Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I hold onto Anya’s elbow as I lead her to the door, making sure she doesn’t slip, and knock with the big rapper. Christ only knows why they don’t use a bell.
Bertrand is on leave until after New Year. I know that even before an unfamiliar nurse opens the door. I keep tabs on Mary and on the comings and goings at the center.
“Hi, Eugenie,” Anya says. “Merry Christmas.”
“To you too, love.” Eugenie steps aside. “Come on in. It’s cold.” When we’ve entered, she closes the door. “Are you visiting today?”
Visiting hours don’t apply on Christmas. Family can visit all day long.
Anya points at the basket. “I came to drop this off.”
“How lovely.” Eugenie smiles. “Can I take that for you?”
I hand her the basket.
“Did she, uh, ask about me?” Anya asks.
“No, hon.” Eugenie places a hand on Anya’s arm. “She didn’t want to call anyone.”
Anya nods, working her bottom lip between her teeth.
Eugenie drops her arm to her side and says in a bright voice, “Cook prepared a lovely Christmas meal. Mary cleaned her plate and even asked for seconds.”
Anya nods again. Her mouth curves upward, but it’s a poor attempt at smiling.
“Would you like to leave a message?” Eugenie asks with a sympathetic pout.
“Please tell her I say Merry Christmas.”
“Will do, love.”
“And that she knows how to get hold of me,” Anya adds quickly.
“Yes, hon.” Eugenie pats Anya’s shoulder. “We always make sure she knows that.”
I remain quiet throughout the exchange, but inside, I’m furious with Mary Brennan for not trying harder for Anya and most of all for herself. It’s the same old anger that festers when I drive past my childhood house and see my father bent and broken, struggling to make ends meet and mourning a son who’s still alive.
“Come,” I say, turning Anya gently toward the door. “Let’s get you home to rest.”
I meet the nurse’s gaze over Anya’s head. An unspoken message passes between us. The almost unnoticeable shake of her head confirms there’s no change and no improvement. Anya keeps up the monthly appointments with her mother’s psychologist, but the feedback is always the same. No progress.
Mary is punishing her daughter and spiting herself. I’m not sure she even knows why. Some people are naturally destructive. And as long as that’s the case, I don’t want her anywhere near Anya’s baby.
Anya doesn’t say much in the car. As always, she’s quiet. At home, I give her space. While she has a shower, I take the huge gift bag that I kept in one of the guest bedrooms to the nursery. There are two boxes inside. The big one is half my size. It’s wrapped in colorful paper with pictures of toy soldiers, teddy bears, and trains.
I pose it on the floor, rip off the paper and the tape sealing it, and open the flaps. Carefully, I lift out the battery-operated red sports car. He won’t be able to drive it until he’s three or four, but the car comes with a push handle that attaches to the back so you can override the battery. I can strap him in and push him around the neighborhood on sunny days. We can go fast down the hill, as fast as is safe, and feel the wind in our hair. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll hear that joyous laughter that only a child can give. We never laugh like that again when we reach a certain age.
A smile stretches my lips as I caress the fine upholstery and the sleek hood. It’s never too early to give him a taste of fast cars. When he’s older, I’ll teach him everything I know about engines, everything my father taught me and the extras I learned myself. I’ll teach him how to drive as soon as he proves himself capable, and if he’s anything like his mother, he’ll be a natural.
I push the car into the corner and tackle the smaller box, which is more appropriate for the baby’s age. It holds a big panda bear that plays a soothing nursery rhyme when you push the button on his stomach. I walk to the shelves that are crammed with soft toys representing every animal Noah ever put in his ark and look for space. I push a zebra and a giraffe closer together and put the bear next to the sea lion.
Leaning an elbow on the shelf, I absent-mindedly rub the furry bear ear. It’s soft between my fingers. “Happy first Christmas, Baby.”
“That’s sweet.”
I turn to find Anya standing on the threshold with her shoulder braced on the door frame and a small smile on her lips. She changed into leggings, a loose sweater with a reindeer printed on the front, and fluffy socks.
I shrug, a little awkward at being caught out. “You won’t say that when you see the other gift.”