The Snow Angel (20 page)

“I was only teasing her, Lillian Grace.” Diana fluffed her platinum coif with the palm of her hand and sniffed. “You don’t have to take things so seriously.”

I ducked my head to hide the glint in my eye. No one stood up to Diana, and while a part of me wished that Lily had just left well enough alone, it was hugely entertaining to see my mother-in-law so frazzled. In my mind I gave Lily a quick squeeze, then I reached for the water pitcher as if nothing had happened.

But Lily wasn’t finished. “It’s mean,” she huffed. “I hate it when you do that.”

My eyes flew to Diana. She was staring at Lily, her jaw uncharacteristically slack. “Excuse me?” She turned to Cyrus. “Did your daughter just call me mean?”

“Of course not.” Cyrus gave Lily a hard look. “Did you?”

I could tell just by glancing at my daughter that this thing was not going to blow over. She had moped in silence for weeks, but I should have known that it was just a matter of time before everything came bubbling to the surface. We had covered a lot of ground in the two short months that I worked for Max, and Lily’s polished life had taken on a very different sheen. I had hoped that we could
deal with it slowly, over time. But it looked as if all her angst was going to come out in the worst possible place: over the Thanksgiving table.

“Lily,” I cut in quickly, “I need your help in the kitchen. Come with me, please.”

“No,” Lily and Cyrus said at exactly the same time.

“She needs to apologize to her grandmother,” Cyrus said, shushing Lily with a raised hand.

“I will not apologize.” Lily crossed her arms over her chest and gave the entire table her most belligerent glare. “It’s horrible the way you all belittle Mom. I hate it.
You
need to apologize to
her.
”

My heart turned to stone in my chest. “No, Lily,” I said. “It’s fine. They’re just teasing.”

“No, they’re not.” Lily turned her focus to me and I was surprised to see the depth of emotion in her eyes. She was desperate to be heard, to be understood. “I just want everyone to see you the way that I do. You’re so beautiful, Mom. So good at what you do … so talented …”

Cyrus snorted. “Not at mashing potatoes,” he said snidely.

The rest of the table relaxed: We were back in familiar territory. They thought one cutting attempt at humor would put this all to rest. But even as they went back to their turkey, I could see that Lily was downright furious. I
hurried around the table and put my hands on her shoulders, willing her to keep her mouth shut with the press of my fingers. “I need your help,” I told her again. “Let’s go.”

“Mom is very talented,” Lily hissed as I half dragged her out of her seat. “She could run a catering business. Or start a bakery.” Lily’s eyes went wide and she stabbed a finger into the air triumphantly. “Better yet, she could open her own tailor shop now that Mr. Wever is going out of business. Did you know that just one of her suits is worth two thousand dollars?
Two thousand dollars.
”

Lily came abruptly to her senses as a hush descended over the table. She gave a little gasp, but after that harsh sound the room fell so flat you could practically hear each individual heartbeat. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could still feel the heat of shock as everyone turned their attention to me. I should have said something witty, tried to deflect the weight of all that was coming, but I was too numb to respond.

“Mr. Wever? You mean that immigrant seamstress?” Cyrus said, his tone light. I hadn’t noticed that he had come out of his chair, and when he put his arm around my waist I was so startled I jumped. He tightened his grip, pulling me toward him as he whispered, “Max Wever … Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

December 24, 5:00
P.M.

M
itch isn’t hungry, so the nurse’s aide brings him dinner in his room where he can nibble at his leisure. The tray is deceptively grand, a trio of plates topped with elegant chrome food covers that reflect Mitch’s face back to him in distorted caricatures like the trick mirrors in a fun house. He studies himself from various angles before peeking at the meal that lies beneath, but after a feast of pancakes, blueberry sauce, and sausage in the morning, the evening meal is uninspiring. Lukewarm chicken a la king and green beans that look like lengths of plastic tubing.

