Summer Snow (27 page)

Humiliated, I quickly undid the strings and pulled the piece of fabric over my head. I hustled into the car and yanked the door shut. “Thanks,” I said shyly. “I was going to go to the bakery and then call for a ride later, but this is more convenient.”

“Good idea,” Michael shot back, driving out of the parking lot. “The bakery, I mean. Still want to go?”

Too much information
, I thought, wishing I had kept my mouth shut. He probably thought that the last thing I needed was a baked goodie. “No,” I demurred.

Michael stopped in front of Lily's anyway.

I lunged for my purse and was out the door before he had a chance to undo his seat belt. “If you're driving, this is my treat. Don't move.”

He put both hands on the steering wheel as if he had been warned, but he seemed pleased.

It was inexpressibly strange to be surrounded by the smell of baking bread in Lily's as I picked out a snack for Michael as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I didn't know what he liked, so I bought a slice of lemon-blueberry bread and one of cinnamon coffee cake as well as two strawberry lemonades in Coke cups. The cashier asked me if I wanted the strawberries that usually adorned the glasses of Lily's hand-squeezed drinks, but I declined. Somehow strawberries made a drive home seem like a date.

Michael happily chose the cinnamon coffee cake and then made a U-turn in the middle of the street to head south out of town. “I promised to drop something off for my brother, and he was expecting me over a half hour ago,” he said around a mouthful of coffee cake. “But after that I'll take you wherever you need to go, okay?”

I almost replied, “Take as long as you need,” but I caught myself in time. Somehow that sounded smarmy, desperate. Instead I said, “Deal.”

Talking to Michael was like walking in sand: it was easy and comfortable, even calming somehow. At first I tried to guard my answers, think about what I was saying before I let words pass my lips, but there was nothing to fear in his questions. His affability was sincere and I lost myself in it.

I didn't notice how far we had come until Michael drove down the long driveway of a farm that was over ten minutes south of town. There was a small huddle of people around an extended-cab pickup beside the barn, and Michael waved at them as he yanked hard on the rusty parking break. “Back in a sec. If the brake doesn't hold, you do know how to drive a stick shift, right?” He winked. Reaching into the backseat, he grabbed what was obviously a tractor part and let himself out of the car.

When Michael was gone, I came to as if rousing myself from a deep sleep. Late-afternoon drives down country roads? Cake and conversation? What was I thinking? Or, more accurately, what was I hoping for? What good could come from chasing impossible dreams down dead-end roads? I liked Michael. I liked him too much to be satisfied with the occasional ingenuous encounter. I didn't need an intermittent friend or another reason to stay up at night. I needed answers, help, a little understanding. I needed a savior. Incredible as he was, Michael didn't seem the superhero type to me.

“I want to make one more stop,” Michael announced, sliding back behind the wheel only moments later. I could hardly complain—it was his car after all. But some of the magic of the afternoon had worn off for me, and Michael noticed my hesitation. He elbowed me with a conspiratorial smile. “You'll like it. I promise. It's a season thing.”

I was utterly bewildered by his proclamation and not much in the mood for surprises, but I participated in friendly chitchat almost automatically as we drove back toward Mason.

“Are you in a rush?” Michael asked, though he had already gotten me to agree to his extra pit stop.

I shook my head.

“Good, 'cause this is so cool. It only happens once a year for a couple of days.”

My interest was piqued, but he wouldn't answer any questions about his subterfuge, and before long our destination was revealed when Michael turned onto the tree-lined road that led to the gravel pit. It looked like an entirely different place from the last time I had overlooked the small lake, but that didn't stop my stomach from lurching painfully when I realized where we were going. Though the verdant swatch of wooded terrain was barely recognizable as the barren wasteland it had been only months ago, in my mind's eye I could still see Janice and Simon curled up in her car. The thought made my vision blur.

“It's the perfect day for it,” Michael assured me as he cut the engine.

