December 2016 (part three of three)
Of course, the real Christmas miracle happened when she was clutched with insomnia and pacing the back porch in the light snow, trying to wear herself out, trying not to wake him. They'd gone down to the lake every day, forcing themselves to use those muscles, stretch those newly stitched ligaments, and coordinate limbs too-long curled in defense.
She'd had some good sleep since then. Full nights of actual rest. The other night she'd slept so hard that she'd woken with her mouth dried out, then she'd had to find a way to roll off her arm because of the pins and needles. Probably why she couldn't sleep tonight, because she was topped up now; her normal coffee-as-lifestyle had been too long the norm.
The wind picked up, howled. It wasn't that cold really. Above freezing, but the snow had compacted and wouldn't melt. There were tracks all through the yard, deer, raccoon, something cat-like, and Castle too, from this morning when he'd built his snowman.
The snowman was small but worthy, propped on the bottom step of the back deck, stick arms uplifted as if in wonder at the scene before them. The moon licked the snow and set a blue glow over the world, reflected on the cliff rocks, on the churning lake with its icy caps, on the snow layered over dark limbs.
Each breath was cleansing, pure. Cold. It helped somehow, though her muscles would cramp if she stayed out too long. Her fingers were already going numb from the wind, but the back and forth across the deck with its creaking boards made a pleasant music in time to the thump of snow sliding off a roof or tree limb somewhere: the night settling.
She didn't know why she hadn't come out here before. Why she had holed herself up in the dark cabin and refused to even look out the window. A version of Castle's ennui had infected her, or she'd infected him, not being able to get in touch with their family, blood and built, people who loved them but didn't know if this was a time of mourning or action. Just bewildered at their sudden disappearance.
That first and only phone call had been brutal on—
Kate froze in her tracks.
From the trees, still and waiting beside a scraggly blueberry bush, was a coyote. Brown fur mottled with red, striking against the snow with the moonlight illuminating the chatoyance in his eyes.
Her breath fogged the air; the coyote cocked its ears forward and watched her, more dog than wolf.
He looked like shadows on fire in the moonlight. He was waiting and patient, and a hunter, and from time to time he looked off at some small noise or movement, a controlled and laser-like focus, or lifted his nose in the air, sniffing, but his gaze always returned to her.
She didn't move, waiting there, fairly sure a coyote wouldn't attack a human but not entirely certain. She realized her fingers were twitching with muscle memory of a weapon but the conscious thought of her service piece made her flinch.
Which set off the coyote, and also her pain, causing one to run and the other to streak across her ribs.
The coyote disappeared. Kate sucked in a breath, pressed her hand under her breast to hold herself together.
In the night, somewhere past the trees, the coyote gave a blood-curling howl.
And from a ways away, the echo of an answer. And then another. Another. Another. Lifting into the air, call and response, call and response, coyotes finding each other despite the night.
That's when it came to her.
It didn't take much, just a thought-through plan and one of Castle's longer naps to enact it. The coffee man came rumbling up in his truck the very next day, shook Castle's hand on the back deck, Castle introducing them despite their having met.
But he didn't know that.
The coffee guy passed her the package as Castle turned back for the door, offering, of course, coffee and some of the very same sugar cookies he'd bought that day in the coffee house. The guy declined, drawing Castle's attention from Kate as she slipped her package inside the cabin, and then he did her another favor and asked Rick if he used to teach English grammar. His son had failed his exam; he was being given a chance to write a new term paper and turn it in. Would Castle be willing to look it over?
Castle played the elitist literature professor well, and Kate slipped the package into the leather recliner he never used because his feet dangled off the foot rest. She had to shove it down pretty forcefully, a pull on her ribs, but it felt good to work for it.
She came back out of the cabin with a mug for the coffee guy, his own brew, and he took a polite sip and nodded as Castle explained the difference between active and passive voice. If, at that point, coffee guy was playing along, she couldn't tell. If he was secretly a CIA agent sent here to watch them, well, he'd not have bought her Castle's gift in town.
She didn't care anymore.
When he had left and Castle was washing their meager dishes in the sink, Castle was the one to suggest they pick out a tree. She laughed at first, but the idea had struck him—she could see the way it had lit a fire in his eyes—and so after they'd dried the three mugs and one plate, one fork, he headed out back alone. She watched through the window as he disappeared at the same place the coyote had.
Castle returned with a sapling and its whole rootball wrapped in one of his flannel shirts. She dug out a soup tureen from a cabinet and he planted it inside, flannel and all, fingers in the dark soil. "Half frozen out there," he said.
They placed the sapling on top of the little bookshelf near the window—empty of books, holding only a couple of geometric art pieces made of wood. The sapling looked no worse for the wear, only a few needles had dropped, and Kate pressed a hand around the dirt to make sure it was damp enough. The ice would melt inside the cabin and give it some moisture.
"It's actually kind of magical," she smiled.
He looked so pleased with himself for providing that for her, for them, that she couldn't resist leaving a warm kiss to the corner of his mouth.
When Castle shuffled into the living room, he stopped by the tree first thing.
She saw the moment he caught the plastic bag tied up by its handles into a bow, the best she could do for wrapping it, and his head swiveled to hers.
She was just approaching him with two mugs of coffee, handing his over, when their eyes met. He looked devastated, and she didn't understand.
"Open it," she told him.
"It's Christmas Eve," he whispered. "Your family never did presents on Christmas Eve."
"Yours does though," she said, not sure where the grief was coming from. She tightened her grip on the metal camp mug. "Go on."
He swallowed roughly. "I didn't… get you anything."
She laughed, and it hurt, badly, but not the lack of a 'present'—only how disappointing it felt to laugh so well and yet be punished for it. "Rick. You got me coffee. Now, open it."
He touched a pine needle on the sapling and it sprang back, jovial, happy in its new home. She could strangle him for the delay.
Finally, setting the coffee mug aside, he picked up the convenience store plastic bag and worked the knot.
It wasn't wrapped. It was just a plastic bag with a packaged—
"It's a cell phone," he breathed. His eyes grew wide, he jerked as if to hide it, half turned, came back to look at her. "You…"
"Prepaid," she said. "So it's basically a burner phone. Tracfone is just cellular service, no internet, with 900 minutes."
"Kate," he said, and suddenly tears were streaking down his cheeks.
"It's a gift that keeps on giving," she tried to joke, but already felt herself dissolving. He was the one who grabbed her first, a rough hug, clutching the nape of her neck and the back of her sweatshirt, breathing roughly as he tried not to cry.
He sounded like the coyote.
She turned her face into his, felt his tears, warm, on her own cheeks. She held him while he recovered brokenly.
He called Alexis first, with Kate wedged into the couch at his hip, her forehead resting against his jaw to feel every word, and to hear his daughter's voice.
When it came, it was like that far off echo, call and response.
"Merry Christmas," she murmured towards the phone, towards all them, for all of them, for them.
There will be Christmas.
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