“Your town is so jolly,” Padraig says.
George leans forward from the back seat. He’s just woken up and sees where we are. “We are almost home.”
“Yes,” I tell him. “And tonight is Christmas Eve.”
“You know, Padraig”—George touches Padraig’s arm—“in Narnia, it is always winter but never Christmas.”
“I know,” he says.
“But tomorrow,” George says, “we will have Christmas.”
Padraig puts the car in drive, and in a few moments we reach home. After he stops again I meet his beautiful eyes. “This was an amazing gift you gave us. I could never have done this without you.”
“Oh yes, you could have. You underestimate yourself.” He grins out the windshield, but I know the smile is for me. “But of course without me you wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun.”
I laugh and glance at my home. It is four in the afternoon. The sun is weak in the sky above a thin layer of icy clouds that can’t decide whether to snow or not.
“Padraig,” I say, “don’t come in, okay? Let me bear the brunt of however cross they might be. You can meet them another day when their faces might not be so red and angry.”
I climb out of the car and lean down in the open passenger door. “Thank you so much, Padraig.” The words get caught for a moment, and I have to clear my throat. “These two days were the most astonishing I’ve ever had. I really believe that to be true.”
He nods quickly, and I realize that if he speaks he, too, might cry. I close the door, then open the back door. George crawls out and into my arms, resting his head on my shoulder. I set his feet on the ground, and Padraig jumps out of the car. “Wait!”
Padraig comes to stand with us. He leans down and stares at George so hard I’m uncomfortable, but George isn’t. George gazes right back into Padraig’s eyes as straightforward as an arrow. “George,” says Padraig. “I want to tell you I am so happy to have met you. You are the kind of wise, curious, and clever man I would like to become when I grow up.”
George laughs. “But you’re already grown-up.”
“I am trying.” Padraig takes George’s face in his hands and kisses his forehead.
Then Padraig stands to face me. He smiles, brightly and clearly, sending wings of a thousand birds to fill the middle of me.
“Happy Christmas,” I say.
“Nollaig Shona Dhuit.” He returns the sentiment in Gaelic. I want to kiss him. It is a sudden and irrepressible desire, but I am sensible.
I merely smile. “We need to get inside,” I say. “Are you traveling back to Ireland today for Christmas or staying in Oxford?”
“Father and I are staying in Oxford until tomorrow afternoon, then we’re off to visit family. Though I will see you soon.” He leans again to George. “And you too, chara, you too.”
“What is chara?” George asks with a tilt of his head as he grasps the atlas to his chest.
“It means ‘friend’ in Irish. It is pronounced cara but spelled c-h-a-r-a.” He grins. “Friend.”
“I like it,” George says and laughs. “Chara, chara, chara.” He walks toward the front door and I follow.
Chara.
Friend.
I will not get seduced into a fantasy about who and what Padraig and I are. Chara is lovely and sweet, and I’m lucky to have even that with him.
Padraig drives away, and I know our adventure is over. Now I turn to my family.
It is enough. It must be enough.
George and I reach the door, and he sets his hand on the knob and then looks up at me. We both wonder silently what awaits us inside.
George opens the door.
Mum and Dad are sitting at the kitchen table. Between them is a plate of uneaten scones and a pot of tea. Mum has been crying; that is clear. Dad is holding her hand, and they both look to us as we walk in. Mum jumps up from the table and takes us both in her arms, hugs us close. “You’re home!”
“Mum!” George’s voice is muffled in coats and scarves and Mum’s embrace. “You’re hurting me,” he says, though laughing.
Mum lets go and looks at us both. George yanks off his scarf in the warm house, and then his mittens and coat, all the while talking as fast as a runaway train. “Mum, it was the jolliest adventure in all the world. The wild sea and the fairy folk of Ireland and a castle that had a kitchen that fell into the waves. There were seabirds and I have an atlas. Padraig’s aunt has a little house that looks like it’s in a fairy tale and—”
“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.