PLAYBOY PRINCESS (gxg) ✓

11. Paris Young

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             THERE WAS A STORM COMING.

             Paris could see it in the way the clouds bunched and gathered, coiling with snow and energy. The white flakes fell harder, fiercer, coating the ground in a thick blanket that was almost up to her knees through the window.

             The snow had always been Paris's favourite part of Christmas. 

             "Paris, how are you doing? I miss you."

             "Mom," Paris sighed into the phone.

             "Don't Mom me like that. Are you coming over for Christmas, baby?"

             Paris traced the window with her fingertip, outlining the pine trees and the lake in the distance. 

            "No, Mom," she said. "You know that already. I have to—"

            "To take care of the kids, I know. You say the same thing every year."

            "And every year, the kids are still here."

            Her mother's voice crackled over the phone. "You do have a life outside of work, you know. Baby, we miss you at home. Me and Paul and Georgia."

           Paul—her stepfather. Georgia—their Alaskan malamute.

           "I know, Mom," Paris said. "Maybe I'll come home this weekend."

           "Oh, don't you dare," said her mother. "Have you looked outside lately? That's a blizzard coming. I don't want you anywhere near a car this week."

            "It probably won't be that bad," Paris soothed. "I can still—"

            "Baby, you won't be going out in that snow, and that's a promise. Don't even try it. But can I expect you home for New Year's Eve?"

            "Of course you can, Mom," Paris lied.

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           "HEY, MICHAEL." PARIS SAT DOWN ON THE SIDE OF HIS bed, looking over her chart. "Guess what?"

           "What?" Michael said in his familiar rasp.

           "You're cleared for the holidays," she said.

           "Wait, for real?" he said, sitting up. His eyes were vivid and too-bright. "You're gonna let me go home?"

           Paris nodded, trying to contain her smile.

           "You're healthy to go home for Hanukkah," she said. "All seven days. You got this, buddy."

           "No way," he said, grinning so hard the tube over his nose bent.

           "That's right. Your parents are flying in a week after December starts, and you'll be gone for the next seven days. How does that sound?"

           Michael slammed his book shut—A Brief History of Time. Stephen Hawking.

           "I . . . I can't believe it," he rasped. "Thank you so much, Paris." 

           This was her favourite part of the job.  

           Taking care of these kids meant she saw them in their worst moments. When their lungs were full of fluid and they couldn't breathe and they were spasming and vomiting and crying too hard to stop for hours.