Page 132 of Every Silent Lie
“I suppose so.”
Whack!
I see it coming this time, and I still jump out of my skin. “Mr. Percival, why are you beating the shit out of your turkey?”
“Loosening the skin, dear.”
“You can do that with your hand, just by slipping it up its?—”
“Jacksy?”
I snort as Mr. Percival drops the meat mallet and hobbles over to his stove, where a pot’s bubbling. “Try this,” he orders, luring me closer when I catch a whiff of whatever’s simmering.
“What is it?”
“Mulled wine, dear.” He ladles some into a mug and puts it in my hand. “Old Navy recipe.”
“That smells really strong.”
“Put some hairs on your chest, dear.”
“I don’t want any hairs on my chest.”
“Try it.”
Again, I’m pacifying him, not only because I’ve grown fond of the old boy, but because he’s got no one else to be his guinea pig and taste all these weird and wonderful Christmas delights. “Bottoms up,” I murmur, taking a bigger swig than I should. And coughing. “Christ.” I feel like an atomic bomb just went off in my head. I wince, hiss, my shoulders raising and tensing to get me through the swallow and then the horrific taste. I put a hand over my mouth, worried I’m about to bring it back up again. “What the hell is in that?”
“Brandy.”
“That’s gone straight to my head.” I put the cup down, the aftertaste kicking in, exploding in my mouth and burning my belly.
“You’ve not finished it.”
“I can’t finish it, Mr. Percival. I’ll be face first on the carpet.”
He chuckles, moving over to a chair and pouring himself a straight brandy. “Peckish? I made hog in the bog.”
I’m not going to even ask. “I need to get ready.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“Today’s a difficult day,” I say, reluctant. “A sad day.” I trip over my words, wondering why I’m even telling him this. “I guess I’m wondering if I should even be going.”
He hums, nursing his glass as he regards me. “What else will you do? Cry?”
“Probably,” I mumble, looking down at the bag in my hand. It was easy to be busy when I had Dec to keep me that way. Only ten minutes away from him, I’m questioning everything. Not him—never him, but . . . I don’t know. I just feel like I shouldn’t be smiling today.
“My dear Camryn, the cruellest stage of grief is coming to terms with the fact that you’re still alive and life is still happening when a huge part of you has died.”
I inhale subtly, taken aback. “How did you know?”
“Loss is a picture painted all over that beautiful face of yours.” He sips his drink, looking off somewhere, thoughtful momentarily before shaking himself back into the room. “We have two choices. Move forward or . . . well, the other doesn’t bear speaking about.”
“I’ve thought about it,” I admit. “On the darkest days, I thought about it a lot.”
“And what a tragedy it would be for the world to lose you. You’re still here for a reason. You’ll figure it out, and I have a feeling the man is helping you.”
“Dec.” I smile, small and with effort, and nod, as if accepting but not really sure if I can. “Thanks, Mr. Percival.” I back out, leaving his door open, and go to my apartment to get myself ready. I stop at the cabinet by the window and pick up the picture of Noah. “Mummy’s going out,” I tell him, and then I say no more, as if I’m waiting for him to tell me that it’s okay. That I can go out. That I can smile. That I can think about something other than the gut-wrenching agony his memory causes me every single day.
