Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Mum, it’s me. Camryn,” I say, moving in, taking her hand and holding on tightly. Desperately. See me.
“I don’t know no Camryn.”
“Your daughter. I’m your little buttercup, Mum.”
Her hand comes at me so fast, I don’t have a chance to dodge her slap, and my head snaps to the side, my neck cricking. The sting is instant, the afterburn brutal. “Shit,” I whisper, releasing her and clenching my cheek. She’s weak, yes, but that slap was far from it.
“Get her out!” she shrieks. “I want Noah. Where’s my little Noah?”
I step away when the nurse moves back in, one of them armed with a needle. I can’t watch, so I turn my back on my mum, thankful that she settles after they administer a sedative to calm her down.
She hit me. My mum hit me.
No, it’s not your mum.
The confused, angry lady in that bed isn’t the beautiful, kind woman who raised me. I’m still grieving the loss of her to Alzheimer’s. “Let me check you over, Camryn,” Deirdre says, coming at me, concern drenching her face.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I release my cheek, feeling a wet warmth trickling down my skin.
The nurse hisses, taking my wrist and pulling it down to get a better look. “She’s caught you with her ring.”
“I’m okay.” I swoop up my bag and leave, the walls closing in again. I don’t need to bang on the door this time, as another visitor is coming through when I get there. I make it outside and take a moment, wiping my sore cheek with a tissue from my bag, hissing and wincing. Who is she? Get her out!
My heart breaks a little bit more as I fumble through my bag for my phone, texting my brother.
I can’t do this anymore. You have to come and help me.
My weak legs give way, and I lower to one of the steps, sliding my fingers into my hair. Clenching. I don’t know no Camryn. What hurts most is she’s right. I’m not her daughter. Not how she would have remembered her girl, if she could even remember. She doesn’t know me. I don’t even know myself anymore. Everything I’ve ever known, ever loved? It’s all gone. Predictably, resentment and anger rise and start to blend with my relentless grief.
I check the time; it’s just past seven.
A drink. I need a drink.
I clench the rail and drag myself up, my weary body protesting. But I don’t go to the bar. I hate myself for it, but I don’t go. Because today, oddly, I would hate myself more if I did.
And with that revelation bouncing around rapidly in my mind, I walk home, feeling the most alone I have since my life was torn apart.
As I turn up the path to the door of my building, I come to a startled stop, my lagging, tired mind trying to compute what I’m looking at. “Mr. Percival?” I say, tilting my head and dipping, seeing his snow boots sticking out from beneath the bottom of a Christmas tree.
That’s wedged in the doorway.
“Yes, dear?” he yells, his voice muffled.
“Are you okay?” What a daft question. He’s clearly not okay—the top half of his body’s inside the building with the top of the tree, his lower half hanging out the door with the bottom of it.
“I seem to have got myself stuck.”
“You don’t say,” I mumble, making my way up the path, something crunching under my heels. I look down, lifting each shoe, finding a blanket of pine needles paving the way. Did he actually drag this tree home from wherever he’s bought it? How? He can hardly hold himself up. I shake my head and assess the situation. This tree is worthy of Trafalgar Square, for Christ’s sake. Bending, looking through the busy branches, I try to figure out who to try and get out first—the tree or Mr. Percival. “Are you lying down?”
“I fell, dear. Or folded.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Only my ego, dear.”
I huff, dropping my bag and scanning up and down. “I’m going to have to push it through.”
“Okay, dear.”
“It might strip some of the branches.”
“Okay, dear. I’m starting to get cramp in my thigh. Would you mind hurrying things along?”
“Jesus Christ.” I push my hand through the foliage and take hold of the trunk, giving it a little wiggle. “Ready?”
He grunts, as do I when I push my weight into the tree, getting a face full of branches. “It’s really stuck,” I puff, leaning into it more, bracing myself for the moment it dislodges. “Okay down there?”
“I can see light.”
“But it’s dark.”
“The hallway lights. Keep pushing!”
“Fucking hell,” I grumble, kicking my heels off to get better stability. A loud crack sounds, and I’m suddenly stumbling forward. “Shit.” I release the tree and grab the doorframe, saving myself, as the tree shoots forward and Mr. Percival’s arms raise, fighting off the attack of branches.