Once Upon a Wardrobe(61)

“Whoa!” Dad interrupts and stands. He steps toward us, and I feel the problems brewing. This is the part where we’ll be in trouble. I’ll be sent to my room or lectured.

But Dad stuns us all. “Did you see a talking beaver or a faun or”—he bends closer to his son and whispers—“a white witch?”

If Dad grew wings and flapped about the room like a madman I would not have been more amazed. That’s when I see the book next to the flowered teapot and the folded green napkins: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

George’s book.

Our book.

And my notebook.

I had left it behind in the rush, and Mum and Dad had read my tight handwriting, the jumbled stories of Mr. Lewis’s life that tangled with the land of Narnia.

“You have written a most beautiful story.” Mum puts her hands on my shoulders and speaks, tears in her eyes. “The love you have for your brother will carry all of us through. What you have done for George is more than anyone could ask.”

Dad sits and motions for George, who crawls into his lap. “You are so brave,” he tells his son.

“You’ve been reading the story!” George says.

Mum and Dad look to each other and nod. Dad says, “Tell me everything about the castle. Everything.”

“It is wild and free and sits on the top of a green hill at the edge of a cliff, and . . .”

As George tells his story, Mum’s tears drip onto my notebook of Mr. Lewis’s life.





Twenty-Four

The Prowling Lion




I wake on Christmas Day feeling like I’ve barely slept. In the middle of the night, a terrifying fear swamped me. What if George didn’t make it to Christmas morning? What if, for George, it stayed winter and never Christmas? I found my way to George’s bedside, to the upright chair where I’ve been half-asleep ever since.

In dawn’s light, with the streaky pinks and reds striping the horizon and lighting George’s room, I know my fears are ridiculous. And also that George, even if he didn’t wake on Christmas morning, wouldn’t find himself in the icy wasteland of the White Witch.

I stretch and crank my neck, which is stuck to the right with a pain that shoots down my shoulder. George breathes in and out softly. The covers are up to his chin, and one arm has flopped out to reveal his flannel Christmas pajamas with lambs in Santa hats. I hear a rustling sound and look to see Dad standing in the doorway.

He’s already dressed and shaved clean, his face gleaming in the morning sun. He puts a finger over his lips for silence and nods for me to follow him to the kitchen.

We stand there, waiting on the kettle, fatigue like a heaviness in my head and shoulders. “Happy Christmas, Dad,” I say quietly. He slips his arm around me and pulls me close.

“Happy Christmas, my little one.”

He hasn’t called me that in so long that I feel myself a child who needs comforting. He lets me go, and I turn to see the fir tree with the silver tinsel and the presents piled underneath. They are wrapped in red and green. Some white with tinsel bows. Only a few, but enough to make me smile. Across the mantle of the fireplace are four stockings, once knitted by Grandma Devonshire. Somehow my parents, just as they do every year, have managed to hide the presents, then sneak them under the tree without me hearing a thing.

Dad’s voice comes wrapped in a cough. “When I read your notebook last night . . . What do any of these tales have to do with what George wants to know?”

I take a breath and step back while the kettle heats up and Mum and George sleep on.

“To people like Mr. Lewis, life isn’t a math equation. Everything he says seems to have layers and layers of meaning. George wanted me to ask just one question: Where did Narnia come from? All I was trying to do was answer him. But meanwhile, it changed me, Dad.” I pause.

“Megs, you’re doing everything you can, I know that . . .”

“George is going to die,” I say, shocking myself by saying it aloud. “I can’t do anything to save him. But I can tell him the stories that Mr. Lewis told me. If Mr. Lewis’s answer to a question is another story, who am I to argue?”

As if someone has startled him, Dad drops his tea, hot brown water flowing over the table, the teacup rattling to the wooden floors. He sets his face into his hands and begins to sob. His shoulders shake. His pants are soaked with tea unnoticed. His voice breaks the air. “I don’t want to lose him. I can’t fix it. I can’t work hard enough or pay enough . . .”

I place my arms around my dad and pull him close. “I know. I know,” I say as a knock startles us both and we look to the front door, confused.

“Santa?” Dad askes with a funny grin. He wipes the tears from his face, blows his nose with a loud snort into his handkerchief.

“Maybe?” I say and walk to the door in my nightgown, a flannel gown with flowers around the sleeve cuffs.

I regret this ensemble as I open the door to see Padraig standing there in a long black coat, his curls freckled with snow beneath a bright cherry-colored Santa hat. His cheeks are red and I am filled with delight. Pure delight, though simultaneously I wish I were dressed in my Christmas best with a hint of red lipstick.

“Padraig!” I grab my coat from the hook and slip it on before I step outside and close the door. “Why are you here?”