Page 82 of Every Silent Lie

I swallow and pull my chair closer, forking a piece of penne and offering it. Her mouth drops open, her head still sunk into the pillow, and I pop it in, watching her chew slowly, her empty gaze never wavering from mine. I don’t tell her I love her. I don’t call her Mum. I say nothing that’ll spike a violent reaction. I just sit here, feeding her, happy to be simply Nurse. It’s almost . . . peaceful. The quiet. I take a deep breath, and for a moment, I can let the desperate blanket of sadness go. It’s momentary, but I take it.

She surprisingly manages a quarter of her bowl before she doesn’t open her mouth for me anymore. “Water?” I ask, offering her the straw. She wraps her lips around it, lips that used to never be without a red tint that would last all day long. Now, they’re thin and colourless. Lifeless. They don’t smile, they don’t purse coyly, they don’t smirk when she teases me. And they don’t speak the words I so long to hear.

Mum’s here, my little buttercup. It’s all going to be all right.

Because she’s not here anymore. And I’m scared all can never be alright again because there’s no longer a soul in my life who loves me unconditionally.

I swallow down the grief and wait until she’s dozed off again before I clear away the dishes and get my coat back on. I dip and kiss her forehead gently so I don’t wake and alarm her. “Love you, Mum.”

“Love you too, buttercup.”

I smile as she squeezes me to her chest, stroking circles across my back with her palm as she breathes into my neck. “Don’t you think I’m too old at thirty to be called buttercup, Mum?”

She snorts. “Never. Whether you’re four or forty, you’ll always be my little buttercup.”

“Okay,” I concede, feeling her hands move up to my hair and start combing through the strands.

“My buttercup,” she murmurs.

I close my eyes, thankful that my mum never breaks her promises . . . and always gives the best, most healing hugs.

Mr. Percival’s door is wide open when I let myself in the building, a racket coming from inside. I knock the wood and call out to him, but get no answer, which isn’t such a surprise given the noise. “Mr. Percival?” I call louder, treading through the gnomes flanking the hallway. “Mr. Percival, it’s Camryn.”

“Camryn?”

“Your door’s open.”

“I know, dear. Maureen opened it.”

I round the corner into the kitchen, the noise deafening, and find Mr. Percival at the table with a food blender whizzing around. I shudder. Fucking hell, it’s baltic in here. He sees me and smiles, flicking the switch so it drones to a gradual stop. “Making my stuffing, dear. Chopped nuts.”

Woolly gloves cover his hands, a scarf is wrapped a few times around his neck, and every button on his tweed coat is fastened, his cap on his head. I’m not Mr. Percival’s only spectator, either. The gnomes are all crowded round, watching. “Mr. Percival, it’s freezing in here.”

“The heating’s broken down, dear.”

“Have you called someone?”

“Yes, dear. An engineer will be here within six hours.” He fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out his watch. “It’s been three.”

“Right.” I wrap my arms around my body.

“It’s only the circuit board that serves the heaters, though, so we still have power.”

“Would you like to use my kitchen?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it doesn’t feel like Siberia.”

“You young folk.” He dusts off his gloves and pours his chopped nuts into a bowl. “Try camping out in the trenches for weeks on end, dear.”

“What?” I recoil. “Like, in the war?”

“World War Two, dear.”

“How old are you, Mr. Percival?”

“Ninety-nine, dear.”