Christmas With You

7. We Need A Little Christmas

After that, the words flood from my mouth like water from a dam.  I tell him everything, everything I can remember and all the details I've had to fill in with what I've been told.  I tell him how, being only five years old when it happened, all I can remember of Gabriel is the reddish-brown colour of his hair, the way he used to say goodnight to me every night after Dad told me my bedtime story, the way he liked to make me laugh.  Those three things are all I know of the brother I lost.

Cameron sits calmly on the bench opposite Gabriel's grave as I recount everything I know; that it was Christmas eve, and my parents had been planning to take us up to a shop in London to meet 'Father Christmas'.  At twelve years old, I doubt Gabriel would have been bothered; I doubt he would have believed in Father Christmas by then.  According to what my Aunt Lizzie tells me though, he loved me.  The only reason he insisted on coming was to look after me.  Of course, that only makes me feel guilty for what happened.

Since I had been in Reception at the time, I only went to school for half a day - Mum usually would collect me and stay home for the rest of the day, or she would drop me at the creche at work for the remainder of her shift.  So, Mum arranged to meet Dad and Gabriel (who had been at school for the full day) in London.  As you can probably guess, that never happened.  While we waited for them, Mum tried to convince me to go in to see Santa without them, but I refused adamantly.  I wanted to go in when Gabriel got there, apparently.  Two hours later, Mum got the phone call from the hospital.  

When I get to this part of the story, it takes a while to get my words out; speaking is a lot more challenging when you're sobbing.

On their way to the train station, Dad and Gabriel had been intercepted by a driver who had evidently had a little too much eggnog and mulled wine; his car collided with the passenger side of Dad's Mazda - Gabriel's side.  The medics did everything they could to keep my brother alive, but his heart stopped a few minutes after midnight.

Both of Dad's legs were damaged, but after several months of physiotherapy, it became a lot easier for him to walk.  Of course, it never gets any easier for any of us at this time of year, remembering the twelve year old boy that died on Christmas Day.

I'm crying.  How can I not be?  The tears cascade down my face and my breathing is panicked and irregular.  I'm dimly aware of Cameron sitting next to me, but my grief is greater than my mortification at this moment in time; I hug my knees to my chest.  My tears are soaking through my leggings, but I couldn't care less.  What feels like hours later, I realise that Cameron's arm is gently rubbing my back.  Drying my eyes as best as I can, I sit up, offering him a shaky smile.  Wordlessly, he envelopes me in his arms, pulling me towards him.

Surprisingly, it's me who disengages the hug.  "Come on," I prompt, dragging him with me towards my brother's grave.  I reach for Cameron's bag, emptying the contents onto the snowy ground: baubles, tinsel, holly and more tumbles out.

"What are you doing?" he asks as I wind the tinsel I grabbed earlier around the headstone.

"This is the first proper Christmas I've had since Gabriel died," I inform him.  "I'm not letting him miss out on it too."