The only thing Mitch eats is dessert. One of those poke cakes with red and green jello swirled through the white and an inch of whipped cream on top. There is a mini candy cane on the plate beside the cake, and although he doesn’t like candy canes, he loves the smell. Mitch takes the plastic wrapper off so that he can sniff the peppermint.

Scents are a powerful trigger, Mitch decides, because breathing in the sharp, bright fragrance stirs up a hundred different memories. They flit around his mind like confetti in one of those fancy snow globes, and though he cannot single one out and examine it, Mitch is happy for just a moment to enjoy the feeling of warmth the candy cane evokes. Somewhere, deep inside, everything is still there. It’s just hidden away.

Mitch takes one last sniff of the candy cane, then deposits it on his dessert plate. He carries the lunchroom tray to the small table just inside his door and shuffles back to the rocking chair in his slippers. There’s a photograph of a little girl on the windowsill, and a pretty paper ornament hanging from the latch. It sparkles in the light from his lamp. But Mitch doesn’t pay much attention to either of these things. Instead, he reaches for the tattered notebook that rests on the seat of the chair. He picks it up and eases into the worn cushions with a sigh.

There are a thousand things he does not remember, but this notebook fits the contours of his hands. He has held
it so many times the blue cardboard cover has faded to a milky white in places, and the edges of the papers are rolled and frayed. But in spite of the fact that it has been heavily used, Mitch always anticipates opening the cover with an almost childlike excitement. No matter how many times he has read the pages, Mitch does not remember what is written inside.

His mouth curves in a bittersweet smile as he lifts the cover and pushes down a wave of anticipation that is tinged with sadness. It’s a diary of sorts. No, a book of letters. There is a date scribbled in one corner, and, glancing at the calendar that hangs over his bed, Mitch realizes that the words were penned seven years earlier. Seven years. It’s a long time. A lifetime.

He begins to read.

Dear Rachel,

Where to begin? You know firsthand that I’ve never been good with words, and now the doctors tell me I’m only going to get worse. I can’t put this off much longer. If I do, I won’t have anything left to say at all.

The diagnosis is Alzheimer’s. After my stroke I started to forget things, and now they tell me that the wires in my brain are getting tangled. Can you imagine? Tangles in my brain. Like when you were little and I combed your hair on Sunday
mornings. Once there was a knot that was so snarled I had to cut it out with a scissors. Do you remember that? I guess it wouldn’t work to cut out the tangles in my head.

I wish we could have those days back. Those years when you were small and needed help combing your hair. I tried to be gentle, but I know you sometimes cried. I’m so sorry for that. There are a lot of things that I would change if I could.

Like the last time we spoke. I was so angry. But even more than that, I was afraid. I know who Cyrus is, Rachel. I spent fifteen years with an abuser, and I can spot them from a mile away. I could tell from the very first time I laid eyes on Cyrus Price that he was going to hurt you. I would have done anything to stop that from happening, but instead of pushing you away from him, I pushed you away from myself. And now, I want you to know that I’m going to finally let you go. Maybe if I stop chasing you, you’ll turn around and see that I’ve been waiting here all along.

I’m not very good at this, am I? I told you I wasn’t. Maybe if I was better at expressing myself, we wouldn’t be in this position. How many years has it been since I’ve seen you? Five? More? I lose track of time here, but it feels like forever. I would give anything to talk face to face.

It’s probably too little, too late, but I’m going to tell you everything I remember. Why I loved your mother. Why I wanted to protect her. How I spent most of my life believing that love and provision were the same thing. That if I kept
you sheltered and clothed and fed, you’d be fine. I know now that while I worked my fingers to the bone, all you wanted was my attention. My time. Maybe if I had worked less and held you more everything would be different.

Sometimes I dream that I am young again. You are small. Freckle-faced and cute as can be. It makes my heart ache to remember you like that. And you know what? In my sleep I do things differently. I listen when you talk. I leave work early. I stop your mother when she says those horrible things to you. I tell her that she’s dead wrong. That you’re perfect.

