The Snow Angel (5 page)

From the ages of seven to ten, I wore the same Easter dress three years in a row. It wasn’t that we were terribly poor, though we certainly weren’t rich. Instead, the reason I had to squeeze into the same dress for several years running was that Bev liked to spend her money on things she could consume. And even if she had offered to take me to the mall, I wouldn’t have gone with her for love or money. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone seeing me with her as she stumbled through the aisles at JC Penney.

Fortunately, it was a pretty dress. Blue, like my eyes, with a drop waist and a row of faux mother-of-pearl buttons that ran a dainty line from the top of the skirt all the way up to a lace collar. When I slid it over my head on Easter morning for the third time, I wasn’t so much ashamed of the dress as I was ashamed of the way that it pulled tight across my shoulders and skimmed the tops of my knees instead of falling to my calves like it was supposed to. At ten years old, I was no fashionista, but I could tell when something didn’t look right. And staring at myself in the mirror, I knew that I didn’t look right.

Bev called me all manner of hurtful things from buck-toothed to stupid to an accident. But the name that stung the most was ugly, and as I considered the way I was squeezed into a too-tight, outdated dress I believed that what my mother said was true. I was ugly.

I had learned long ago that crying didn’t do me a lick
of good, but I couldn’t stop the hot tears that pricked at the corners of my eyes. Dad expected me to wear a dress to church, or I would have simply given up the blue dress for a pair of pants and a nice top, but he was strict about some things and Easter Sunday attire was one of them. He was waiting for me downstairs, probably checking his watch to make sure I wouldn’t make him late.

Wiping at my eyes, I gritted my teeth and told myself that I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. I didn’t care that they knew my mother was a drunk, or that they called me Orphan Annie behind my back. My red hair and shabby clothes made me an easy target, but I decided I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that their teasing got to me. I took a deep breath and tried to ease an extra inch out of the fabric by giving the dress a good hard tug—and sent a handful of the ivory buttons flying in every direction.

Dad found me scrambling across my bedroom floor, trying to rescue buttons from their hiding places in dark corners and underneath the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning in the doorway. He took up the entire space, his broad shoulders nearly touching the doorjamb on either side. Dad wasn’t yet wearing his suit coat, and the defined muscles in his arms pressed against the fabric of his dress shirt.

“Nothing,” I muttered, biting back tears.

“We have to get to church, Rach. We’re going to be late.”

“I know!” I half-shouted, turning to him from where I crouched on the floor. I had the top of my dress clutched in one hand, my fingers holding together the places where the missing buttons gaped to reveal my cotton slip.

“What in the world are you doing?” He took a step into the room, his brow furrowed in confusion or anger, I couldn’t tell.

“I tore my dress,” I said into my chest. “I have to wear pants this morning.”

Dad loomed over me, his shadow blocking the glow from the ceiling light. “What do you mean you tore your dress?”

I offered up a handful of buttons, and Dad used the opportunity to pull me to my feet. He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing at all. “Some of the buttons popped off,” I said. “The dress is too small.”

“Nonsense.” Dad put his finger under my chin and tipped my face so I was looking at him. If he noticed the tears in my eyes, he didn’t say anything. “This dress fits you just fine. We just need to sew the buttons back on.”

“No, Dad. Please. Just let me wear pants.”

“On Easter? I don’t think so, Rachel. Your mother is
even coming to church this morning. I want us all there together in our Sunday best. Maybe we’ll even take a family picture.”

I groaned. “Please, Dad. Just let me—”

“No.” His tone left no room for discussion. “I want you to wear the dress.”

I meekly slid off the ruined dress and accepted the bathrobe he offered me. Then Dad dragged me along as he went to hunt down an emergency sewing kit. We both knew that Bev would have no idea how to use it, so when we finally located the small, folded bundle at the back of the medicine cabinet Dad threaded the needle and handed it to me.

“I don’t know how to sew a button on,” I said, holding the slip of steel between my fingers gingerly.

He looked stunned for a moment. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“It can’t be that hard.” Dad glanced at his watch and gave me a pointed look. “We need to leave in less than ten minutes. Your mother is just finishing up her makeup.”