We stepped out of the car wordlessly, and immediately the warm June air slid around me. It seemed a little too close for comfort, like an unwelcome embrace, and I pushed up my long sleeves wishing that I were wearing shorts.

“The perfect time of day,” Michael continued, watching the sky. He turned away from me and stretched in the sun-soaked shade of an immense tree as if we had been driving for hours. Light fanned through the flutter of leaves and cast wavering lines of radiance across his skin, his dark hair. I realized that I was staring and looked quickly away.

“You are about to witness a once-a-year phenomenon, Julia. Maybe even once-in-a-lifetime if the temperature and wind and lighting are just right.”

Michael's excitement was endearing, and when he spun around to grin at me, I tried to grin back, pushing the blackened remnants of bad memories out of my mind. He was right—it was a beautiful day. And though I didn't know what he had planned, there was no reason for me not to enjoy it. When he motioned me to follow, I willingly trailed him single file across the parking lot, down a small hill, and through a copse of lithe trees. Within moments we emerged at a short precipice above the lake, and Michael spread out a hand to encompass it as if to say,
Take it in.

The sun was sinking on the horizon, and it bathed the lake in golden light that made the surface of the water glitter with an ethereal iridescence. I had to squint to look at it. Even more impressive than the play of light on water was the airy show above it. Dancing and buoyant on the exhalation of a soft wind were thousands upon thousands of cottony snowflakes. They spun and floated and fell only to be swept up and away before descending once more to flirt with the coolness below. After a pause to admire their reflection in the lake, the wisps of white settled down gently to glide along the glistening wetness. It was indescribable.

And it took me a moment to understand what was happening: the cottonwoods were shedding puffs of down in an impressive display all over the tranquil lake. I had never seen anything like it. Summer snow.

“I feel like I'm in a fairy tale,” I breathed. A sense of sudden and acute self-awareness told me that I should feel embarrassed for saying something so silly, and yet I didn't. Michael had brought me here; he obviously felt something akin to what I was experiencing amid the torrent of white. He didn't say anything.

Evening was approaching, and there were pockets of coolness in the air. A gust of wind rose over the knoll behind us, and in an instant the atmosphere changed. Without warning, a chill shivered down my spine, and across the lake the trees responded in kind: they shuddered and trembled, nodding to the current in graceful submission. For a moment the shower of cotton swept into a frenzy of stormlike proportions, and my breath caught in my throat. It was so beautiful. It was so unexpected and bright.

Hopeful somehow.

Michael must have turned to regard me, and he witnessed firsthand the affected look on my face. I felt him touch my arm in an almost paternal gesture, and just as quickly as his fingers made contact with my skin, I felt them withdraw. In the corner of my vision I could see him bury his hands deep into his pockets. I blinked and held my eyes closed for the space of one deep breath, watching the waltz of white and gold on the backs of my eyelids. Then, smiling, I tried to focus my attention on Michael. I wanted to say something to dispel the crystalline quality of the moment, but nothing seemed right.

“You're going to be okay, you know.” His voice came out of nowhere, and though I didn't know exactly what he meant, something inside me clutched at those words and pulled them close as if he had offered me a talisman.

Really? Do you really think so
? I felt an almost reckless hunger to hear him say more. What did Michael know about my situation? What comfort could he possibly offer me to soothe the ache of Janice and Simon? the baby? all my unanswered questions? Yet there was something wise in his statement, some nugget of truth that felt real and definable. I clung to it.

And then, though he had given me enough, though he had helped me forget for a while, shown me beauty, even spoken truth over my life, Michael opened his mouth again. “You're not alone.”

It was what I longed to hear.

Possibility

I
HAD HEARD IT BEFORE.

From Grandma, from Mrs. Walker, and even from Janice:
“You'll be okay. It's fine. Everything is going to be all right. This too shall pass.”
But to hear it from Michael's lips—
“You're not alone”
—was incalculably different.

