The Snow Angel (16 page)

There. It’s a reunification of sorts. A tattered, mismatched memory that evokes nothing in him so much as a bottomless yearning, the sort of ache that could easily swallow him whole.

Mitch lies down on the bed with the photo and the snowflake, one clutched in each hand, and stares up at the ceiling. He feels hollow and empty, his chest caving beneath the weight of a regret that he cannot name. But it is real and razor-sharp. He can’t ignore it. He can’t wish it away or pretend that it doesn’t exist.

When the nurse’s aide slips quietly into the room, Mitch doesn’t stir. But he’s not sleeping, and she seems to know that instinctively. She speaks quietly to him, and he tunes her out until she’s standing right beside the bed.

“Your medication, Mr. Clark?” It’s phrased as a question, but she is holding out a tiny paper cup, waiting for him to sit up and take it.

“What is it?” he asks.

“The same medication you’re given every afternoon.”

“What is it?” Mitch repeats. He wants specifics.

“Something to help you calm down. To help you sleep tonight.”

Perfect. If she offered, he’d gladly take a painkiller, too, but he’s not sure that an analgesic would take the edge off the pain that he’s feeling. Mitch pushes himself into a sitting position and places the photograph in his lap so that he can accept the paper cup. Inside is a single white tablet, and he tips it onto his tongue. There is a bitter sting in the place where it rests until the nurse offers him a glass of lukewarm water and he washes it down.

“Good job.” She smiles and nods as if he is a little boy. “Would you like to take a nap before supper? Should I put this on the table?” Her fingers brush the edge of the photograph, and Mitch snatches it away.

“No,” he says forcefully. A part of him wants to shout at her for even daring to touch it, but he’s too tired to be combative. Instead of fighting, he falls back. He doesn’t even argue when she pulls the blankets up to his chest.

Mitch hears soft footsteps and the click of his door falling closed. Then the only sound in the room is his own heartbeat in his ears. He is utterly and completely alone. Abandoned. He’s sure that he’s never felt so lonely in all of his life, and yet he doesn’t even know who it is he longs for. Her, he decides, clutching the photo to his chest. Mitch wishes she would walk through the door, ponytail swinging, a half-smile quirking the corner of her perfect mouth.

But even as he wishes it, he knows it is an impossible dream. She’s not coming. And in the dim shadows of his sterile room, Mitch begins to cry.

October 22

C
yrus was gone for ten days. Ten glorious, drama-free days during which I hardly gave him a second thought. Lily and I flung open the windows to let in the brisk, autumn air, and lived like we didn’t have a care in the world. It was pizza in the living room for supper and a box of doughnuts leaning against the counter for breakfast. I even caught Lily drinking orange juice straight out of the container one afternoon. She gave me a guilty look when I stuck out my hand for the juice, but she dissolved in giggles when I put the jug to my lips and took a few long gulps myself.

Our afternoons with Max took on an almost lazy air, since we were halfway done with the order and it wasn’t even November. Instead of working, working, working, we made sure our hands were busy, but we also talked and laughed, and one day Max surprised us by taking a new bolt of cloth out of the back room. We were used to the dark, rich fabrics that would become Max’s suits, and the soft pleats of Elena’s dress material that still hung around the shop served as a reminder of the woman we were missing. But this cloth was entirely different.

It looked vintage, though it had to be new. The subtle pattern spun swaths of cream and mint in a swirl that even at first glance I could tell was tailor-made for Lily’s exquisite coloring. It seemed as if God had blended those colors just for her.

“What’s this?” Lily asked when Max handed her the bolt of cloth.

“It’s not much now, but it’s going to be a dress.”

“For me?” Lily couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.

“Yes, for you. I thought you and your mom would enjoy working on it together.”

“It’s kind of a summery fabric,” I said, taking a corner between my fingertips. It was smooth and breezy, light as air.

“So it will be a warm-weather dress.” Max shrugged. “Take your time. We have plenty of it.”

I wasn’t so sure that he was right about that. Our secret weeks together were a reprieve, a sabbatical from a life that was steadily strangling me. It was wonderful and unexpected, filled with the sense that there was something looming just out of sight. Something that made my fingers tingle and my heart beat fast, but the more practical side of me felt sure that this interlude would come with a staggering price tag—it would cost me dearly. And the day of reckoning was surely just around the corner.

The night before Cyrus came home, I had a premonition of his return. I woke up well past midnight, hot and shivering at the same time. “It can’t last,” I said out loud. My voice seemed to boom in the empty house, and I clapped my hands over my mouth as if I had uttered a curse. It felt like a curse to me. I didn’t want Cyrus to come back.

When I woke up that morning and went downstairs to take a shower, my husband was standing in the kitchen. He looked rumpled from travel, and he was rubbing his neck with his fingers, trying to get the kinks out. His back was turned to me, and I watched him for a moment, searching for the man that I had married in the lines of his broad shoulders.

He was there, maybe. The young man I had fallen in love with. The boy who was the perfect mix of child and man, who made me laugh. Who made me feel as if
every atom in my body had been plugged in to an electrical current whenever he was around. I still tingled in his presence, but looking at him in the thin, early morning shadows that fell across our kitchen, I realized that it was a different kind of power that made me tremble now.

“You’re home,” I blurted out, fearful that he would turn and find me standing there. Staring.

Cyrus swung his head around to regard me, then closed his eyes and went back to massaging his neck. “I’m exhausted,” he said. “And my neck is killing me. Come here.” He motioned me to follow him as he took a seat at the small breakfast table in a windowed nook just off the kitchen.

I stopped a few feet away from him, wondering what exactly he wanted from me. But I didn’t have to wonder long. Cyrus leaned half out of his chair to grab me by the wrist and yank me a couple of stumbling paces so that I was standing beside him. Then he took my hand and put it on his neck.

