You are awake, sharply, suddenly and, looking around the room, for no discernable reason. You're always instantly alert when you wake; it's a habit your father installed in you and you've been unable to break yourself out of it. Mentally checking yourself, you freeze and look to see if you've woken her. No, she's quite asleep and by now you can tell by her breathing whether she's feigning it or not. That's good: it's a special day and you need to prepare.
It's a delicate exercise untangling your body from hers: moving your left leg out from between hers, unwrapping your left arm from around her back and lifting the pillow on which her head lies so you can retrieve your other arm from underneath. It almost pains you to lose the contact. You suspect you may be addicted to having skin contact with her: you can't go an hour awake without needing to touch her and stroke her and kiss her and you know it puzzles her. She doesn't understand how much you need her. You pull back the bed covers and shift gently away from her, out of bed and to your feet. A wall of cold hits you and you don a dark grey robe before walking to the window and sliding the curtains open.
Snow!
It's not exactly a surprise. It's been falling in magnificent flurries on and off for four days and the snow on the ground is over a foot high. The two snowmen you dragged her outside to build a few days ago are gradually getting more and more shapeless as fresh snow covers them. Aside from the obvious benefit of making your wife want to stay indoors with you rather than embrace her new freedoms, the snow only annoys you. You can't go running anymore: it's too slippery and you're not entirely sure that her reaction to a broken leg would be to take you to Murphy's clinic in Vancouver. She doesn't even know where your boat is hidden. It's bitterly cold and you've been getting through ridiculous amounts of firewood; central heating is expensive and you don't need it. You can't get to the mainland and fishing on these seas is impossible so meals recently have consisted of what fish stocks you've kept frozen and freshly-felled deer, which she wasn't happy about – until you threatened to revoke some of her privileges for being so ungrateful at which point she decided venison was her new favourite food.
You briefly consider spending the entire day under the blankets with Abby.
You wrap the robe tighter around yourself and put on slippers before padding downstairs to get the fire going. She'll appreciate it later when she comes down. Flames dance up from the white chunks of fire-lighter and the wood crackles as different pieces ignite. In truth it's become one of your favourite sounds, that crackling. It's home. Maybe you'll bring the blankets downstairs and you can lie on the rug together. You make a pot of coffee and get two mugs out of the cupboard, then toast eight slices of bread and discover how low on butter you are. Breakfast in bed for the two of you.
The living room is beautiful. There's a small fir tree you brought over from the mainland earlier this month in one corner, next to the television, and it's covered in golden baubles. You know angels are traditionally blonde but the angel you've put up there is dark haired like your own. She has explicitly requested no presents, saying that there's nothing you can give her that she wants and she couldn't give you anything in return, which is a lie because she's giving you the most wonderful amazing gift you've ever imagined. You can't stop thinking about it and you've barely stopped smiling for the past three weeks. Your wife is perfect and suddenly you can forgive the little habits she lapses into sometimes. You've bought her some things anyway: waterproof boots, warm winter-wear and lingerie to replace what you destroyed. And, of course, the rings you've been meaning to give her for ages. One stunning diamond for her and a gold band for each of you, along with gold neck chains for when either of you need to take them off.
Abby will love the rings.
You make coffee in the mugs, put everything on a tray and carry it upstairs, leaving it on the floor outside your bedroom. You turn back to lock up the second bedroom. You won't let her in there today. It was her prison once, before your new life; now it's more of a private room for her if she ever needs an hour or two alone. Her books are there and sometimes, when she's fully absorbed, you like to watch her read. You don't let her sleep there though and you've had to ban her from it completely several times for, to paraphrase your own words, spending too much time lying still, silent, on her back and focusing on something other than you when she's not reading. You call it ceiling gazing; it's her worst habit and a breach of her promises. You'd even prefer what she did originally: cry, fight and make painful-sounding threats involving her teeth. In the same vein, you are absolutely convinced there is no such thing as the headache that strikes ten minutes before you take her to bed. She's tried to pull that one on you twice: the first time, you pointed her in the direction of the aspirin; the second, you threatened to give her a real injury to complain about. Sometimes you struggle with the impulse to strike her when she won't play along, but you won't break your promises before she breaks hers. Although some days are more difficult than others in this respect.
You settle the tray on the table in your bedroom, discard the robe and slippers and get back into bed and god it feels good to have her warm skin pressed against yours. You used to worry that you'd get bored with her after a while but two and a half months in that hasn't happened at all. You still desire her as much as you did the first time you made love. Her body is still as gorgeous as it was the first time you undressed her, even though it's changing now. She's still as obliging as the day you carried her downstairs and made her stand outside in the rain and make her promises. She enjoys your stories, the silences are comfortable and you've learned to live around one another.
You run your fingers across her lips and softly move the hair she has lying across her face so you can see her properly. She looks so restful when she sleeps that you're tempted not to wake her. There is sleep in the corners of her eyes and her eyelashes are clumped slightly as they are every morning. You smile at her helplessness and flick your tongue across her cheek and forehead, then back down to her neck and collarbone. No – it's a special day and you want to see her eyes.
Abby, darling, wake up. Breakfast.
You grin widely as her eyelids flicker and she looks up at you with dazed eyes. You wish you'd closed the curtains again because the sunlight bouncing off the snow is making her eyes water. You press your lips to hers and pull her body against you. Your fingertips brush her arm and you feel her eyelashes fluttering against your face. Her lips are soft and compliant. The most perfect gift she can give you is growing in the bump between her hips. A child.
Merry Christmas, Abby.