“You’d do it anyway, Grandpa. You’re the softy at heart. That boy wouldn’t be in our house if you weren’t,” I said, thinking of what Aaron had told me.
He glanced at me. His expression revealed that he was caught between arguing and agreeing. Instead, he just drove on. To our surprise, Jimmy had returned on his day off and was there to help unload the tree
and help Grandpa set it up in the tree stand in the living room. While they did that, I went to the storage room and began bringing out the Christmas decorations and Willie’s electric trains and model village. Before we got started, My Faith announced lunch, and Dorian came down to tell us William was feeling better and she thought he might be up to watching or even helping in a small way to decorate the tree.
“What did he say about it?” I asked.
“Oh, I haven’t told him about it yet. I thought I would just get him down here and surprise him with it.” She gave Grandpa one of those conspiratorial glances and told me that Dr. Patrick had suggested it and asked her to take note of his reaction. “We’re not even sure he ever had a Christmas tree in his home,” she pointed out.
“Well, he should believe in Santa Claus,” I said, and nodded at my grandfather. “Not Saint Nick but Saint William.”
Dorian widened her eyes. They looked at each other, and Grandpa surprised me with a smile. I thought I had sounded sarcastic, but apparently, I didn’t know my own thinking anymore.
Grandpa brought in a ladder after lunch so one of us could place the angel at the top of the tree while Dorian went back up to get Count Piro dressed and into the chair to be brought downstairs. I spread all the decorations out carefully, trying to recall how we had each one placed on the tree last Christmas.
I heard the chair coming down, heard Dorian transferring him to the wheelchair waiting at the bottom, and then turned to the doorway to watch as she wheeled him into the living room. Grandpa stood there holding the angel in his hands. I stood up, thinking I would invite the boy over to attach some of the sparkling crystal balls to the lower branches. He could do that easily while in his wheelchair. He looked from me to Grandpa to the tree, and then his face began to tremble as if it was made of putty and he was being shaken.
It was clear that the tree was connected with a strong memory for him, and now the sight of it brought back some horror like a gust of wind slapping him in the face. He screamed what I thought sounded like “Carry!” and then his head jerked back, and the trembling in his face rippled through his body. Dorian looked shocked, actually stunned, and for a moment, I wondered if she could do anything.
“What . . .” Grandpa cried.
Dorian quickly turned Count Piro’s wheelchair and pushed him out of the room and back toward the stairway. Grandpa and I followed. Before she reached the stairway with him, his head fell to the side. She paused and felt for his pulse. I knew Grandpa was holding his breath like I was while we watched Dorian examine him.
“He’s passed out from the hyperventilating,” she said. She started to lift him out of the wheelchair. Grandpa shot forward and scooped him into his arms, and then, like carrying a baby, he started up the stairs, Dorian following.
By now, everyone in the house was aware that something terrible had happened. Myra and My Faith came rushing down the hallway. One of the maids appeared behind them. I stood on the bottom step and watched Grandpa and Dorian move up quickly, rushing the boy to his room.
“What happened?” Myra asked me.
“I don’t know. We thought it would be nice for him to see us doing the tree and maybe getting him to participate, but when he saw it, he had some kind of emotional crisis,” I said.
“Poor child,” My Faith said.
No one moved. We just stared at the top of the stairway.
Grandpa finally appeared. “We’re calling Dr. Friedman and Dr. Patrick,” he said as he descended. “He’s come to. He’s all right for now.” Everyone stepped back as he turned and headed for his office.
“Just the sight of a Christmas tree did that,” Myra muttered.
“He shouted something, but I didn’t really understand it.”
“What?” My Faith asked.
“It sounded like ‘carry’ . . . maybe he meant carry him away. What’s for sure, I think, is it reminded him of his last Christmas, maybe, or every Christmas. Whatever, it wasn’t something nice,” I said.
“That poor child, so tormented. He needs plenty of tender loving care,” My Faith said.
“Maybe too much,” I muttered, but neither of them heard me. I returned to the living room and just sat looking at the naked tree and the decorations on the floor. Grandpa had put the angel on his chair when he rushed out to follow Dorian. It looked like it was staring at me. So? I could hear it asking. Do you want to trick him into telling you everything so you can get rid of him faster and send him back to whatever horror he came from? It looks easy to do now.
I barely did anything with the tree. Instead, I spent most of the remainder of the afternoon setting up Willie’s electric train set, imagining him beside me as I put the little village together and placed the toy people where I thought he would have liked them to be. While I was working, Dr. Friedman and Dr. Patrick arrived and went upstairs. I heard them all gather in Grandpa’s office later. I didn’t ask any questions or try to be a part of it. I felt myself trembling a little. Did this mean they were going to send him back to the hospital or to some mental clinic? Had they discovered more, and would the police be called?
I imagined them arriving, followed by an ambulance, perhaps, or some vehicle to take him away. The silence that would follow would be deafening. Dorian Camden would pack her bags and be off. The emptiness in the house that I knew Grandpa feared the most would settle in, and those shadows would deepen and darken and come rushing under doors and through windows and rising through the floors to create cobwebs of sorrow and mourning. Whatever energy had returned to the house—to Myra and My Faith and all the servants—would slip away. What I had wanted from the start would happen.
We would all return to mourning Willie.
We would hate the mornings and resist the evenings and sleep.
We would sob through our days and face the winter with only expectations of cold and dreariness. The jingle of bells, the sound of a child’s laughter, and joy with the falling snow would be only painful memories. The protective castle walls that Willie and I had imagined around our grandfather’s luxurious home would crumble. It would become more like living in a museum. I would live for the day when I could leave.