Page 172 of Every Silent Lie
He huffs out a laugh. “That’s fair, I suppose.”
Fair? Nothing about any of this is fair. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling bad for the guy. “I hope you work it out.”
“Funny,” he says, seeming to drift into thought. “I don’t.” He holds me by the tops of my arms. “If you need that reference, just shout.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, a little thrown. “Merry Christmas, Thomas.”
He laughs under his breath and leaves, closing the door behind him, and I lean against the counter, looking at the mess of glass across the kitchen. Somehow, I muster the energy to clean it up, trying not to let the bombshell of Dec’s hostile takeover of TF Shipping take up too much thinking space. I haven’t the capacity and, frankly, the loss of my job feels like such a minor blip in my life right now. Because I’ve lost Dec. I’ve lost Albi.
I’ve lost hope.
I look down at my hand as I flex it, wincing at my red skin. I have no first aid supplies. Nothing to cover it. “Fuck,” I whisper, reaching for my head and rubbing my sore scalp.
I can’t stay here. I grab my keys and head out, hearing Mr. Percival calling me as I go, but I can’t face him.
“Camryn!” The sound of his walking frame thumping the ground mixes with his calls, and I stop at the door, squeezing my eyes closed. He’ll take a tumble, and I’d never forgive myself. I have enough guilt to handle.
I face him and muster everything I have to smile. “Mr. Percival.”
“You in a rush?”
“Last-minute shopping.”
“Christ, Camryn, it’s Christmas Eve. You should be relaxing and looking forward to the big day.”
I haven’t got one person to buy for. Sad. And come to think of it, neither has Mr. Percival, not that I know of. He hasn’t mentioned anyone. I still don’t know who all that food is feeding.
“Will you give this to the little fella?” He holds out a model plane. A Spitfire. “He was so fascinated, and it was a joy to tell my stories to someone who was actually interested.”
I swallow and take the small plane. “Sure.”
“Everything okay, Camryn?”
I look at the old man, feeling the backs of my eyes stinging. He’s been a royal pain in my arse . . . and totally wonderful. I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and step into him, dropping a kiss on his cheek, hoping he hears my gratitude through that.
“Oh my, did I miss the mistletoe?” He looks up at the ceiling. “You’ll make old men blush if you go around knocking kisses on their cheeks like that, dear.”
I strain a smile, squeezing his arm, and head out, walking with no direction, slipping the Spitfire into my bag.
* * *
My walk leads me to the care home, but when I see my brother in Mum’s room, I hold back, not wanting to bump into him or answer his questions. Hear him tell me I look terrible. I get myself a coffee from the vending machine in the reception and go to the family room, sitting down and waiting. It won’t be for long. He never stays for long.
As predicted, he passes the room five minutes later, walking with pace. Because he has somewhere to be—a family to get home to for Christmas. Dragging myself up, I go to Mum’s room and sit with her in the dim light, curtains drawn, as she sleeps. Two hours pass. She doesn’t wake up, even though I wish she would and could be my person to talk to. I wouldn’t want to tell her that the happiness she saw in me has gone. I’d just like to hear her voice, even if she’s rambling about nurses stealing her money. I’d possibly tell her about Mr. Percival and how many stories he loves to tell to those who’ll listen.
But instead, I listen to the wind echoing outside and the various nurses going back and forth between the rooms, checking on their patients. It’s never completely silent. Unlike my mum.
After another hour of watching her sleeping, I finally accept that today she’s not going to wake up. I drop a kiss on her cheek and stand with effort. “See you tomorrow, Mum.”
See you tomorrow, buttercup.
I roughly wipe at my face, desperate to hear those words, today especially, before grabbing my bag and walking out.
I wander until it’s dark, or as dark as it can be when everything’s coated in white. I find myself outside the The Royal Constantine. I get a fleeting look of surprise as I pass through the lobby. Not because I’m here on Christmas Eve. But because I’m not in my usual office wear.
Julio’s standing behind the bar, the cloth he’s using freezing mid-swipe when he clocks me. “It’s Christmas Eve, Camryn,” he says, sighing, abandoning his task and tossing the cloth in the nearby sink. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking the last stool and shrugging off my coat, letting it drape the backrest.
