Door Two

[winterdrake.livejournal.com]

I hid it right in the centre, carefully wrapped in tissue, threaded through with the stiff, snapping tape. I pushed the lot into a cardboard tube, and folded bright paper around it, twisting the ends into pineapple-tufts, securing them with a scrap of tape. One done. The important one. My message in a bottle.

*****

Christmas Day. I wake with a little shiver that begins in static sparks around my hair, flits down my spine, and stretches out through my toes. Warm. Comfortable. The astounding, lovely weight of Christmas waiting on the other side of my eyelids. My lazy arm sprawls towards him over the sheet, reaching to hug, to prod, to wake and share – then stops abruptly, surprised by cold and emptiness where there should have been warmth and weight. Some of the safety begins to drain away, running smoothly from my mind, leaving me exposed to the reality of the day. He’s not here.

Later, dressed and busy in the kitchen (cooking Christmas dinner even though there’s no-one here to share it), the sharp stab of loneliness has receded to a dull, persistent ache in the gut. I have the radio on for company, and the ancient, clear notes of the old carols spin and combine with the steam and warmth of the room, weaving a small spell of home and contentment, of certainty against the cold outside. I chop, scrape, stir, baste in time with the music and the easy, steady movement makes me think of him, and where he is, where every movement has this smoothed grace, this ease. I wonder what he’s doing now. I wonder if he’s thinking of Christmas, or if this is just another day. They promised us we’d be able to talk later, when the timing’s right. I hold my breath in longing, then realise that I will have to breathe before we speak, and it feels like defeat.

I lay the table. Festive cloth, the good cutlery, a single glass and the crackers that he made before he left. I remember his face as he gave them to me; how serious he looked, saying that they were part of him, and that meant that part of him would be here. Strange, that. He’s not usually so serious.

Dinner time. Everything ladled and poured onto plates and dishes. There’s far too much food; some of it will have to be thrown out, it’ll never keep until he’s home. I’ve left the radio on, it’s too silent without it, and the quiet, balanced tone of the BBC announcer forms a pleasant impression of company just out of sight. I sit down, slowly, and fill my glass. We always start Christmas dinner with a toast, and I frown, tapping the rim of the glass against my teeth, trying to think of something suitable. Ah…..“To the old year. Reach for the stars.” And may they protect you, love, lover, love…guard and guide you up there. I sigh, more with him, spinning endlessly in a technological tin can above the atmosphere, than down here, sitting at a table in an earth-bound house, an earth-bound body. I pick up my fork, and begin to eat.

The radio has moved on from the news. There’s a children’s serial beginning, full of witches and wizards. Cracker time. We always save them ‘til the end (I think it was meant to make us explode, when we were kids. If the amount of food didn’t do it, the anticipation for crackers – which were the prelude to presents – would). I pick up the first one (he numbered them – apparently it matters), and run my hands over the sparkly paper. It’s coming apart a bit at one end, and there’s too much tape. He never has been much good at making arty things. I smile at it, happy suddenly and very sure that, wherever he is and whatever needs fixing up there, he’s thinking of me now, right at this moment. I grip one end in each hand and pull, hard. Snap. Crack. The snapper goes off, and a tissue-wrapped lump flies out, bouncing dully on the table. I reach for it, intrigued, and scrabble my way through the thin paper, feeling hard edges get clearer as I go.

Finally, it sits in my hand. A ring, with a cylinder of paper threaded through it. The stones are diamonds, and of course I know what this must mean. My breath catches as I pull out the paper, unroll it on the table. Two words. Marry me. I laugh, and tears well in my eyes. Oh, lover, love.

“He wants to marry me!” I shout, yelling at the radio, just to be telling someone.

I laugh, and spin around. “Did you hear? He wants to marry me!”

And the radio replies.

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you news of an explosion aboard the International Space Station. Reports indicate that there are no survivors.