AN: All I can say is, this story will be finished, I promise, hopefully sooner rather than later. Most likely my next post will be from Ecuador, where I'll be spending the next two years in the Peace Corps! I leave in one week. Wish me luck, and don't worry, I'll at least occasionally have internet access there. Expect another chapter in shorter time than it took for this one to come out.

As always, please review to let me know what you think. I read and appreciate every single word.


Chapter Thirty Two: The Anxious Christmas

"Here we are, Auntie V," Christine said as she pushed open the door with one foot and navigated the wheelchair inside, a shopping bag nestled under one arm. "Home sweet home, remember?"

"Of course I do, dear," V said, indomitable as always as she pushed herself out of her wheelchair and collapsed regally on the threadbare couch. "Now get me a cigarette, would you? They won't let me have any at the home and I'm just been dreaming about one for months."

Christine hesitated, then flashed a fake smile and went into the kitchen to find an old pack. She wanted to protest, to say 'Auntie V, you need to watch your health', but as she looked at the little woman, just a shell of what she once was, Christine couldn't deny her this one happiness.

Like the house, with its dusty, moth-eaten smell and white sheets over the tables and chairs, V had a cracked and neglected air about her. Her body was diminutively frail despite the nursing home's reassurances that she was getting enough to eat; her eyes were huge and owl-like in her face. At times, like now as Christine handed her a cigarette and helped her light it, she looked like a warped reflection of her old glamour and strength, but then the moment would pass and Christine couldn't recognize her at all.

"Why are all these white sheets over my furniture?" V asked, glancing around, her cigarette dangling from veined and wrinkled fingertips. She lifted it to her face and drew in deeply, the smoke wreathing her head in grey. "And where on earth is your father? He should be here by now."

"Father's been dead for four years now," Christine said, tucking a thin blanket around the old woman before tugging at the cloths draped like ghosts over the chairs. "And there are sheets here because you don't live here anymore. You live at the Home, remember? They take care of you there. You're here for Christmas with me, V. Isn't that nice?"

"But why is it still here?" V asked querulously. "If no one lives here then why is it just like it always was? You should sell it. It's bad luck to leave a house standing empty for too long. It invites spirits."

Christine balled up the sheets and tossed them in a corner, where they looked sad and grey, like the crumpled remnants of forts she would make as a child, the ones she used to hide under when she wanted to feel safe. "It's a house bought and paid for by a ghost," she said humorlessly. "I don't think you have to worry about other spirits moving in."

"Oh," V said vaguely, chewing absentmindedly at the end of her cigarette. "Good."

Christine dug in her shopping bag for a can of soda, which she cracked open and handed to the old woman with a straw. She popped in an old movie and dimmed the lights, reaching for a broom as the black-and-white images flickered on the screen. Sweeping furiously, she used the repetitive motion to try to block out the nerves in her stomach and the memories that skittered in front of her eyes. It didn't work; if anything it gave her thoughts a kind of scattered rhythm.

Swish sweep swish. The branch-like bristles moved across the floor, scooping dust into small piles.

Swish sweep sweep. Now Erik was standing in front of her again as she stammered out her excuses, looking at her with patient eyes as she squirmed under imagined scrutiny.

"It's just that, you know, she's old," Christine mumbled, twisting the gold ring around her finger. Her toes inside of her sneakers were scrunched up, her knees facing inward pathetically. "I don't know how much longer she'll be around, and it's Christmas…"

"Hush," Erik said, moving close to her and brushing her shoulder lightly with his fingertips. "You don't have to make such excuses. You come back to me; you wear my ring. I have no problem with you spending the holidays with your only relative. I don't celebrate much, you see; I often lock myself away for that day, composing. It makes the holiday easier to forget." The outline of his jaw under the mask twitched into what could have been a small, sad smile. "Do not worry. You will have no interferences from me on Christmas day."

Sweep sweep swish. The movement of the broom was like her heart as it pounded in her ears, blood rushing to her face, a ringing in her skull. "Really? I, ah, I guess…thank you."

She knew that she should say something sympathetic about Christmas, perhaps even offer to purchase him a present, but her lies were present in every beat of her heart (Swish swish sweep, the broom clunks on) and she couldn't fake the words. Had he decided to keep her there, in his home over the holidays, her whole plan would be lost, perhaps forever.

His hand came from her shoulder to her chin in one deft movement, drawing her face up to look at him. "Such anxiety; you won't even look me in the eye. Be aware, Christine, that I understand your need for human connection outside of myself. You have been so wonderful these past few weeks. I cannot deny you anything, you know that."

Swish sweep swish. Blood thundered into her face, making her flush with anger, but she forced her eyes to meet his yellow ones and nodded, acutely aware of his hand still resting on her chin.

"Do you understand, Christine?" He asked, like a child seeking assurance. "It is because I love you that you never have to be afraid. I will keep you happy."

She boldly raised her hand to her face and took his cold on in her own, cupping the long fingers with her small ones, lending him her warmth. "I know. Everything will be alright," she lied softly, and didn't dare raise her eyes to his joy.

Sweep sweep sweep swish swishswishsweep crack. Christine jerked herself out of her reverie and stared at the two broken pieces of the broom handle clasped in her sweaty palms.

"What was that sound?" V asked, half-turning in the dim light. Christine moved into her line of vision, sitting wearily next to her on the couch.

"Nothing V. Just the old broom breaking." Christine showed her the two splintered ends of woods in her hands, the long shattered fragments perfect for sliding under skin. "I'll throw it away before someone gets a splinter," she said, but before she could move V's gnarled fingers gripped her wrist with surprising strength, bringing her left hand up to eye level.

"What is this on your hand?" she asked, inspecting the plain gold ring. "Darling, did a man give this to you?" She grinned at Christine, her eyes suddenly bright and lucid. "Was it that nice Raoul boy? Oh, he always fancied you."

"It's from a friend," Christine snapped, yanking her arm out of the old lady's grip. "Just a stupid gift from a friend. Nothing important."

"If it's from a gentleman then it's certainly important," V said, with the air of a mother hen ruffling her feathers. "A man doesn't give a gift like this unless he plans to marry a girl."

Christine felt her face pale, even though the sentiment was not unexpected. She had pushed the frightening scenario out of her mind before, but when V said it like that all Christine could see was a vision of herself in some horrible white dress, with a veil shrouding her face like a corpse.

"It's from a friend," Christine repeated slowly. "Keep watching your movie, V. I'll be back in a moment."

She fairly ran to her childhood room, closing the door with a soft thump and a small cloud of dust before falling to her knees and pulling an old cardboard box out of the closet. Inside of it was an ancient jewelry box of her mother's, with inlaid stones of red and green and black. She dug through it, her fingers closing almost instantly on a slim silver chain.

Christine hesitated for a moment ('Am I cheating, somehow, the rules of this game that I am playing, rules I don't fully understand?') before tugging the gold band off of her finger and dropping it onto the chain; it hung as a small, spinning halo.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to it as it dangled in front of her, glinting like one of his yellow eyes, "but I will never marry."

She dropped the chain around her neck and tucked it under her clothes, where it lay tiny and cold against her heart.