“The snow will stay, yes?” Edmund says.
“Tonight is Christmas Eve. It is cold enough to last until at least Christmas Day.”
August fashions a loose snowball and flings it at Edmund, who yelps and ducks and dives for his own handful. I join in the game, and we continue down the lane, lobbing snow at each other and laughing.
How many times did I dream of moments like this? Trapped on this side of the stitch, watching children playing in the snow with their parents, and imagining August doing the same with Edmund, knowing he would, which was wonderful, but it nearly broke me with razor-sharp yearning. I would have been that parent, too. I would have thrown snowballs with my children and laughed and been silly in a way I have never been with anyone except August.
Now I have these moments. Endless ones. A half dozen in just the last twelve hours. Teaching my husband to drive a motor vehicle. Eating candy for dinner. Playing dreidel with my family. Caroling on a winter’s night. Sleeping in a haystack together. Throwing snowballs in the sunshine. We are having an adventure we shall remember forever.
Will I ever stop pausing to marvel at these moments? Stop freezing them for memories, my eyes prickling with joy? I’m sure the novelty will fade, just as that pang of remembered fear will fade, and that is not a bad thing.
This is my normal, and I only hope I never quite forget how much I wanted it. That doesn’t mean I’ll never allow myself to be cross or annoyed or frustrated with my family, no more than I’d never expect them to feel the same about me—we wouldn’t be human if we did not clash sometimes. It’s the ordinary moments like this that I hope will always hold their luster . . . while losing their pain of old grief and fear.
There is grief and fear. I woke up last night thinking I was alone in this world again, and that is far from the first time I’ve done so. I hate using the word trauma for what I experienced. It should be reserved for all those who have gone through so much worse. After all, I am healthy and whole, back living my privileged life with my wonderful family. To call what I went through trauma feels like stubbing my toe and declaring I need a week in bed.
I did more than stub my toe. Something in me is damaged. So very damaged. Perhaps it’s time to read whatever book Bronwyn slipped through for August. It is definitely time to acknowledge my trauma to him.
I am damaged. I’m healing, but I’m not whole. Not yet. And neither are you. I acknowledge both those things. I was trapped here, and you were left there, having no idea what became of me, fearing the worst, that your jealousy drove me away, either to my death or to some far off place where I could start again.
We continue playing our snowball game as we run along the road. We’re heading for the car, to try again getting it running, and if that is not possible, I have a note to leave in the windshield. Not that anyone is likely to presume such a gorgeous car has been abandoned. After a storm, they’ll understand what happened, but I will still take extra care, just as I did with the barn. These things belong to others, and I used them without permission, and so I will do my utmost to ensure there is no fallout from my actions.
“Uh, Rosie . . . ?” August says.
I stop, snowball in hand. “You surrender?”
“No, but is that not where we left Bronwyn’s car?”
I turn to follow his finger. When I see nothing but white snow, I shake my head. “It must be farther up.”
“No, here is where we stood last night to sing.”
He points to a trampled part of snow at the side. Just beyond it, tire marks head off the road.
The lane is no longer the pristine white of last night. Several cars have passed, now that it’s daylight and the storm is gone. I can still make out our footprints, yet there is another pair as well. The boots of someone who circled the car and then, if I am correct, climbed into the driver’s side.
A terrible thought strikes me.
“Did you—?”
I stop myself. I was about to ask whether he left the keys in the ignition, which sounds as if I am blaming him. I was the one who put them there. I am the one who understands that they must be removed before leaving a car.
I rephrase it carefully. “There were keys in the ignition. I don’t remember taking them out.”
He winces. “Because you were busy making sure everything was shut off. I saw the keys, and I meant to ask if we needed to take them. I did not.”
“Without the keys, we didn’t lock the doors, either. I am accustomed to new vehicles, which use a remote lock. This one requires the actual key. I left the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition on a very empty road.”
“Someone stole Aunt Bronwyn’s car?” Edmund’s eyes round.
“I think so,” I say. “Because I was not careful.”
“No,” August says. “Because I had just crashed during a snowstorm, and we were both far more concerned with getting our son to shelter than looking after an object that cannot perish from cold.”
I still sigh, slumping, and August pats my back.
“Merry Christmas, Bronwyn,” I mutter. “I borrowed your car, crashed and left it to be stolen.”
“I will fix this,” August says. “I have been looking for an excuse to magically disappear some of the ugliest paintings in Courtenay Hall. They shall travel through the stitch, where someone with money and no taste shall snatch them up at auction, and Bronwyn will get a new car.”
I bite my tongue against saying that does not change the fact we lost hers. I should not have borrowed it. I can come up with a dozen excuses why I thought it was acceptable, but it was not.
I will throw myself on her mercy and beg forgiveness. In recompense, besides replacing the car, I’ll stay a few extra days to help with baby Grace and let Bronwyn sleep. I may have missed most of Edmund’s early years, but I do remember how badly I missed sleep.
“What do we do now, Papa?” Edmund asks.
“We walk to Thorne Manor. Do you think you are up for it, Edmund?”
He straightens. “I am. It is not overly far.”
August and I exchange a look. It is at least five miles. If it were closer, we’d have walked back last night. Still, the sun takes the chill from the air. When Edmund tires, we’ll rest or carry him.
I peer down the road and brush off Bronwyn’s snowy gloves. “All right then. To Thorne Manor we go.”
11
We’ve made it only as far as the end of the road when Edmund spins, staring back the way we came. Then, without a word, he takes off at a run.
“Edmund!” I say.
We both race after him. He doesn’t go far before he stops, staring down the empty road.
“Edmund?” I say.
He glances back. “Do you not see him?”
“See who?”
He turns back to the road, his voice an awed whisper. “The pirate.”
I crouch beside Edmund as August does the same on his other side.
“He is walking this way, along the road,” Edmund says. “He has a sword. Papa, he has a sword.”
“A sword? Well then, he is indeed a pirate.”
“Only he does not look like a pirate from books,” Edmund says. “He walks like a soldier.”
“I bet he was a privateer,” I say.