I always wake up from those dreams feeling lost. I don’t remember who I am or how I managed to mess things up so bad. I’d give anything to go back. To make those dreams come true.

Do you know that I used to watch you sleep? I had to be on the job site before dawn, but every morning before I left I would go into your room. It was the best five minutes of my day. I loved the moonlight on your face. The way you slept with your cheek in your hand. You looked so peaceful I could believe that everything was right in the world.

I prayed over you every morning. And God must have heard my prayers because in spite of everything you grew in grace and beauty every single day. You are precious, my darling Rachel. You are my angel.

Love
,  
Daddy

November 24–December 24

I
told the doctor I had slipped in the bathroom and it wasn’t a word of a lie. Of course, I didn’t include the small detail that Cyrus had contributed to my fall, but Dr. Sutton wouldn’t have believed me even if I dared to spill the whole, unvarnished truth. By the time the good doctor was casting my wrist, Cyrus had transformed into the perfect, doting husband. He held my uninjured hand throughout the entire procedure, and even went so far as to brush my forehead with the occasional kiss. It was almost more than I could bear. But not because Cyrus was being duplicitous. Because he was being sincere.

After Lily blurted my secret to his entire family, Cyrus managed to hold his temper in check until everyone had enjoyed their pie and coffee. Then, when the final car pulled away from the curb, he marched to our bedroom without a backward glance. He wouldn’t challenge me in front of Lily, but I knew from experience what awaited me when she went to bed.

“Let’s go,” Lily whispered to me, even though Cyrus was an entire floor away.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s get out of here.” There was an edge of desperation in her voice. “Hop in the car and just drive.”

“Are you kidding?” I put the final saucer in the dishwasher and added a swig of liquid detergent. “Where in the world would we go?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. Let’s go find grandpa!” Lily caught me by the elbow and squeezed.

“Sweetheart, please.” My heart was stuttering at her mention of my father, but the hope I felt was quick and baseless. Instead of responding, I turned around and drew her to me, wrapping my arms around her slender shoulders. “It’s fine. Everything is going to be just fine.”

“But I told Dad about Mr. Wever!”

I smoothed her hair absently, a little stunned that the numbness that had settled over me at her Thanksgiving dinner proclamation had not yet gone away. Maybe I
should have been scared, but I felt anesthetized. All I could think was:
So, it’s come to this.
I didn’t even know what this was.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question, and when Lily didn’t respond I pressed my cheek to the top of her head and wished her a good night’s sleep.

“I can’t just go to bed,” she argued. There were tears threatening in her eyes, but I ignored them. I didn’t have the wherewithal to comfort her, no matter how much I wanted to.

“You don’t have a choice.” I took her by the hand and led her to her room. I would have locked her inside if I could. Instead, I closed the door behind me and prayed that an angel would stand guard.

From there, the night progressed rather predictably except for one thing: I was not the same cowering maiden I had always been. Cyrus was furious, but instead of dodging his verbal attack I met it head-on. I took a deep breath and faced it. I didn’t deny the truth or try to sugarcoat the fact that I had lied to him for weeks. Instead, as my husband got increasingly angry, I remained calm. And even though I was trembling inside, I could feel that there was something different in the way I held my tongue. Usually my silence was born of fear and shame, but as Cyrus worked himself into a lather, I realized that my self-possession was
the result of a flickering inner peace. I had a long way to go, but I could see the woman that I wanted to be. She was within reach.

Unfortunately, the more tranquil I appeared, the more livid Cyrus became. When he finally flung me across the master bathroom, I was only surprised that he had managed to control himself for so long. As I crouched on the tile floor, I knew that my wrist was broken. But it hardly seemed to matter. I had eyes only for Cyrus, and the expression he wore was one that I had not seen in a very long time. My husband was sorry for what he had done.