Page 162 of Every Silent Lie
“Where’s heaven?”
“It’s where angels go,” Dec says, trying to save me the impending panic attack.
“He’s an angel?” Albi takes another look at the picture. “Where’s his wings?”
His innocence is something of true beauty. So precious. When Noah was alive, I battled with Dominic daily over protecting that innocence. Delaying for as long as possible having to inflict the cold, harsh reality of life on him. When my dad died, I insisted Noah shouldn’t be at his funeral. Dominic disagreed, saying we were wrapping him up in cotton wool. Yes, I was. I would have wrapped him up in cotton wool forever if I could. Protected him from all harm and cruelty of life. “That picture was before he got his wings,” I say to the little boy I’ve fallen in love with while he gazes at the love of my life. “He was here for a little while, but then he grew some wings and he had to go to heaven.”
“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.”
