He takes my hand, turning it over, and then the other. "Where's your cut? Are you hurt?"
"I didn't cut myself," I say, swiping at my eyes as though it isn't already disgustingly obvious that I'm crying – my cheeks are streaked with tears and my glasses are fogged up, reducing him to a blurry smudge.
"What happened?"
"It's nothing, I'm fine."
He holds my elbows. "You're clearly not fine, Bee. What's up?" He looks down at the shoebox of glass and he picks it up, shaking it. "Was this special or something?"
I nod weakly, sniffing to stop the next sob. It comes out anyway. "It's my Robin bauble," I say.
"What?" Casper frowns. "I can get you a new one."
"You can't," I shake my head. "It's Robin's. My daughter, Robin. I have one for her and one for Noelle that were made specially and I hang them up every year and that's ... that was Robin's."
Realisation hits. His shoulders sink and his jaw slackens, and he puts the box down.
"Oh, god. Oh, fuck, Beth, I'm so sorry. Shit, I had no idea. I'm so, so sorry," he says, mumbling over and over as he pulls me against him and I hold him tight, my tears soaking through his top. "It's my fault, Jem was feeding Faiza and I wasn't watching Omar an-"
"It's not your fault, it's not Omar's," I say. "It's just an accident, it happens." That would be more convincing if I wasn't crying, if I could just get a damn grip. I pull away from Casper and take a huge breath to refill my lungs, and I let it out slowly. "It's my fault for having them up. They were bound to get broken. Sod's law," I mutter.
Casper's still standing close, one hand rubbing my back as I take shaky breath after breath, trying not to think too hard or attach too much symbolism, but it's hard. It's really hard. I've already placed too much symbolism on those ornaments, and they were never going to last forever. It's stupid, really, having something so delicate to remember my girls by, when if my girls had lived, they probably would have smashed those baubles long ago.
"It just caught my emotions," I say after a moment, when I can feel my head clearing, the ache in my chest easing up a bit. "I'm okay, really. I'm fine."
Casper makes a doubtful sound. I try not to think about the fact that now Noelle is alone on the tree, and I chastise myself for even thinking that, for acting like my decorations represent my girls. I blink to dissuade another round of tears and I clean my glasses on the hem of my cardigan.
"Can I have a moment?" I ask, and I let out a pained, shaky laugh when I say, "I need to compose myself. I've just totally humiliated myself in front of your sister."
"No you haven't. Not at all. She'll understand," he says. He hugs me again and then touches the back of my neck, a gentle squeeze, and he leaves.
It's cold in here. I only realise that once he's gone. There's no heating and no heater, and the walls are all glass – it's like an ice box. When I start to shiver, I move to the kitchen and put the kettle on again, for something to do with my hands even though it just boiled ten minutes ago and there's a coffee waiting for me next door. Wringing my wrists for a moment, I rifle through the cupboards for chocolate and biscuits and shortbread, something to serve up with the drinks.
When I turn around, Jemima's standing behind me, holding Faiza, who is playing with her mother's hijab. Adjusting the baby on her hip, she says, "Hey, I'm so sorry about Omar breaking your decoration. He's such a handsy little kid, I'm still working on getting him not to touch everything shiny."
"It's okay, Jemima, really," I say, cutting her off before she can apologise more. "He's a toddler, toddlers touch stuff; I'm not mad at him at all."
She looks at me, this sad look in her eyes, and I can't bear for her to think I'm some over-emotional weirdo who cries over a random decoration. There's a pressure building in my chest, telling me that I'll feel better if I just tell her the truth. So I do.
"My twins died five years ago, Robin and Noelle, and I had a couple of decorations as a kind of memorial to them, and the one that broke was Robin's," I say, trying to pack it into as succinct an explanation as possible. Jemima's face crumples in slow motion; tears spring to her eyes and I can almost see her imagining losing her children. "I'm not at all mad at Omar – he's a sweet little kid; you're so lucky – but it was a shock, and..." I trail off, gesturing to my red eyes, and give her a smile.
"Beth..." Her voice loses momentum. She starts shaking her head, on the cusp of tears herself. "I had no idea. I ... oh my goodness. I am so sorry. Oh, I can't even imagine." Now she is crying, which is almost enough to set me off again, but I grit my teeth and suck in a deep breath, and when Jemima comes over, her free arm outstretched, I allow her to hug me.
I'm not normally a tactile person, but it's strangely comforting to hug her. Like Casper, she's small and slim and she smells good, and her arm is surprisingly strong around me, and I feel like I'm melting. She holds on for almost a full minute, a stranger embracing me in my kitchen, and I don't feel the need to pull away.
When we do part, my gaze falls to Faiza, and with a lump in my throat I ask, "Can I hold her?"
"Of course, yes, of course you can," Jemima says, stumbling over her words. She passes her daughter to me and Faiza is unperturbed to be held by a stranger, her soft little body fitting against mine. She's sleepy, resting her head on my shoulder, and I realise I haven't held such a small child since I cradled my own daughters after they had taken their last breaths.
"I'm so sorry," she says again. "I didn't know. Casper never mentioned anything, not that it would be his place to say anything."
"He's been so great," I say, swaying with Faiza in my arms. I want this, so badly. "It was the fifth anniversary last week and it was a really shitty day for me, and Casper was amazing. He'd only been living with me for a couple of days and he had to deal with a total emotional breakdown, and he was brilliant."
"He's a great brother," Jemima murmurs, watching me with a soft smile on her lips. "He's had a rough go of it, and I was gutted when he told me that Eric broke up with him, even if I didn't like the guy. I just want him to be happy." She folds her arms and leans against the counter. "I know that for him, happy means being with someone he loves."
My heartbeat is returning to a normal pace, calmed by the weight of a tired one-year-old in my arms and her soft baby smell, all warm and relaxed and clean. Her eyes are drifting shut and I look down at her when I say, "You're very lucky to have an uncle like Cas."
"He's great with the kids," Jemima says, picking up one of the biscuits I've laid out and snapping it in half before she eats both pieces. "I know how much he wants to be a dad someday."
"He does?" My stomach tightens again, my just-relaxed pulse picks up a bit.
"More than anything. He doesn't talk about it much, 'cause I know he doesn't want to jinx it or anything, but I know. He's going to be an amazing dad, if he can, you know, push down his grinchy side." She lets out a quiet laugh and says, "Actually, that's not true. He'll be great even if he never learns to like or even tolerate Christmas."
I can see it now, Casper with kids, cradling his own children and begrudgingly stringing lights on a tree and grumpily wrapping presents. The thought puts a smile on my face.
"It seems like you're bringing him round, though. He seems really happy here. With you." She gives me a knowing look and reaches out to touch my elbow. "Come and watch the rest of Arthur Christmas with us." Touching her sleeping daughter's hair, she says, "I think you've made a new friend."
Rather than disturb Faiza by passing her back to her mother or lying her down in her pram for a nap, I keep hold of her when we head next door and I sit down next to Casper.
"Hey," he murmurs, his hand on my knee, "you okay? Feeling better?"
"Mmhmm."
I give him a smile and hold his niece close, and I rest my head on his shoulder as a post-crying wave of exhaustion hits. I feel his stubbled jaw against my forehead when he puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder, and a moment of butterflies fluttering in my chest gives way to a deep sense of something like peace.
*
my longest chapter to date for this story, sorry about that! I had a plan and was determined to get it done within one chapter as i keep ending up overspilling into two. i hope you liked this!