Bev could spend the better part of an hour finishing up her makeup, but Dad was tapping his foot as if to remind me that the clock was ticking down. So, since I didn’t know what else to do, I took hold of the fabric and stabbed the needle through the spot where the first button had left behind a frayed tail of white thread. It wasn’t easy,
but I looped the needle through the hole in the back of the tiny button and sunk it into the fabric again. I made four passes before the sharp point missed the intended target and pricked the tip of my index finger.

It didn’t hurt that much, but I burst into tears all the same. “Please, Dad,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Just let me wear pants!”

He took the dress from me and reached for my injured hand, but I had already stuck my finger in my mouth and I refused to let him look at it. “The blue matches your eyes,” he said almost absently, fingering the cloth. And then he plucked the needle where it dangled from the end of a long thread and began to sew the button on himself.

I stood there, crying silently, and watched him sew every one of those six severed buttons back onto a dress that was two sizes too small. His fingers were thick and clumsy, and he swore under his breath once or twice, but he eventually finished the job. When he presented me with that horrible blue dress, it was wrinkled from the sweat of his calloused hands and discolored in spots. It looked like a used rag to me. Worst of all, what had once been a neat row of pretty buttons was now limp and uneven. The buttons sagged in some places and were stitched too tight to the cheap cloth in others.

Dad didn’t seem to get it. He didn’t even realize that his handiwork fell horribly short. “I’ll go find your mother,”
he said. “If you get dressed quickly, we can make it before anyone notices we’re late.”

I put on the dress, but as I carefully slipped each crooked button through its hole, I decided that my father didn’t understand me. It felt like he didn’t even try. And that stung more than the wicked whispers of the girls who made fun of my dress.

December 24, 8:00
A.M.

T
he dining room of The Heritage Home is brightly lit and filled with people. But in spite of the crowd and the appearance of bustle, it is unusually peaceful. Clusters of elderly men and women huddle at an assortment of mismatched tables, whispering to each other as if age has simply erased the need to be loud. There is a small pot with a red poinsettia in the center of every table, and Christmas music hovers over everything like a mist. Best of all, the scent of griddle-hot butter and warm syrup fills the air. Pancakes? Mitch wonders. He loves pancakes.

It is not an unhappy place, but Mitch pauses in the doorway of the large room for a moment and glances around timidly. The tables are arranged with space for wheelchairs and walkers to manuever between them, and Mitch is filled with a quick gratitude that he can still walk on his own two feet. But he doesn’t know where to go. There are no place markers on the tables that he can see, and no one looks familiar. He swallows down a wave of loneliness and tries to resist the urge to go back to the strange room that suddenly feels like home. However, just as he is about to tell the nurse’s aide he’s not in the mood for breakfast, he catches a glimpse of a man aross the room.

He is tall and narrow, almost elegant, and something about the steady way that he carries himself makes him look like he doesn’t belong in an old folks’ home. Mitch watches as the composed man carefully lowers himself into one of four chairs at an empty table. Then the gentleman reaches a tapered hand for the linen napkin before him and unfurls it in one graceful snap. The fabric drifts lightly to his lap, and the old man watches it as if the secrets of the universe are written on the starched folds. He closes his eyes. Sighs.

“I want to sit there,” Mitch says, pointing to the man.

“It’s not your usual table,” the nurse’s aide chirps. She has a grip on his elbow and Mitch wiggles his arm loose with an attempt at a grouchy snort. “Whatever you’d like,
Mr. Clark,” she amends, and though she should look chastened, Mitch is disappointed to see that the young lady is only amused. He decides he must work on his grumpy old man routine.

“I can seat myself,” Mitch says, and he takes off without a backward glance. He crosses the dining room with what he would like to believe is a certain contemptuous dignity.

When he arrives at the small, round table, the unfamiliar gentleman is still gazing at his lap. “Is this seat taken?” Mitch asks, putting his hand on the back of the chair across from the stranger.

“Are we friends today, Mitch?” The man looks up and fixes Mitch with a gentle half-smile.

“Excuse me?” Mitch can’t help staring. He tries unsuccessfully to place the man’s bright blue eyes, his strong chin. “Do I know you?”

