Page 48 of Night So Silent
She gives a shake of her head, dismissing whatever thought is threatening to erupt. “What did you used to do for Christmas? Like, before…”
I lean back against the cushion, slinging my arm behind my head. “Well, first, you should know that Christmas is not on December 25th.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Russia, New Year’s Day is a much bigger holiday. Christmas is a few days later.”
“New Year’s,” she murmurs like she’s talking to herself.
“Think of it this way,” I continue, “in Russia, your Christmas tree would be a New Year tree.”
Barrett shakes the far-off look in her eye. “You must be some kind of religious, though,” she smiles, “you have St. Michael the Archangel slaying the devil tattooed across your back.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure how she knows this, but clearly, she does. “Mankind’s relationship with something bigger than himself is universal, as is the struggle between good and evil. Like Greek and Norse mythology, Judeo-Christian stories serve a higher purpose than merely religious control.”
Barrett waits a few moments before replying, a smile dancing behind her eyes. “Fair enough. I think a lot of people forget that they have the same struggles and they’re more connected to one another than they realize.” Then she lets out a sigh. “Alright, so what kinds of things did you do for New Year’s Day?”
“We didn’t have a large house, but every New Year, it was packed with friends and neighbors for dinner. My mother and her friends would cook and clean all day and we stayed up late into the next morning, eating and opening gifts. A few days later, we’d go into town to the bookshop and I was allowed to pick out as many books as I wanted. Then, on Christmas Eve, my mother would make a pot ofsolyanka, turn off the lights, and the entire house would be lit by candles. It felt like a tiny cathedral in the woods. And the rest of the night was spent reading, because everything had to be quiet.”
“That sounds amazing. Is that why you like reading?”
“Probably.”
“Why did everyone have to be quiet?”
“When I was a child, I asked my mother that question. She just gave me this look and said,do you want to wake up Baby Jesus?So, I shut the hell up from then on.”
Barrett lets out a snort and covers her mouth to stifle her laugh. “So, that’s it?” she chuckles. “What would happen if you woke up Baby Jesus?”
“I don’t know,” I muse. “But my mother seemed very adamant even though nobody in my family grew up celebrating Christmas.” I pause with a smirk. “But I suspect my mother just wanted some peace and quiet after all the celebrations.”
“I can’t imagine you being loud, even as a child,” Barrett says with a shake of her head.
I shoot her a look through hooded eyes. “You don’t have to yell and scream to be a loud person.”
“That’s true.” Barrett’s eyes wander across the room to the window.
“Sergei,” she suddenly finds her voice again, “I'm very set in my ways. I like my routines—not as much as Brett because she's a little extra, and I love that about her—but I like my space and I like the quiet until I want to talk to someone and then only for a little while because I talk all day as a therapist.”
She’s talking faster than normal, as if she’s trying to convince herself, rather than me, of what she’s saying. To anyone else, it would seem she’s rattling off random facts, but I let her continue because I know that’s what she needs to do. And once she’s finished, she just waits until I finally decide to break the silence.
“Then it's a good thing I don't always feel like talking to you, either,Printsessa.”
To anyone else, it might sound like an insult. But Barrett knows what it means. She’s spent the last few hours in silence, one of which staring into my eyes without a word. She’s been trying to find a reason to leave for days. But she belongs here, and she’s going to see that before the sun rises tomorrow morning.
She holds my eyes with her stormy gaze that I enjoy more than anything and then stands up, turning to walk away. But when she arrives at the edge of the sectional, she spins back around.
“I love you, Sergei.”
She says it sharply, like she’s pissed off about it. And as soon as she does, she immediately averts her eyes like her own words have caught her by surprise.
“Is that weird? It’s pretty weird.” She purses her lips, looking angrier by the second. “But I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise, after what you said to me this morning.” Her tone sounds downright accusatory now.
I smile up at her, thoroughly amused. “You should probably start diagnosing yourself, then.”
“With what? Stockholm Syndrome?” she spits back.
“I'm not Swedish.”
