Page 119 of ICED
Lila’s door creaks open. I freeze for a second, listening. Soft footsteps pad toward the living room. I shift gently, easing Maya’s hand from my shirt. She stirs but doesn’t wake. I pull the covers back up to her chin and kiss her temple.
“I’ll get her,” I whisper.
I pad out into the living room, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Lila’s standing in front of the little hotel kitchenette in her pyjamas, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand. Her hair’s sticking up in all directions.
“Hi Bear,” she whispers.
“Hi, Jellybean,” I murmur, crouching down. “You sleep okay?”
She nods and launches herself into my arms. “You were really good last night. You hit that mean man and then scored.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have messed with Uncle Murphy.”
She presses her cheek to my shoulder. “You won.”
“We did. Big time. You were our good luck charm.”
She grins, still half-asleep. “I dreamed I was on the ice and you pushed me in my unicorn sled and I was zooming.”
“I’ll make that happen one day,” I say, and I mean it.
She peers past me toward the bedroom. “Is Mummy okay?”
“She’s still sleeping,” I say softly. “She was really brave last night.”
Lila rests her head on my shoulder again, quiet. Then, after a moment she asks, “Is she sad?”
My chest tightens. “She’s not sad right now, Jellybean. Just tired. You know when you carry something heavy for a really long time and then you finally get to put it down?”
She nods.
“That’s what she did last night. She put it down.”
Lila thinks about that. “Like my backpack after school.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Only she’s been carrying it for years.”
Her arms tighten around my neck.
“Let’s make her breakfast,” she says.
We cobble together a breakfast with what we’ve got. Instant oatmeal from the hotel mini-bar, bananas, a few mini muffins I snagged from Coach’s post-game snack stash. I make instant coffee. Lila arranges three spoons on a napkin “like a picnic.”
She draws a heart on the hotel notepad. Inside it, she writes in shaky letters,
I LOVE YOU MUMMY. BEAR TOO.
When Maya shuffles out in one of my oversized hoodies, blinking sleepily, Lila leaps off the sofa and runs to her.
“I made you breakfast,” she announces proudly. “Me and Bear. And a note.”
Maya drops to her knees and scoops her daughter into her arms. I see it hit her like a wave. The warmth, the normality, the way her daughter wraps around her like an anchor to the present.
She starts to cry. Soft, soundless tears.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Lila hugs her tighter. “Don’t cry, Mummy. We’re happy now.”
