“Mummy,” Maisie whispered. “I made you a Christmas present. Would it be okay if I gave it to you now?”
The moment she asked, I knew that she knew.
“Of course.”
Maisie turned in bed and reached under her mattress, pulling out a small package wrapped in a scrap of cloth, which she handed to me.
Moving carefully, I unwrapped it.
“Quickly. Don’t dawdle,” Maisie told me with a laugh.
“All right,” I said then pulled out the present. Inside was a necklace made from buttons strung on a piece of twine.
“Oh, my goodness!” I exclaimed. “The jewels of Egypt!”
Maisie laughed. “No, Mummy, I made it.”
“You made this?”
“I did.”
“Why, it’s so beautiful.”
“Here, let me put it on you,” she said. We both sat up, and Maisie slipped the necklace over my head. “Perfect. I made it myself. Just like you, I make pretty things.”
“Yes, you do, my dearest. I love it very much. I’ll never take it off.”
“Never?”
“I promise.”
Sitting at the end of the bed, I touched my chest. Underneath the folds of my gown, I could feel the buttons. I had kept my promise to my daughter.
Maisie yawned tiredly.
“Why don’t you and kitten get some sleep? It’s been a very long day,” I told my daughter, settling her back into bed.
“Yes,” she said, already half-asleep. As it was, she slept most of the day these days. Even the simplest of exertions fatigued her. “Mummy, be sure to get the kitten some milk if she cries for it tonight.”
“Of course.” Rising, I tucked her in then placed a kiss on her head. “Goodnight, my love.”
“Mummy?”
“Yes?”
“Does… Does Father Christmas visit the little children in heaven?”
Beside me, the fairy gasped.
I watched through unshed tears as the younger version of myself forced a smile. “Of course. He finds good children wherever they may be.”
Maisie smiled. “I’m glad. Goodnight, Mummy. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said, kissing her once more. I turned then, and as I went, I saw that my hand was covering my mouth, holding back the sobs that wanted to escape my lips. But I never let her see me cry. Never. I wanted her to have nothing but love and light until her final days.
The younger version of me fled the room.
After the ghost of myself had left, I approached the bedside and looked down at my daughter. She had closed her eyes, her long lashes lying on her cheeks. I reached out to touch her, to push away a wild curl, but my hand passed through. When Maisie shivered, I pulled my hand away. My heart felt like it was being clenched in a vice.
“She really was such a pretty thing,” the fairy said, hovering over Maisie.
“She died overnight on Christmas Eve. She never saw Christmas morning.”
“Why did she die?” the fairy asked.
“Her father… He was supposed to be watching her. Maisie fell into a pond. She survived, but she took a fever. After the fever abated, she was so weak. It was like something was eating her up from the inside. She could barely get out of bed. She just slowly wasted away.”
“And her father?”
“It was his fault. He wasn’t watching her. The children were all ice-skating, but he was drinking and talking with the other men. He didn’t even know that she’d gone under the ice until the other children started screaming.”
“Where were you?”
“Working.”
“Working,” the fairy repeated.
I glared at her. “Don’t say it like that. My husband was a lazy creature. I had to work. He only had to watch her for two hours that day, keep her safe. There was a winter carnival. Marley and I were working. But I should have been there,” I whispered. “If I had been there, she never would have been on that thin ice.”
“Hmm,” the fairy mused.
“Sweet baby,” I whispered, looking at the tiny figure in her big bed. There was a wisp of a smile lingering on her lips. “My sweetest one. Mummy misses you so much,” I said, tears slipping down my cheeks.
From downstairs, I heard shouting and the sound of breaking glass. My voice and Tom’s rose to a terrible crescendo.
“Bloody hell, we’ll wake her.” I went to the door to listen. I didn’t remember Tom and I fighting that night. In the days before Maisie’s death, everything had been very, very silent.
“I know you blame me,” Tom shouted.
I stilled, feeling like someone had poured cold water over me.
No.
This wasn’t the Christmas Maisie died. It was Christmas the year following.
Gasping, I turned and looked back at the little bed.
The image behind me began to fade. The cheery glow of the candle, Maisie in her bed, everything a picture of softness and warmth began to dim as a greyish-blue pall began to take over the room.
“No. Maisie,” I said, stepping toward the bed.
Right before the darkness enveloped the entire scene, taking Maisie with it, my little girl sat up in her bed and looked right at me.
“Mummy,” she said with a smile, then she blew me a kiss.
“Maisie,” I whispered, reaching out for her. But then the image faded. A moment later, the scene was replaced by the dingy darkness of an empty bed. The whole world faded to hues of blueish grey.
“I do blame you. Of course, I blame you. You were drunk. You weren’t watching her. If you had been watching her, she never would have fallen into that water. You were supposed to look after her,” I screeched from below.
Tom.
Anger pulsing through my veins, I turned and headed downstairs.
“Ebbie,” the fairy called, fluttering along behind me.
“Don’t call me Ebbie.”
“It’s time to go now,” the fairy said,
“That son of a bitch. I want to see the look on his face one more time,” I said through gritted teeth.
I emerged into the kitchen in time to watch a haggard version of myself, my bun pulled out into wild strands, hurl a plate across the room at my husband. It was Christmas once more, but there was no sign of it anywhere in the house. No trimmings or treats to be found, just more of the terrible blue-grey pall that hung over the house.
“Ebbie,” Tom pleaded. “Please. I lost her too.”
“And who is to blame?”
“I…”
“You! It was your fault she died! You. You!”
“I… Me and the lads were making a plan. It seemed rude not to drink. It was just me and the boys talking. Ebbie, we’ve been through this a million times. I know I should have been paying more attention. Don’t you know I regret it every day? I was stupid. Stupid.”
I hurled another plate at him. “Our child is dead because you were stupid.”
“I’m confused,” the fairy said. “Why did you marry such a bad man?”
“He wasn’t bad when I married him. He was charming and fun. He did drink from time to time, but he was never lost in the bottle. Not at first. But after Maisie was born, he drank more and worked less.”
“And after Maisie died?”
“He drank every day. All day. And never worked. And then…”
“And then?”
I pointed back to the scene.
“To hell with you. To hell with you, Ebbie. I loved her too. I won’t stay here and listen to you blame me every day of my life,” Tom said then picked up a case that was sitting by the door.
“Where are you going?” I seethed.
“Away. Away from you,” he said, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.