The man shakes his head, adjusts his smile. “I’ve seen you around,” he says vaguely. “My name is Cooper.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mitch says, but all at once he wonders if they’ve met somewhere before. “Care if I join you?”

“Certainly not,” Cooper says.

There is a long moment of silence as Mitch settles into his seat. He puts his napkin on his lap, trying to mimic the flourish with which Cooper performed the same action. But Mitch’s hands are clumsy; he feels like he is all thumbs. In the end he leaves the linen balled up and reaches for
the utensils that frame his place setting. He is stunned to find that there are four pieces of indecipherable silverware. He glares at them, trying to focus, to make the gleaming silver make sense, but he doesn’t know what they are for.

“You won’t need your spoon this morning,” Cooper says kindly, picking up the utensil with the shallow bowl. “Not unless you want your pancakes pureed.” He leans forward and peers closely at Mitch. “Nope. Looks like you’ve still got your teeth.”

Mitch doesn’t quite know how to take Cooper’s teasing, but he picks up his spoon and sets it off to the side.

“And I don’t know why they give us two forks. It’s not like they’ll be serving salad with breakfast.” Cooper lifts the smaller fork and adds it to his discard pile. “There. All you need is a fork and a knife.”

Fork. Knife. Mitch remembers now. One for each hand. He wonders if he still knows how to use them.

“Pancakes today,” Cooper says conversationally. “They make the batter from scratch with fresh buttermilk. A nice Christmas tradition.”

“It’s Christmas?”

“Not today. Tomorrow. But there’s something extra special about Christmas Eve, don’t you think? It’s all about the anticipation—the hope of what’s to come.”

Mitch doesn’t really know if Christmas Eve is all that
special, or even what he would hope for if the holiday is all about expectation like Cooper says. But Cooper’s words have stirred something just beneath the surface, and all at once Mitch is overcome with a longing that he can’t describe. He wants something, wants it desperately, but he can’t remember what it is. It’s as if he’s been waiting for so long that he’s forgotten exactly what it is he’s been waiting for.

Mitch’s stomach growls. Maybe he’s just hungry. Maybe he’s been waiting for pancakes.

“My wife used to work at a truck stop,” Mitch says, surprising himself with the unanticipated memory. “She made the most amazing buttermilk pancakes.”

“I remember them.” Cooper smiles. “That was back in the day when no one blinked an eye if you melted an entire stick of butter on your stack of flapjacks. Real butter. Not that fake margarine stuff.”

Mitch can almost see the golden domes of sweet whole cream butter. They looked like tiny scoops of ice cream that left a warm trail across the surface of crisp-edged cakes. He returns Cooper’s smile. “Gorgeous.”

“Well, I’ve never heard anyone call a pancake gorgeous, but okay.” Cooper shrugs.

“Not the pancakes.” Mitch’s laugh is more like a cough, but at least it’s genuine. “The woman. She was a beautiful woman.”

Cooper nods, but his eyes seem flat. “She was definitely pretty.”

“You know my wife?”

“Knew,” Cooper says tenderly. “She’s been gone for a long time, Mitch.”

Mitch crumples the fabric of his pants in his sweaty palms. Of course, he knew that. He knew she was gone. But for just a moment he could see her. Slim hips beneath a white apron, eyes that sparked with fire and ice. She had a tongue on her, but Mitch couldn’t really tell you what that meant. He battles a vague sense of discomfort, a wave of quiet shame that makes him both love and loathe the woman who stands at the very edge of his broken memory.

All at once Mitch feels like he might cry. It’s a startling revelation, a feeling that he fights because there is something inside him that knows men are not supposed to cry. He knows he is not supposed to cry. There are old callouses on his hands, scars that line his arms and testify to the fact that he is—was—a man’s man. The sort of man who would scoff at tears. Mitch blinks hard, clears his throat.

“What do you remember about your wife?” Cooper prods lightly.

“She had lovely hands.” Mitch’s mouth curves at the
thought of her slender fingers. “She wore her hair back when she waitressed, and earrings that dangled down her long neck. She had a great laugh.”