The sharp echo of a snow shovel grated Christine's ears from the kitchen. One lonely shovel being terribly industrious. When she peered out from the door, Sam's wool hat shifted quickly too and frow above a drift. A smile snuck across Christine's face.
Erik worked the little man very hard, and yet he'd been up to every task, never once complaining or shirking his work. He was responsible, polite, and yet mischievous in a charismatic way. I bet he gets into much more trouble than we all realize.
On a mischievous whim of her own, Christine grabbed a handful of snow and crouched low at the door. He'd yet to notice her and surprise would be her only advantage. She packed the snow tightly in her hands, the cold turning them a bright red.
She aimed and pulled her arm back and froze. Sam was singing. Low and to himself. A warm tenor. A hint of Erik's inflection in the words. It was not just any song, but the Swedish melody she'd hummed absently on occasion. She faltered, her heart melting at the sweet sound.
Christine fought against the undertow of emotion. This child was not hers. She could not presume to make him hers. And yet her heart clutched at the idea fiercely and would not release its grip.
Restless memories assaulted her vision: the sterile room, the lack of people, the doctor. 'I am sorry for your loss, my dear. You are very lucky to be alive.'
'What was it?'
'I'm sorry?'
'Was it a boy or girl?'
'It is better for grieving mothers not to—'
'Was my child a boy or girl?' She demanded.
'Boy.'
'My little boy.'
'You are focusing on the wrong thing. You are alive, though I doubt you will have any…'
An icy snowball struck Christine square in the shoulder knocking her out of the terrible memory. Her vision cleared and she saw Sam smiling at her, another snowball already in his hands. "Gotcha!" he hollered.
Christine peaked her eyebrow and made ready her attack. One snowball just wasn't going to do.
The warm sun had moved in the sky by the time Erik thrust open his second-floor window and yelled: "Christine! A jacket at least!"
She laughed up at him and threw him a kiss. She was warm and happy. Nothing else really mattered.
Sam, however, took the command with caution, looking over Christine was careful eyes.
"I'm warm, Sam. It will be fine."
"It's cold out here, Miss."
"That's just all the snow running down your jacket. I have better aim."
"Yes, but I have speed."
Sam met her at the kitchen stoop, now dry from the mid-day sun.
"Why are you doing all this work by yourself?"
"The other kids had other things to do. Hanna said to go make myself useful."
"You're very good at doing that." The boy smiled up at her, clearly happy with her praise.
Sitting down together they looked upon the bare trees blocking them from Phantasma. It was a strange, skeletal sight against the white snow. "What is it like? Seeing the world?" Sam asked, breathing into his hands.
"I haven't seen very much of it."
"But you have. You and Mr. Y. You've been to Paris and England and New York, and Mr. Y's been to Jerusalem and Greece, and Italy." Christine blinked at the onslaught of new information. "It must be amazing to see all the world."
"There are beautiful things in those places, yes."
"I knew it."
"There are beautiful things, but the world can be a very lonely place." The boy shivered and Christine wrapped her hands around him to keep him warm.
"But not here at Phantasma."
Christine smiled and repeated him in agreement. Phantasma was beautiful in its way and decidedly not lonely.
Sam stuffed his finger in the snow, carefully swooping cursive letters through the icy whiteness. He had become very good at the letters. "Sometimes I still miss my momma though." Her heart hurt for him. Of course he missed his parents. He had been old enough to remember them when they died. It was a kinship they shared. Loved ones lost.
"Mommas are important." She began mirroring his movements in the air before her. "It's good that you remember her. I don't remember my momma at all."
"Yours is gone too?"
"And my papa. But I remember him." Tears pooled at the edges of her eyes, as they always did when she talked about her much-loved father.
"So you never stop missing them?"
"No, mon cher, but you find you think about the loss less and the missing seems smaller."
"I would miss you. If you left, I would miss you."
"Why would I leave?"
"People leave. You almost left before. I would miss you. I wouldn't want you to go."
"And I would miss you too, Sam." Which is why I'll never leave.
In a rush of limbs, the small boy wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. She returned the hug just as tight. A fierce type of magic – new and wild –blossomed in her and bid her speak the words she'd trapped in her mind moments before, "Which is why I don't plan to go anywhere. I didn't before, even though Mr. Y commanded it, and I won't now. Will you stay here with me too? This works both ways, you know."
Christine felt his head nod against her.
"Good. Now let's seal this promise with coco."
"Hot chocolate?" He looked up at her with smiling excitement.
"No, mon poulet. I'm French. I can make you something much better than what you're thinking of." But, to be fair, Erik was in residence and a much better cook. "Has Mr. Y ever made you special warm coco?"
He shook his head no. Christine smiled and bid him rise with her to go into the kitchen. Thank God for small favors.