From the moment I knew I was pregnant, a gap had opened in the earth. It was a wide, bottomless fissure that slashed through the center of everything and stranded me on unstable ground. It left me wandering, unbalanced. Alone. And Michael reached for me. He didn't have to do it—he wasn't bound to me by genetic code, history, or obligation—and yet he extended an arm, a bridge of blood and bone. I took it.

When Michael finally drove me home, it was nearly six thirty and the house was in a bit of an uproar about my alleged disappearance. But my face had changed somehow—I could feel it—and though Grandma looked like she wanted to berate me for being late, she simply smiled a mystified little smile that slowly took on a decidedly pleased edge.

“Where have you been?” Grandma rose from the supper table as if to come to me, maybe take me in her arms, but the legs of her chair caught and she was trapped in a half-standing position.

“I'm a big girl,” I assured her with a laugh. “A friend drove me home and we got sidetracked. No big deal.”

Grandma looked on the verge of demanding to know more, but then she shot a bemused look at Janice and sank back into her seat. “Well, supper is cold.”

“I'm sorry,” I said with all sincerity as I took my spot in front of an empty plate. “I should have called. We just lost track of time.”

Maintaining a schedule had been a nearly impossible endeavor back in the days when Thomas and I were two sides of the same coin. But it had been a long time since I last had to apologize for causing my grandmother to worry about my whereabouts. Though I didn't agree with it, I certainly couldn't blame her for her apprehension, and already any annoyance at my lack of consideration was being quickly replaced in her demeanor by a rare satisfaction that I had been out with a friend.

“You should have a time-out,” Simon scolded, pointing his fork at me as though provoked.

“I'm kind of old for time-outs,” I told him. “Besides, when I was your age I didn't get time-outs; I got spankings. Please pass the asparagus.”

Simon grudgingly passed me the greens, but I felt buoyant, at ease, and it was hard for the rest of the table not to follow suit. The tone in the room seemed to lighten with every bite of tepid food I cheerfully lifted to my mouth. We talked and laughed. I even smiled at Janice—directly at her, a smile meant specifically for her—and she swelled as if something inside had filled to overflowing and burst whatever banks had held it at bay.

And because of the untroubled weightlessness of the air around us, I was reckless and hasty and agreed to something I would have never consented to do only days ago.

“Dr. Morales's office called,” Grandma told me at an easy break in the conversation. “They wanted to remind you about the hospital orientation tomorrow night.”

My understanding of the birth process was limited to books and hearsay, and when I learned that Lamaze was outdated and that birthing classes had been relegated to one evening crash course, I had been surprised. But not disappointed. It suited me just fine that instead of weekly meetings with adoring couples wrapped around each other I would only have to endure a few hours of public learning. Apparently first-time moms got little more than a tour of the facilities and a rundown of pain management options.

I swallowed a mouthful of chicken. “You're coming with me, right?” I downed the last of my milk, not really even waiting for Grandma's answer. It was a given. We had decided months ago that she would be in the delivery room with me. Dr. Morales had told me that I would need a birth coach, and though I was determined to take care of myself more and more, I also knew that childbirth was something no one should have to do alone. I looked forward to sharing the experience with Grandma.

But the room filled with silence.

I looked up with a half smile pinned to my face. “I can't do this without you,” I faltered, fixing my eyes on her. Grandma was biting her lower lip in a gesture of distinct discomfort. “You can't come?” I asked incredulously.

“I'm still your birth coach,” Grandma rushed to reassure me. “But I am
so sorry
I can't make it tomorrow night. I got the dates mixed up on my calendar, and I have to be at a memorial service.”

All at once I remembered. Grandma volunteered at the yearly hospice memorial service, and it was always held the third Tuesday in June. This year she was going to be director of the volunteer staff. Why hadn't we thought of it when we signed up for the class in the first place? “We'll just reschedule the hospital visit,” I said. “No big deal.”

Grandma still looked distressed. “I already asked, honey. We can't. They only offer the birthing class every few months. The next one is too late.”

“I can't go alone!” I yelped.
She'll have to skip the memorial service this year
, I reasoned silently. Surely Grandma wouldn't leave me stranded at such an event.