The snow on this tree was white – crystal white – like the fake stuff that is already on the pop-up trees from the supermarket. But it fell from the branches, landing with a thud on top of me, a great source of amusement to the kids.
‘Ready?’ the guide asks. The snowmobile revs its engine and begins and then with a tug the sled starts moving. It’s moving fast, like really fast. The kids are squealing, Jen is wooohooo-ing and me? I’m looking down at my family, as we power around bends, following the snowmobile, part of me desperately wanting to enjoy the moment, but as we fly forward, the magic turns into something else: fear. I’m suddenly terrified. What happens if there is a fault with the engine ahead of us? What if it bursts into flames, if we fly into a ball of fire, or swerve, the sled turning on its sides, the fear sending the huskies rabid, my family trapped while being ravaged? The squeals of joy continue as the sled picks up pace. My breath is coming fast, my hands gripping the handle; it seems to go on and on, the paws of the dogs pounding, the rush of the wind in my ears and ice in the air, the snow hanging from the trees; on and on the ride goes.
Eventually, as things do, our journey comes to an end. I step off and, in a few strides, my wife, my daughter and my son are in my arms. They’re safe; we’re all together; we’re all alive.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Jennifer
I can’t stop smiling; my cheeks are stuck, but they’re not frozen in place – I don’t think – I’m just happy. Ed disembarks the sled and pulls me and the kids into his arms; his body is shaking from the adrenaline that I can still feel hammering around my own. The kids are yelping and screeching about how amazing it was and asking if they can stroke the huskies.
‘Just a minute,’ Ed says into our coats, ‘I just want to remember this.’ I know exactly how he feels.
‘Kids . . . we’re going to take a memory picture, OK?’ I say.
‘A what?’ Oscar replies.
‘A memory picture, it’s where we all take one minute to take a picture, but a picture in our minds.’
‘You’re weird, Mummy,’ Hailey replies, taking off her glasses and rubbing the lenses with her mittens to clear the steam created by Ed’s embrace.
‘Well, I think Mummy is a genius,’ Ed replies. ‘You can’t smell and listen to a photo, can you?’
‘I s’pose. Can we stroke the doggies now?’ Oscar is impatient.
‘Just a minute, buddy. But first, memory picture. Are you ready? I’ll count three, two, one, and then you take the picture with your brains. Remember the smell, the sounds, the feel of your clothes, the . . .’
‘Hurry up, Daddy!’ Hailey interrupts.
‘OK, OK, ready? Three, two, one!’ We’re all silent for a moment. The guide has pulled out his phone and is taking a snapshot as we all sit there, Ed and I looking into each other’s eyes and the kids looking confused but happy, their noses red and their eyes glassy.
‘My memory picture is done, Daddy. NOW can we stroke the doggies?!’
‘OK, buddy, oof, off we get.’ Ed picks up Oscar, and takes hold of Hailey’s hand, shooting me a cheeky grin over his shoulder that tells me how lucky we are.
I jump.
Kerry is standing next to me. Her voice is loud in my ear; I can smell the hot chocolate vapour rising from her cup.
‘This is why I saved you.’
She leans in and kisses my cheek; the warmth of her lips stays with me for the rest of the day.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Jennifer
It’s Christmas morning. All around the world families have been arranging presents, cooking special meals, meeting up with loved ones, remembering the ones who are no longer here.
I don’t really remember last Christmas. I vaguely remember the kids opening presents, the smell of burnt potatoes as Ed tried to cook the dinner, the Queen’s speech that sounded so far away, Mum and Dad perched on the sofa. They were wearing brightly coloured paper hats from the Christmas crackers, the colours brash and insulting against their stark faces, both as blank and expressionless as my own.
But today has been different. Today, we’ve been up since half-five; Santa has been and gone; we’re home after our magical trip, tired but happy. The remains of Christmas lunch are lying bloated and tired on the kitchen