“That’s the spot. Not too hard.”

“You want a neck rub?” I asked.

“No, I want an omelette.” His tone was thick with sarcasm that I chose to ignore. Early on in our marriage Cyrus loved nothing more than to remind me of where I came from: a blue-collar family where my father didn’t make enough money for my mother to stay home. He knew that Bev had worked long hours at the truck stop,
and it was a source of constant derision. No Price woman would ever be allowed to subject herself to such humiliation, but Cyrus sometimes reminded me that even though I didn’t bring home minimum wage, my life was that of a short-order cook: He ordered, I jumped.

I tried not to sigh as I tightened the belt of my robe and placed my hands on either side of my husband’s muscular neck. Cyrus was obviously tapped out from his cross-country adventure, and I was fairly certain that he would use the rest of the day to catch up on sleep before heading in to work tomorrow. It was a depressing thought. If he was home all day, I had to be, too. That meant no Max, no Sarah, and no time alone with Lily. How could I get a message to Max without Cyrus finding out about it? I didn’t want to leave him hanging.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Cyrus’s question startled me.

“Uh, no,” I stammered. “Nothing interesting anyway.” Nothing that I can tell you about.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my trip?”

My fingers paused in their ministrations, but I recovered quickly and hoped Cyrus didn’t notice. “Of course. How was your trip?”

“Long. That’s why we drove through the night last night. Jason wanted to get home.”

I didn’t ask Cyrus if he wanted to get home, too. I knew
the answer to that question. The conversation stalled for a minute as I tried to think of something else to say. We had become so bad at communicating that I didn’t even know where to begin. What was I supposed to say to the man who had fallen out of love with me? Had he ever been in love with me?

Before I could formulate an acceptable query, I heard the thump of Lily’s footsteps on the stairs. It was too early for her to be up, but by the drum of her quick pace I could tell that she had woken up with an idea, something that made her pulse pound high and hot. I spun toward the arch that framed our open staircase, praying that Lily would realize that her father was home before she said something that she shouldn’t.

I wasn’t quite so lucky. “Mom!” Lily called, halfway down the steps. “I know what I want to do! I know how I want to use Ma—” She stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs. “Dad. You’re home.”

“Just got back,” Cyrus said. I could feel his shoulders tighten beneath my hands. “What were you saying, Lil? Just now? ‘I know how I want to use mmm …?’” He drew out the M, leading Lily with a tilt of his head. He nodded for her to finish.

Lily’s eyes shot to mine, and I was devastated to see real fear in them. I knew what she was going to say, or at least, I could guess. She had been on the verge of telling me that
she knew what she wanted to do with Max’s material. I had encouraged her to pick out a pattern quickly so that we could get started. But she was torn between three styles and couldn’t make up her mind. Of course, she couldn’t say any of that in front of Cyrus, and I witnessed all of her excitement fizzle away as she realized the implications of her father’s presence in our kitchen. She wasn’t a very good actress, especially under duress, and for a few seconds I was convinced that she would cave right then and there and tell Cyrus everything.

“Rachel, seriously?” Cyrus jerked away from me and rubbed his neck with the heel of his hand. I realized that I had been pinching him, and my face flushed. Lily and I were as guilty a pair as ever there was, and if Cyrus didn’t know something was up, he had to be both stupid and blind.

“Sorry,” I muttered, mentally preparing myself for the fallout.

But as I watched, Lily gained control of herself and managed to give Cyrus a winning, if lopsided, smile. She looked adorable in her pajama pants and T-shirt, hair mussed from sleep and cheek wrinkled by the crease in her pillow. Though I was scared half to death, it was nearly impossible not to grin at her.

“Welcome back, Dad,” she said, crossing the kitchen in her bare feet. For a moment it looked as if she was going to give Cyrus a hug, but that would have been so uncharacteristic
as to be downright ridiculous. She stopped herself. “I was going to say, I know how I want to use my money.”

“Money?” Cyrus asked suspiciously.

“Mom gave me ten dollars to help her clean out the flower gardens and I know how I want to use it.”

It was true, I had given her ten dollars to help me winterize the gardens. But I was so blown away by her quick cover that my mouth dropped open all the same.

“I want to take you and Sarah Kempers out for ice cream,” Lily continued. “This afternoon.”

“What makes you think your mother and Sarah deserve ice cream?” Cyrus’s words were light, joking even, but as he stood he shot me a calculating look. He definitely knew something was going on.

“Sarah kept us company a bit while you were gone,” Lily said. It was a risky move, an admission that came dangerously close to the truth. But after her near slip on the stairs, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in her bearing.

“Lily’s right,” I chimed in. “We’ve been spending some time with Sarah. She’s been great.”

“The pastor’s wife,” Cyrus said, more to himself than to us. I could tell that he was looking for an angle to exploit, something that would give him permission to forbid us to see her. But apparently he couldn’t find any fault with our growing friendship, so he shrugged. “Whatever,” he said,
yawning so wide his jaw cracked. “Just be sure to get the fat-free stuff. No wife of mine is going to be a blimp.”

I was still trying to figure out how we had gotten off so easy when Cyrus moved past me. He turned around at the last second and pulled me roughly to him, giving me a kiss that was anything but tender. It took my breath away, but not for good reasons. And when he finally broke away, Cyrus’s eyes bored into mine, searching for answers that I prayed he wouldn’t find. “I don’t like secrets,” he said, each word no louder than an exhalation. Then louder, so that Lily could hear, he said, “I sure am glad to be home. A man’s home is his castle.”

Since I knew I wasn’t Cyrus’s queen, I guess that made me his prisoner.